He started to roll over and get off the bed when the woman beside him moaned softly in her sleep; her head rested on his arm. Mayeaux could still smell sweat on the sheets. She was in her early twenties, large breasts, small ass, long blond hair. She brayed like a mule when she came, but it had turned him on a little. Too bad she had the face like a mule, too, but who cared?
As memories of last night came back to him, he felt another erection stirring. Weathersee had arranged for the babe to be waiting for him at the condo. Mayeaux never knew whether his Chief of Staff actually paid for these women, or if he enticed them in some other way. Good old Weathersee.
Mayeaux’s wife knew the locations of his “love nests,” and she even called him once in a while when she needed his help with one of the houses or some other emergency. But no one was supposed to know about the Ocean City place.
The door would probably splinter soon under the relentless pounding. The sheer monotonous nature told him it was probably some security goons. Anybody with half a brain would have figured out by now that Mayeaux didn’t want to talk to anybody. What a great way to wake up and start the day.
Mayeaux somehow managed to slide off the side of the bed and pick up his robe without waking the babe.
He could hear a muffled voice yelling his name as he closed the bedroom door behind him and padded down the stairs. “Hold on, Boog, for gawd’s sake,” he said.
The saeside apartment smelled of stale wine and ripe cheese. Sunlight streamed across the foyer where he had forgotten to close the curtains the night before. How he wished he could find someplace in the D.C. area that served decent cafe au lait and beignets for breakfast.
With the spreading panic and the mechanical breakdowns caused by the gasoline plague sweeping across the country, Mayeaux should have realized he couldn’t get away for a day. Just one fucking day, and it had been planned for months. Granted, he could recognize the magnitude of the growing crisis—but he wasn’t in charge. Other people could take care of things for a few hours, couldn’t they?
By Friday night only a few outbreaks had been reported in Maryland and a few in Virginia, but the news got more frantic hour after hour. California had closed its borders, far too late to stop the spread of the plague, and information from the west coast was sporadic.
Vice President Wolani had been stuck in Chicago on a speaking tour when the FAA ordered an immediate shutdown of the entire commercial airline industry in the wake of a dozen major crashes that had been blamed on disintegrating plastic components.
Mayeaux had chuckled upon learning that President Holback was stranded in the Middle East on his widely publicized diplomatic tour to Qatar, or one of those countries, when Air Force One itself was found to be infected with the petroplague… and now the petroleum-eating microorganisms were ravaging some of the largest Arabian oil fields. He wouldn’t want to be in Holback’s shoes at the moment.
“Mr. Speaker? Are you in there?” The voice from outside sounded loud and firm enough to pierce the solid door.
Mayeaux peered through the peephole. Two men in dark suits stood on his porch, wires running from their collars to earplugs. He could see three other men standing out in the sand. Secret Service? Jeez, couldn’t they be a bit more subtle? They stood out like a day-glow billboard in this beach town.
A chill raced down his back. Damn, what could they want? Was this a sting? His initial fear that he was in trouble left him quickly—someone in authority would be present, an official from Justice, if he had done anything wrong. And Mayeaux had never made any secret about his affairs.
But Secret Service, here? If it was so damned important to wake him up on a Sunday morning, Weathersee should have telephoned him. Then he remembered having his calls forwarded to the office; he’d unplugged the phones here since his wife and kids were staying with friends.
The Secret Service man seemed to sense him standing on the other side of the door. “Mr. Speaker—it’s important, sir. We have to speak with you.”
Mayeaux peered beyond the man in the peephole. The beach had been cordoned. The place was surrounded by plain-clothes officers.
“Yes?” Oh, shit. Mayeaux’s mind whirled. For the first time in years, he found it difficult to keep his political mask in place.
“It’s urgent, sir.”
As Mayeaux unbolted the door, the Secret Service man pushed his way in. The other, as big as a professional linebacker, motioned to the rest of the team. Mayeaux smelled the wash of cool, damp air from the ocean.
The first Secret Service officer seemed relieved to see him. “Mr. Speaker, thank God we found you.” But he didn’t look Mayeaux in the eye as he spoke—instead, his eyes darted around the apartment, checking, verifying. He wasn’t sweating, or ruffled in the least from all his pounding on the door.
Mayeaux sputtered. “What are you talking about?”
Another agent pushed into the townhouse. He spoke to the first man. “Satchmo’s secure?”
“Right,” said the first agent, who relayed the information through a walkie-talkie.
Mayeaux drew his bathrobe around him, and suddenly froze. Satchmo? The Secret Service used code names for the president, the vice president, and their immediate families….
He’d had enough of this crap. “All right, what’s going on? Did Holback send you here to harass me?”
The first agent stopped, his face suddenly screwed into a hard look. His blue eyes continued to flick back and forth. “No, sir. We have to inform you that Vice President Harald Wolani was killed last night in an elevator accident in the Sears Tower in Chicago. The plague has spread there, sir, somewhat more extensively than expected.”
“Wolani’s dead?” Mayeaux stepped back, bumping into the pale blue sofa. He automatically started to sit down, but he locked his knees and stood up again.
Mayeaux wanted a Bloody Mary—hell, make it a George Dickel, neat!—but he couldn’t get up the nerve to walk to the wet bar.
“We have also lost contact with the president, sir,” the first agent said. “There’s a great deal of turmoil in Qatar, and the last communication we had from the ambassador was that the Qatar government is refusing to guarantee the president’s safety. We have been unable to reestablish communication.”
“Jeffrey, what’s going on? Should I come down?” A sleepy voice drifted from the bedroom upstairs.
“No!” Mayeaux shouted. He didn’t have the slightest idea what the bitch’s name was.
An agent ran up the stairs. “I’ll check it out.”
“You know what this means, sir—” the first agent continued, finally halting his roving gaze and meeting Mayeaux’s eyes.
“Of course I know!” he said. Then he finally allowed himself to slump onto the sofa. “I’m acting as president until you can reestablish contact with Holback.”
“If we can reestablish contact, sir. President Holback is a prime target for retribution.”
“You damn well better reestablich contact!” Mayeaux climbed to his feet again, feeling his legs shake. “Get me some coffee.” Turning his back on the Secret Service agent, he walked slowly and carefully toward the kitchenette.
The agent continued, as if he had been wound up and needed to finish his routine. “The beach area is secure, sir. We need to get you back to DC. To swear you in.”
Mayeaux drew a breath and felt his head hammer with panic. Everything was happening too fast. He had expected to retire after this term, and settle back in New Orleans. He had arranged everything for a quiet and lucrative lobbying career. Everything had been arranged. Mayeaux flopped out a hand to steady himself.