The road from the Chicken Ranch to the Interstate was the roughest part of the ride. Finne and Sarah lay directly on top of the pickup’s bed with only two horse towels to pad them from the well-worn steel. Above them they had thrown three pieces of pre-fabricated duck blind which covered them completely and was perfectly in character for the truck in which they were riding. Perfect camouflage – literally. Finne knew the ride back to DC was at least an hour and it would be incredibly uncomfortable the whole way. He was surprised that Sarah hadn’t complained – this was the second time she acted other than Finne had expected. Despite her long rap sheet, maybe she had matured, Finne thought to himself. Or maybe the trauma of the past few hours had sent her into shock – that was a real possibility he needed to manage. Finne knew by the steady pace and lack of stoplights they were encountering that they must be on Route 50 heading west – if the driver was truly sent by Jack and he was taking them where he promised, a big if in Finne’s mind.
Above the steady hum of the tires traversing the roadway, Finne could hear a voice from the cab. The driver had opened the rear glass panel and was trying to get his attention. Scurrying forward on his belly, Finne made his way to the front of the pickup bed and leaned his head in toward the open window.
“We’re going to switch cars and get you into a more comfortable ride in 2 miles,” the driver relayed. “When we pull off the highway, stay down until I let you know you can come out. We’ve got this place well controlled, but it’s been kind of crazy for the past few days. I’ll let you out the back bed.”
The driver closed the window and Finne began re-processing everything he just heard. Changing cars. 2 miles. The driver knows something about something crazy like what Finne and Sarah have been through, and they were going to be let out the back of the bed. First priority was to keep Sarah safe, he thought. Finne worked his way back to Sarah while turning himself on his stomach facing the rear of the bed.
“Sarah, this ride won’t be much longer, I promise. But, I need you to work your way toward the front of the truck and tuck yourself into the corner behind the driver. I feel we are in good hands, but if something goes wrong, that’s where I want you to stay. In the corner behind the driver. Keep your head down until I say it is OK. Ok?” Finne instructed.
“OK,” was Sarah’s only response. She then began shifting and turning under the weight of the three walls of PVC, mesh, and jungle cover in order to move to where Finne had commanded. Within inches of reaching the front corner of the bed the truck began to decelerate and she could feel it moving to the right. The change in direction and velocity caused her slide into the corner with enough of a bump to cause her right shoulder to burn with pain. Sarah wanted scream profanities as would be expected of her normal self, but she bit her lip and kept silent, fearful of the events unfolding in her life. Sarah trusted Finne immensely, she thought. But she knew she knew nothing about what was happening, and she feared whether or not she wanted to.
The truck came to a stop and then was driven in reverse for a few yards. Finne held his sidearm in front of him ready to shoot if necessary. He figured that a prone position facing outward from the rear gate that was to be opened put him in the best position to shoot across the plane that would open in front of him and escape to better cover in the process if needed.
The driver tapped the rear gate twice and said, “it’s OK.” The rear gate was being opened, but Finne remained at high alert. Once opened, Finne recognized the driver from the near conflict at the Chicken Ranch. Two other men stood behind the gate. Both wore khaki cargo pants and short-sleeve, un-tucked, madras shirts in bland tan and green colors. Finne knew the driver wasn’t armed when he let him in the garage. Finne also knew both of these other two men were armed heavily. Obvious bulges under each’s right arm gave away the fact that they were carrying shoulder-strapped automatic weapons. Finne guessed they were MP5s or the latest iteration of Uzi. Finne now knew he could not win this fire fight and was desperate for an indication that things were not going to go that way.
“Come on, come on,” the driver urged. These men are here for your security. Please, get into the van.”
Looking to the left as the driver had gestured, Finne saw a dark blue 16 passenger van with tinted windows. It was running and Finne presumed that a driver would make three armed “friends” for the next part of the ride to DC.
Finne slid out, lowering one leg then the other from the pickup bed and raised himself with deliberate manner to allow him to still get a first shot off if necessary. Finne’s hackles were raised but with each second that passed he began to accept the scenario as explained. No weapons were drawn against him. The two armed hulks were more focused on the perimeter beyond than on Finne even though his weapon was drawn.
“It’s OK, Sarah. Come on out,” Finne assured.
The two entered the waiting van finding it empty other than the driver and two security men. As the van pulled away, Finne watched behind and determined a second vehicle, a Chevy suburban, also dark with tinted windows was following matching the speed and lane maneuvers of the van with the utmost professional driving skills. Finne began to take comfort in the ride, but he still feared whatever awaited them at the destination.
