The Day of the Donald (18 page)

J
immie reentered the restaurant. The hostess flashed a friendly smile. “Finished with your phone call, Mr. Bernwood?”

“I am,” he said. “But I’ll be dining alone tonight.”

Although it seemed a tad insensitive to Cat to keep his reservation, Jimmie thought it would be what she wanted. Plus, the kidnappers had given him until Monday night to meet their demands. There was plenty of time to stuff his face with some old-fashioned southern-style cooking while he debated the most prudent course of action.

The smell of the made-from-scratch buttermilk biscuits had also been calling his name. He opened the menu. He had to focus. Review his options. Not the options on the menu—he already knew what he was going to order. But his options with regards to the kidnappers. He was out of his league, but that had never stopped him before.

The safest course of action was to cooperate with the kidnappers . . . for now. Getting the recorder out of the White House wasn’t going to be easy, though. If it was, he’d have already done it. The Trump administration was so overrun with paranoia that they didn’t let bags in or out of the building. No backpacks, no laptop cases, no purses, no briefcases. Not even fanny packs were allowed, which had to piss off Chef Fieri.

After he’d stuffed himself on his second order of complimentary buttermilk biscuits and was awaiting his third, the hostess arrived with another menu. “Your date is here, Mr. Bernwood,” she said.

“That’s . . . not possible,” he stammered.

Emma Blythe stepped out from behind the hostess and took the seat across from Jimmie. She was wearing a tight, red cocktail dress that accentuated her curves. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a noir novel and into his life.

“Hello, darling,” Emma said. “I hope you’ve saved room for dessert.”

E
mma took one sip of the iced tea she’d ordered and made a horrible retching sound. “Dear God, that’s awful. I always forget you Americans put sugar in your tea.”

“Don’t look at me—I’m from the Midwest,” Jimmie said. “Sweet tea is a southern thing.”

“Is diabetes also a southern thing?”

“One would assume so, what with obesity rates being so high in southern states.” Jimmie picked up his phone and Googled
states with highest rates of diabetes
. “Damn, would you look at that. Says here that nine of the top ten states with the highest rates of type 2 diabetes
are
in the—”

Emma snatched the phone out of his hand and dropped it into the last of his bowl of creamy tomato soup. He’d dunked enough phones underwater over the years to know that it wasn’t worth diving in after. It also wasn’t the first time he’d had his phone taken away by a woman at dinner.

“I would have put it away, had you asked,” he said.

“I could care less about your lack of table etiquette. I had to make sure the NSA wasn’t listening to every word of our conversation.”

“They might be interested in the seventh-leading cause of death in this country,” Jimmie said. “You never know.”

“While public health statistics are endlessly fascinating to someone, somewhere, that’s not what I came to talk to you about. You’re going to tell me what sort of mess you’ve gotten yourself into.” She paused. “A word of warning, however: Leave anything out, and I’ll know you’re lying. You’ll be arrested for attempted espionage.”

“How will you know if I leave anything out, though?”

“Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t. Are you willing to risk it?”

He leaned across the table. “A woman’s life is at stake here.”

“Millions of lives are at stake here,” Emma shot back. “
Billions
of lives, possibly. We’re talking about the office of the president of the United States of America. Do you not understand that? This is far bigger than one person’s life. No matter how much you want to shag her.”

Jimmie saw that his tie had taken a dip in his soup, and he wiped it on the tablecloth. “It’s such bullshit for you to bring that up. Why couldn’t I just care about another human being for altruistic reasons?”

“It would certainly be a first,” she said. “I’m surprised you even know what the word ‘altruism’ means.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he said, even though she was seeing right through him at practically every turn.

Their waiter brought their entrées out and went to pick up the empty bowl in front of Jimmie. Or nearly empty, except for the dead phone coated in tomato soup.

“Sir . . . there’s a phone in your soup,” the waiter said. “Would you like me to fish it out?”

“It’s not mine,” Jimmie said coolly.

“I am so sorry. Let me apologize on behalf of the Ritz Cracker Barrel.”

Jimmie stared him in the eyes. “Take it off my bill, or I’m going to Yelp.”

The waiter hurried off. Emma stared at Jimmie as if he’d just shit on the rug.

“What?”

“You’re quite something,” she said.

“Quite charming?”

“Quite
something
,” she repeated.