“Where are we headed?” Finne asked of the driver.
“Langley, sir” was the reply.
“I went to Langley,” Sarah shared out loud not knowing how ridiculous her interjection sounded to the group in the car.
“Not the high school, Sarah.” Finne responded. “We’re going to the CIA.”
Sarah thought he was kidding. But looking across the deadpan faces of everyone else in the van, she realized he was not.
“Are they gone check my ID, because I have a bit of a …” Sarah began to say before Finne interrupted.
“Sarah, you have a warrant for your arrest in both Fairfax County Virginia and Montgomery County Maryland. Both of which would cause you plenty of trouble if you were to be pulled over or checked out by a police officer in any state in the country.” Finne relayed with an authoritative yet non-judgmental tone. “You are not going to ever have to worry about either of those problems again if things proceed like I think they will.”
“Montgomery County, that’s bullshit! That cop thought he loved me and made my life miserable. I didn’t do shit!” Sarah exulted.
“You stabbed him with a pair of scissors, Sarah and you are charged with assaulting a police officer. I assure you that you did do shit!” Finne replied.
“Never mind any of that.” Finne continued. “If I am correct, you will never be Sarah Simpson again. I need you to prepare for that case. You will have to leave everything and everyone you know behind. This is real. Prepare yourself!”
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 15, 2006
Chapter 37 - Cosmic Charlie's Coastline
Entering the driveway to their destination gave Finne’s heart a slight relief. The van and motorcade transporting him and Sarah had traveled the most direct route to CIA headquarters from their pick up on Kent Island, east of the Chesapeake Bay Bridge, through the middle of Washington, DC along New York Avenue, across the Potomac via 395 South and up the Virginia shoreline along the GW Parkway. Their speed was paced at least 20 miles faster than any traffic they encountered and every detail of the ride had assured Finne he was dealing with Good people…the best of the best he thought. However as they made their way north past Chain Bridge Rd on approach to the CIA exit the van’s pace never slowed. They passed the exit for the fly-over bridge that led into the riverside entrance of the infamous agency with a further destination obviously in mind. Just as Finne began to consider he may have been lied to, the motorcade darkened its lights and pulled off at the U.S. Park Police Parkway headquarters less than a quarter-mile from the exit for the agency.
“Are we still headed inside,” Finne asked of the driver.
“Yes sir,” was the only reply.
Watching from inside-out through the heavily tinted van windows, Finne’s eyes closely followed and recorded the van’s path behind the concrete police sub-station to a desolate end of the facility’s parking lot. As the motorcade approached through the darkness at hurried pace, the forest bordering the end of the lot began to divide opening to a heavily reinforced, man-made tunnel entrance with a steep declining entrance. Finne watched as the vehicles passed through bunker-like entrance, and he saw steel plates and tire spikes rise on the path behind them just as the jungle covered gates that masked as the forest closed behind them. The vehicles descended quickly before the tunnel turned to the right at nearly a 90 degree angle.
Ok, Finne thought, we’re at least under the CIA, this should be legit.
“Special Agent Seldnak,” the driver called to get Finne’ attention. “We are entering Langley under the darkest protocols. Jack wants you here to be safe, but please understand; you are only safe here if nobody knows you two are even alive. We’re headed to a safe room on the north-side of the underground complex. Access is restricted heavily. There are only two entrance/exits and they are both classified at the highest level. You just passed through one, which I can assure was fortified with multiple layers of intrusion suppression and lethality. The other provides an exit if needed.”
“I’ve heard several legends of secret entrances to Langley in my youth growing up in this area, and as a Special Agent walking close to the dark sides of many lines,” Finne offered in reply. “I assume that this entrance keeps us off any entry log?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the driver responded with respect. “In fact, sir, before the Washington Post and New York Times put any attention to this country’s rendition programs; this location was the spot for the highest value targets. Take comfort, though, you are not in for any water-boarding. This is now the agency’s most-secret and most-secure safe house in the world. Your presence will never be noted here.”
Finne understood the reference to the highly-controversial, rendition program that involved international alliance agreements for the imprisonment and tortured interrogation of the enemies of the U.S.’ War on Terror.
Really, he thought. The big guys were here all along and not off-shore in Cuba. Great secret! Kudos!