While Jimmie picked over his chicken-fried chicken, he told Emma everything. To get information, you had to give up information. He wasn’t sure why he trusted her, but he did. It might have also had something to do with the fact that Jimmie was strangely deferential to women in positions of authority over him. It was a weakness. But he would be strong. Even though he’d been daydreaming about making love to Emma on the beanbag chair Biden had left behind in the VP’s West Wing office, he would be strong. He wasn’t about to get into another mess like he’d gotten into with Cat.

The fact that Emma had arrived just twenty minutes after the kidnappers had hung up on him had to mean someone had alerted her to the call—the NSA or Homeland Security. She’d been watching him closely.

Jimmie didn’t think she’d come here to put the screws on him, though. It wasn’t like she was going to just pull out a gun
and murder him right there in the middle of the Ritz Cracker Barrel. Though that would have been a pretty baller move.

“So that’s where we’re at,” Jimmie said after finishing his tale. “I’ve turned over all the cards I have. Now it’s your turn.”

“Is that how you think this works?” Emma said. “Tell me something, James: Were you planning to leak all this to Cat Diaz? Is that why you were meeting her tonight?”

“I signed a nondisclosure.”

“That you planned to break for the right price.”

“Are you going to fire me?”

Emma sipped her sweet tea. Slowly. Deliberately.

“No,” she said.

“No?”

“I’m going to help you get your girlfriend back. In exchange, you are going to drop this amateur little ‘investigation’ of yours. If the press secretary did throw Lester off the roof, it wouldn’t make a bit of difference. You’d still have to pin it on him. Surveillance tapes from that far back have already been wiped. All you’ve got is a hunch.”

“Sometimes, that’s all you need.”

“Sometimes,” Emma said. “But not this time. Remember that Lewandowski manhandled that reporter on the campaign trail
on video
and walked away without any charges.”

“There’s a corpse buried somewhere on the White House grounds, and you’re telling me to forget about it?”

“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”

Jimmie sighed. It was an overly dramatic, sort of bitchy sigh. Totally warranted, however. She was asking him to
give up on a story?
Once he got his claws into something, it was difficult for him to let go. He was like a tick, digging in for the long haul
while he drew blood. Could he let go . . . for Cat’s sake? He’d have to think about that.

Jimmie said, “So you, what, trace the call and have Trump send in the Navy SEALs to rescue her? How does this work?”

“The president would never authorize the use of the military to rescue a kidnapped reporter, and you know it,” Emma said. “Even against the SJWs. And it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to appeal to President Trump’s romantic side. He’d just tell you to get another girlfriend—one who doesn’t go around getting herself kidnapped. Officially, the US government won’t be intervening. We don’t negotiate with terrorists. Unofficially . . . I would like to see this situation resolved as quickly as possible. There’s been enough bloodshed at the White House in recent weeks, wouldn’t you agree?”

Jimmie nodded but didn’t say anything. He had a mouthful of fried apples.

“Just because the US government isn’t going to do a bloody thing about your friend doesn’t mean you’re out of luck,” Emma said. “They’re not the only government in the world, you know.”

“The Russians,” he said.

“The Brits,” she said.

“But we’re on the verge of war with the UK. Why would they lift a finger?”

“Because I’m not just the apprentice,” Emma said. “I’m with MI6—the Secret Intelligence Service.”

S
o Trump had been right about there being a leak in the White House after all. He probably had never imagined how high ranking the leak was, however. The apprentice was as close to the Oval Office as you could get—both figuratively and literally. And Trump never would know, because Jimmie wasn’t anybody’s informant. Not even the president’s.

He had to tip his cap to the United Kingdom. The British intelligence community must have predicted Trump’s rise to power and placed an operative close to him in the eventuality he ascended to the US presidency.

The British had always been much smarter than the United States. Part of that was the accent, of course. Part of it, however, was that they’d just been playing this game much longer than their American counterparts had. They literally had hundreds of years more institutional knowledge baked into their psyche than the relatively young upstarts on this side of the Atlantic did. Funny, then, that they’d already dropped two wars to the United States, but hey—any given Sunday.

“Call in your British SEALs or whatever,” Jimmie said begrudgingly, tossing his napkin on the table. “Forget the story—we need to save her. I’m ready when you are.”

“Hold on,” Emma said. “We don’t have ‘British SEALs.’ MI6’s elite special-ops force is the Royal OTTERs. Unfortunately, they’re all busy preparing to guard the home front in case this war between our countries actually breaks out. Our best option here is to cooperate with the kidnappers.”

A waiter arrived with a fresh glass of sweet tea for Emma. Despite her avowed distaste for the beverage, she was now on her fourth refill.

When the waiter was gone, Jimmie said, “You trust these Socialist Justice Warriors?”

“Real-life kidnappers aren’t like the ones in Hollywood movies. If they say they’re going to trade you for someone, they’re probably going to keep their word—as long as you follow through with your end of the bargain. Ninety percent of the time, nobody gets hurt. Except for maybe a cut-off finger or toe, which they mail to you to show you they’re serious. In this case, there’s not enough time for them to mail you any appendages. Even if they overnighted her ring finger, say, there’s no guarantee you’d get it. Holiday weekends cause massive postal delays.”

Ninety percent of the time, nobody gets hurt. What about the other ten percent?

He said, “I’m surprised you want to hand the recorder over.”

“I’ve worked with Trump long enough to know he doesn’t say anything in private that he wouldn’t say in public,” she said. “You were right: Lester Dorset was a bloody fool.”

“Finally, somebody agrees with me.”

“You’re also a bloody fool, but for different reasons,” Emma said.

Was she teasing him? He’d have time to tease her back later.

“You’re sure I need to drop this whole Lester story, though?” he asked.

“If there really was a story here capable of bringing the administration to its knees, I would have exposed it long ago,” Emma said. “I’m doing everything I can to keep Trump in check and avoid this idiotic ‘three-peat’ he keeps going on about. You’ve been to the Security Council meetings. If it was up to Trump and the rest of those wankers, the UK would be a pile of rubble right now. I might just be the only person standing in his way. If you try to pin the murder on Lewandowski, and he doesn’t confess, who do you think people are going to point fingers at next? The Brit in the White House.”

“I guess you’re right,” Jimmie said.

“Are you pouting?”

“No,” he lied. “So we need to figure out how to get the recorder out of the White House, then.”

“You’d never get it past security on your own,” she said. “With my help, however, it will be a breeze. Only a handful of people in the administration can walk in and out of the building without being frisked . . . including the apprentice.”

Jimmie shoveled another biscuit into his mouth, even though he’d felt full fifteen minutes ago. He was simply stress-eating at this point. Jimmie could see his story about Lester’s body—and whatever scandal was beneath it—blowing Emma’s cover in some way. She was just trying to throw water on the
flames. From Jimmie’s perspective, though, the fire was out of control.

Emma said, “I’ll pick up the tab, and we can head back to the White House. Where’s the recorder?”

“A safe place. I might need your help getting to it, though.”

“You have the same clearance level as the president, remember?”

He nodded. “But there are some places that might raise some eyebrows, were I to walk in without an appointment. Especially after business hours on a Friday night.”

“I seriously doubt that.”

“So I can just walk into the Lincoln Bedroom, you’re saying?”

She frowned. “That . . . might be a problem.”

“I know that the president and first lady were taking off for Florida tonight—”

“I watched the helicopter take off for the airport. Still, it would be suspicious for you to just go creeping around in the family quarters while they’re away.”

“Have you ever thought about all the presidents who’ve had sex in that bedroom?”

“It’s the guest bedroom,” she said.

“So?”

Emma continued, “We’ll have to come up with a good reason for you to . . . for you to . . .”

Emma winced and grabbed her stomach. It looked like she had felt a sharp pain, as if she’d just been kicked in the gut by an invisible foot. She hadn’t touched her food, though—must have been too much sweet tea. Caffeine could irritate an ulcer something wicked.

Emma started rocking back and forth in her chair while staring blankly into the distance. This was no ulcer.

Jimmie looked around for a waiter—she needed medical attention.

Emma thrust a hand out to steady herself, grabbing a bunch of tablecloth. She clutched it tight just as she tipped backward, taking her chair and the tablecloth to the ground. Their plates and silverware crashed to the floor.

Her glass, however, was still standing.

While time had seemed to slow down, it now sped back up. Jimmie shot out of his chair and knelt beside her. She wasn’t trembling anymore.

In fact, she wasn’t even breathing anymore.

Either she’d just died of sudden-onset type 2 diabetes from her sweet tea . . . or she’d been poisoned.