The van and its accompanying SUV pulled to a stop at the end of the sub-terrainian roadway along-side a massive steel doorway opened but under heavy guard. Finne noticed three lines of security personnel distributed with military precision around the vault-like entrance. The first line included three canine officer’s and there military service dog partners. The second line of men he distinguished was all laden with heavy-explosive and ordinance disposal protective gear consistent with a federal bomb squad or a Marine counter-explosive unit. The third line of defense, Finne observed, were four highly attentive, jar-faced, special ops soldiers decked out in black body armor, each with a trigger-ready grip on their shoulder-strapped MP5 automatic assault rifles.
Finne and Sarah exited the van and proceeded towards the bunker entrance. The two men that rode with them in the van led their way at a steady but not hurried pace. Finne was impressed and at the same time comforted by the massive security infrastructure and professionals surrounding him. At least there won’t be any water-boarding, he thought to himself in attempt to sustain his sense of humor.
After crossing through the portal door from the tunnel entrance and past each line of perimeter security personnel, the two arrived in a massive room that extended from the vault wall they had just crossed onward at length likely greater than 200 yards, Finne estimated. The ceiling was at least 20 feet high giving the space similarities more in line with a sports arena than a secret underground bunker beneath the CIA.
A woman approached from the middle of the room. Before reaching Finne and Sarah, she began speaking to them in a tone of voice that seemed motherly – certainly with intent to be re-assuring.
“Special Agent Selnak and Ms. Simpson,” she began. “You both can be assured that you are safe here, more so than anywhere else in the world you could be right now. Jack is my friend, and I know he has informed you, Agent Seldnak…”
“Please call me Finne. And this is Sarah” Finne interjected.
“Of course. To continue, I know Jack has informed you Finne of the dire nature of the situation at hand,” the woman continued.
“Somewhat, I’ll agree. But there is more that I want to know. A lot more,” Finne returned with a strong tone in his voice expressing his sincere expectations to be provided more information than he had been provided by Jack or anyone else he had encountered since he and Sarah’s fates re-merged along Georgetown Pike paralleling the Potomac shoreline less than 10 miles north of their current location several hours earlier.
“Of course,” the woman replied. “Over on the far wall you will find several workstations from which you may access any US resource you may ever want with complete anonymity. Those computers don’t exist neither do its users. But you can get any piece of information you could ever conceive by querying from anyone of them. Feel free to pull on any threads you want. Nothing will be reserved from you here. If you should want or need anything while you stay here just ask. We can provide any comforts you desire.”
“Oh yeah,” Sarah interjected sarcastically. “Can we get some music in here?”
“What would you like to hear?”
“The Grateful Dead…live!” Sarah replied with a slightly pretentious demeanor, confident that she had just requested a ‘comfort’ that could not be provided.
Before her grin had expanded to its fullest across her face, music enveloped the room with symphonic acoustic projection. The riff being played could only be attributed musical mastery of the late, great Jerry Garcia. Uncle John’s Band, Sarah recognized the tune from the first notes released from Jerry’s guitar. OK, she thought. Sarah might be able to get anything she desired here, as promised. Nice!
Finne cast a look over his shoulder towards the control room he noticed across the room. He wondered whether the song choice was made with comedic intent as the duplicitous verse “…down by the riverside” was sung into the room. Down by the riverside indeed, Finne thought.
“Thank you, Madame Director.” Finne expressed with legitimate gratitude.
DCI Carol Thompson replied simply, “You’re welcome.”
“Are we still headed inside,” Finne asked of the driver.
“Yes sir,” was the only reply.
Watching from inside-out through the heavily tinted van windows, Finne’s eyes closely followed and recorded the van’s path behind the concrete police sub-station to a desolate end of the facility’s parking lot. As the motorcade approached through the darkness at hurried pace, the forest bordering the end of the lot began to divide opening to a heavily reinforced, man-made tunnel entrance with a steep declining entrance. Finne watched as the vehicles passed through bunker-like entrance, and he saw steel plates and tire spikes rise on the path behind them just as the jungle covered gates that masked as the forest closed behind them. The vehicles descended quickly before the tunnel turned to the right at nearly a 90 degree angle.
Ok, Finne thought, we’re at least under the CIA, this should be legit.
“Special Agent Seldnak,” the driver called to get Finne’ attention. “We are entering Langley under the darkest protocols. Jack wants you here to be safe, but please understand; you are only safe here if nobody knows you two are even alive. We’re headed to a safe room on the north-side of the underground complex. Access is restricted heavily. There are only two entrance/exits and they are both classified at the highest level. You just passed through one, which I can assure was fortified with multiple layers of intrusion suppression and lethality. The other provides an exit if needed.”
“I’ve heard several legends of secret entrances to Langley in my youth growing up in this area, and as a Special Agent walking close to the dark sides of many lines,” Finne offered in reply. “I assume that this entrance keeps us off any entry log?”
“Absolutely, sir,” the driver responded with respect. “In fact, sir, before the Washington Post and New York Times put any attention to this country’s rendition programs; this location was the spot for the highest value targets. Take comfort, though, you are not in for any water-boarding. This is now the agency’s most-secret and most-secure safe house in the world. Your presence will never be noted here.”
Finne understood the reference to the highly-controversial, rendition program that involved international alliance agreements for the imprisonment and tortured interrogation of the enemies of the U.S.’ War on Terror.
Really, he thought. The big guys were here all along and not off-shore in Cuba. Great secret! Kudos!
The van and its accompanying SUV pulled to a stop at the end of the sub-terrainian roadway along-side a massive steel doorway opened but under heavy guard. Finne noticed three lines of security personnel distributed with military precision around the vault-like entrance. The first line included three canine officer’s and there military service dog partners. The second line of men he distinguished was all laden with heavy-explosive and ordinance disposal protective gear consistent with a federal bomb squad or a Marine counter-explosive unit. The third line of defense, Finne observed, were four highly attentive, jar-faced, special ops soldiers decked out in black body armor, each with a trigger-ready grip on their shoulder-strapped MP5 automatic assault rifles.
Finne and Sarah exited the van and proceeded towards the bunker entrance. The two men that rode with them in the van led their way at a steady but not hurried pace. Finne was impressed and at the same time comforted by the massive security infrastructure and professionals surrounding him. At least there won’t be any water-boarding, he thought to himself in attempt to sustain his sense of humor.
After crossing through the portal door from the tunnel entrance and past each line of perimeter security personnel, the two arrived in a massive room that extended from the vault wall they had just crossed onward at length likely greater than 200 yards, Finne estimated. The ceiling was at least 20 feet high giving the space similarities more in line with a sports arena than a secret underground bunker beneath the CIA.
A woman approached from the middle of the room. Before reaching Finne and Sarah, she began speaking to them in a tone of voice that seemed motherly – certainly with intent to be re-assuring.
“Special Agent Selnak and Ms. Simpson,” she began. “You both can be assured that you are safe here, more so than anywhere else in the world you could be right now. Jack is my friend, and I know he has informed you, Agent Seldnak…”
“Please call me Finne. And this is Sarah” Finne interjected.
“Of course. To continue, I know Jack has informed you Finne of the dire nature of the situation at hand,” the woman continued.
“Somewhat, I’ll agree. But there is more that I want to know. A lot more,” Finne returned with a strong tone in his voice expressing his sincere expectations to be provided more information than he had been provided by Jack or anyone else he had encountered since he and Sarah’s fates re-merged along Georgetown Pike paralleling the Potomac shoreline less than 10 miles north of their current location several hours earlier.
“Of course,” the woman replied. “Over on the far wall you will find several workstations from which you may access any US resource you may ever want with complete anonymity. Those computers don’t exist neither do its users. But you can get any piece of information you could ever conceive by querying from anyone of them. Feel free to pull on any threads you want. Nothing will be reserved from you here. If you should want or need anything while you stay here just ask. We can provide any comforts you desire.”
“Oh yeah,” Sarah interjected sarcastically. “Can we get some music in here?”
“What would you like to hear?”
“The Grateful Dead…live!” Sarah replied with a slightly pretentious demeanor, confident that she had just requested a ‘comfort’ that could not be provided.
Before her grin had expanded to its fullest across her face, music enveloped the room with symphonic acoustic projection. The riff being played could only be attributed musical mastery of the late, great Jerry Garcia. Uncle John’s Band, Sarah recognized the tune from the first notes released from Jerry’s guitar. OK, she thought. Sarah might be able to get anything she desired here, as promised. Nice!
Finne cast a look over his shoulder towards the control room he noticed across the room. He wondered whether the song choice was made with comedic intent as the duplicitous verse “…down by the riverside” was sung into the room. Down by the riverside indeed, Finne thought.
“Thank you, Madame Director.” Finne expressed with legitimate gratitude.
DCI Carol Thompson replied simply, “You’re welcome.”
Friday, September 01, 2006
Chapter 38 - Bluest Oyster Cult
Following a discreet, yet well-treaded path exiting the grounds of the Naval Observatory, a pair of dark blue SUVs escaped the property with near invisibility by way of a seldom-used, northwestern maintenance gate then proceeded south-eastward along Massachusetts Ave. Inside the rear vehicle, Christie Stallworth had removed her glamorous blue sequined knee-length dress, bra, and pantyhose and was naked except for her white-laced thong. Knowing what to expect at dinner she chose to change into a far more comfortable and less-recognizable pair of sweatpants and matching hoodie. The two Secret Service agents riding in the front seats gave her no notice. They were well-used to the Second Lady’s covert trysts and each had seen her naked more than enough times before to make this backseat costume change completely unremarkable. Christie trusted completely the four agents from her personal security detail that were transporting her to tonight’s dinner. These agents were professional to their very cores, yet provided Christie with utter secrecy regarding her personal affairs. The Washington Post and Camera On America couldn’t pry dirty details from these agents even if they tortured them. As was the case twice already this week, Christie was en route for an extramarital escapade with her domineering lover while official duties kept her husband occupied elsewhere. For the third time this week, she was headed to her lover’s favorite hide-away.
Scurrying along the route past the most significant properties that construed Embassy Row, the mini-motorcade turned south on 14th Street, crossed the Potomac River via Interstate 395, then continued onto the Jefferson-Davis Highway and into Crystal City, VA. Both SUVs dimmed their headlights simultaneously prior to exiting the six-lane highway at 15th Street, shortly after crossing from DC into Virginia. The exit ramp dropped down from the highway to a lower-level of city streets lined with towering office buildings bearing the names of the world’s largest military contractors. Noticeably unique among the building skyline, at the base of the exit ramp, stood the mere four-story Americana Motor Hotel - an iconic DC area landmark known for its 1960’s architecture and appearance. The motel’s name glowed red along its roofline with a halo-like aura created by the neon sign’s projection onto the fog that was settling in the air along the river.
Christie’s vehicle pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the south side of the motor lodge, while the accompanying SUV in her motorcade pulled in behind two similar looking SUVs along the curbside, such that it completed a vehicular barricade of the parking lot’s entrance. Christie didn’t wait for her door to be opened by her escorting agents and exited her vehicle with a hurried pace, then headed into the building through a dimly-lit, rear entrance door to the Bridgeside Raw Bar restaurant which adjoined the motel. As was always the case for these clandestine rendezvous, the restaurant was closed to the public for the evening through a secret arrangement made with the owner allowing Christie complete privacy with her dinner companion, DEFSEC Jon-E Gautrachs.
The restaurant’s owner, a grey-haired, portly-round Greek, named Theo led Christie to the back of the restaurant to find her awaiting companion seated alone in a booth with food and drink already served. Jon-E had devoured half or more of the jumbo shrimp cocktail and eight of the twelve oysters that topped an ice-lined serving tray in the middle of the table. As Christie took her seat across from him, Jon-E drained the last drops of the single-malt scotch from his glass pouring it down his open throat while gesturing towards Theo to bring him another.
“Martini or Chardonnay?” he asked her with little difference about the answer.
“Theo, may I please have an extra dry, Bombay Saphire martini with three olives?” Christie requested politely.
“Have some oysters. They’re from Chincoteague and taste delicious. Definitely doing the job, too. My dick is as hard as Japanese arithmetic right now.” With that perverted disclosure the DEFSEC grabbed Christie’s forearm and led her hand to the bulge in his lap.
“I’m not hungry, but I do want that drink.” Christie replied with a sly sexy smile and a deep stare into the DEFSEC’s eyes while her hand continued to massage his throbbing manhood under the table.
Theo returned with the two drinks in hand. He set them down in front of the scandalous couple without judging their current activities and retreated without a word. DEFSEC Gautrachs picked up his scotch and stood up from the table revealing his full sexual arousal. He took Christie by the hand and led her off toward the restaurant’s rear exit which led to the motel’s inner courtyard and the secret suite they had shared so many times previously.
Christie wanted to believe that she was the one controlling this relationship through her seduction and sexual attention, but she knew the opposite to be the sadistic truth. Jon-E was always the one in control, and he dominated her physically in bed - which gave her much pleasure. The couple retreated into their secret love nest and made love with passionate aggression for nearly an hour.
Christie emerged from the room first. Her hair was tangled and wet with sweat that dripped down her forehead. She exited through the restaurant and entered her awaiting vehicle without concern for the sights seen by or the thoughts made by her trusted security detail. The ride back to the Vice President’s mansion was silent as Christie, again, stripped nearly nude to change back into her cerulean blue cocktail dress and then applied a new layer of cosmetics to her face to hide any visible traces of her extramarital transgressions.
Aside from the pleasure gained from her covert appointment, Christie had also obtained confirmation that plans to elevate her husband to the Presidency were still moving forward. Christie’s post-coital pillow talk with Jon-E was deliberate, serious, and constituted nothing less than treasonous conspiracy. Christie took joy in knowing that President Iglesias would be assassinated before the end of the weekend. Finally, it would be her turn to live in the White House. She could feel how close she was to realizing her goals, and it excited her immensely.
Scurrying along the route past the most significant properties that construed Embassy Row, the mini-motorcade turned south on 14th Street, crossed the Potomac River via Interstate 395, then continued onto the Jefferson-Davis Highway and into Crystal City, VA. Both SUVs dimmed their headlights simultaneously prior to exiting the six-lane highway at 15th Street, shortly after crossing from DC into Virginia. The exit ramp dropped down from the highway to a lower-level of city streets lined with towering office buildings bearing the names of the world’s largest military contractors. Noticeably unique among the building skyline, at the base of the exit ramp, stood the mere four-story Americana Motor Hotel - an iconic DC area landmark known for its 1960’s architecture and appearance. The motel’s name glowed red along its roofline with a halo-like aura created by the neon sign’s projection onto the fog that was settling in the air along the river.
Christie’s vehicle pulled into the small parking lot adjacent to the south side of the motor lodge, while the accompanying SUV in her motorcade pulled in behind two similar looking SUVs along the curbside, such that it completed a vehicular barricade of the parking lot’s entrance. Christie didn’t wait for her door to be opened by her escorting agents and exited her vehicle with a hurried pace, then headed into the building through a dimly-lit, rear entrance door to the Bridgeside Raw Bar restaurant which adjoined the motel. As was always the case for these clandestine rendezvous, the restaurant was closed to the public for the evening through a secret arrangement made with the owner allowing Christie complete privacy with her dinner companion, DEFSEC Jon-E Gautrachs.
The restaurant’s owner, a grey-haired, portly-round Greek, named Theo led Christie to the back of the restaurant to find her awaiting companion seated alone in a booth with food and drink already served. Jon-E had devoured half or more of the jumbo shrimp cocktail and eight of the twelve oysters that topped an ice-lined serving tray in the middle of the table. As Christie took her seat across from him, Jon-E drained the last drops of the single-malt scotch from his glass pouring it down his open throat while gesturing towards Theo to bring him another.
“Martini or Chardonnay?” he asked her with little difference about the answer.
“Theo, may I please have an extra dry, Bombay Saphire martini with three olives?” Christie requested politely.
“Have some oysters. They’re from Chincoteague and taste delicious. Definitely doing the job, too. My dick is as hard as Japanese arithmetic right now.” With that perverted disclosure the DEFSEC grabbed Christie’s forearm and led her hand to the bulge in his lap.
“I’m not hungry, but I do want that drink.” Christie replied with a sly sexy smile and a deep stare into the DEFSEC’s eyes while her hand continued to massage his throbbing manhood under the table.
Theo returned with the two drinks in hand. He set them down in front of the scandalous couple without judging their current activities and retreated without a word. DEFSEC Gautrachs picked up his scotch and stood up from the table revealing his full sexual arousal. He took Christie by the hand and led her off toward the restaurant’s rear exit which led to the motel’s inner courtyard and the secret suite they had shared so many times previously.
Christie wanted to believe that she was the one controlling this relationship through her seduction and sexual attention, but she knew the opposite to be the sadistic truth. Jon-E was always the one in control, and he dominated her physically in bed - which gave her much pleasure. The couple retreated into their secret love nest and made love with passionate aggression for nearly an hour.
Christie emerged from the room first. Her hair was tangled and wet with sweat that dripped down her forehead. She exited through the restaurant and entered her awaiting vehicle without concern for the sights seen by or the thoughts made by her trusted security detail. The ride back to the Vice President’s mansion was silent as Christie, again, stripped nearly nude to change back into her cerulean blue cocktail dress and then applied a new layer of cosmetics to her face to hide any visible traces of her extramarital transgressions.
Aside from the pleasure gained from her covert appointment, Christie had also obtained confirmation that plans to elevate her husband to the Presidency were still moving forward. Christie’s post-coital pillow talk with Jon-E was deliberate, serious, and constituted nothing less than treasonous conspiracy. Christie took joy in knowing that President Iglesias would be assassinated before the end of the weekend. Finally, it would be her turn to live in the White House. She could feel how close she was to realizing her goals, and it excited her immensely.
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