Deceit

My god, she was beautiful, he thought.

She had become a narcotic to him over the past few months of their relationship. He could do anything with her, to her, any time he wanted. She knew what he wanted even when he wasn't sure. But this night he didn't know whether she was an angel from God or the Devil himself. Tonight that fear nagged him.

He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, felt the nicotine rush and settled back into his chair.

"You only smoke when you're stressed. Do you need to come back to bed?"

"No. I'm okay. I'm starting to like these Turkish cigarettes and for some reason it seems appropriate to smoke them when I'm with you."

"The pasha in his seraglio?"

"Yeah, something like that. Only my harem's a bit small - just you. I'll have to work on it."

There was silence between them. It felt awkward.

"May I come to you? Let me use my mouth for you?" she asked tentatively rather than seductively. There was concern in her voice.

"No. Stay in bed - not that you can get out of bed without my help," he said quietly and with affection. "I'll come to bed in a little while. Go back to sleep."

He took a blue folder out of his brief case and left the bedroom for the kitchen.

He made himself a sandwich, poured a Coke and then sat down at the breakfast bar, the blue folder at his elbow. He had just about decided that he had the Devil himself handcuffed to his bed upstairs and that it was time to end the relationship.

But how to end something like this was the problem. He knew things would be complicated when he took his new position but he hadn't planned on this.

It wasn't just a matter of telling the Devil, "No thanks, but thanks for all the fun times." The Devil may have to be killed and how do you kill the Devil? He remembered the classic movie, The Usual Suspects. The question was posed, "How do you shoot the Devil in the back? What if you miss? "

This was no ordinary affair. Ordinary was not a word to be used about anything that had happened in the last 10 months.

He was not an anonymous entrepreneur in some big city. He did not have his lover in some townhouse in a gated community. He was the President of the United States of America. He was sitting across the street from the White House in Blair House, a ravishingly beautiful woman handcuffed to his bed - both of them having enjoyed several hours of some very rough sex.

It was May. He'd been in office just under 5 months. He had started his run for the White House a year ago and against all odds he won by a landslide, an unprecedented landslide.

Peter Montrose was not a handsome man. He was not good at speaking in sound bites. He had no charisma. He wasn't a Reagan or a Clinton or a Miller or even his predecessor, Thomas Carstairs. He was a common citizen who looked common and spoke plainly.

~~~~~~~~~~

The President opened the blue folder. There were three pieces of paper in the folder and except for the picture with a name on its back on one of the pieces of paper he couldn't read a thing. The writing was in Hebrew. The picture was of the woman in his bed.

Her name was Cynthia Green, B.S., Political Science, University of Kansas; J.D., Harvard; M.S., International Political Science, The Sorbonne. 36 years old. Never married. She was a lawyer in a Jefferson City, Missouri law firm specializing in international law until she joined the campaign. Now she was Deputy White House Counsel and had been his mistress since before he took office.

A Secret Service agent that had recently come on the President's protective detail noticed her in the Oval Office one day and it set off an alarm bell. Ten days later the agent, through a personal contact with the Ukrainian GRU, received the intelligence file on Cynthia Green and quietly gave it to the President.

The President took the folder to a young rabbi he had become acquainted with in the District for translation; he wanted to avoid official channels. The translation boiled down to this: Cynthia Green was a deep cover agent and an assassin for the Mossad, the Israeli intelligence Service. And he was sleeping with her - or rather her with him for some unseen purpose.

Break off the relationship in a conventional manner and maybe the tabloid shows suddenly know everything about their relatively unconventional sexual relationship. (The President found it perversely ironic that after the Gay Rights Movement victories of 2013 the electorate could elect a Gay/Lesbian (Richard Miller and Ellen Becker) ticket with the Social Democrats but had reservations about candidates who were into more esoteric sexual practices.)

Kill her and maybe her masters retaliate. Keep things as they were and he may find himself dead some night, at the hand of a foreign power.

The President made a phone call.

~~~~~~~~~~

The President, then candidate, suffered a personal disaster in late September before the election. It was the disaster and how the public perceived his handling of it that likely contributed to his landslide victory.

The disaster was a natural gas explosion at his home in Kansas City that took his wife and three sons. But the explosion wasn't an accident. It was an assassination meant to drive Peter Montrose from the campaign. Better that he dropped from the campaign, it was reasoned by the conspirators, than run a dirty campaign against the "common man."

Three weeks before the election a CIA case officer named Mitchell Cahill came to Montrose and confessed he was the one who rigged the explosion. And then Cahill presented hours of audio, video and computer data proving that the conspirators were at the highest levels of government: President Thomas Carstairs, Vice President and presidential candidate Winston Miles, several White House staff members and four senior FBI and CIA officials.

Cahill was ready to fall on his sword. He had no idea he was being ordered to kill the candidate's family. Mitchell Cahill had done many things in the service of his country; killing a political opponent's family was not one of them.

Instead, to Cahill's stunned amazement, Montrose asked Cahill to disappear with his evidence. If Montrose won the election he would ask Cahill to come forward and Montrose would deal with the conspirators. If he lost the campaign, he lost. Montrose did not want to win or lose based on the exposed treachery of the other candidate, the Vice President.

The final weeks of the campaign were waged on the "high ground". The American people got to see the "common man" candidate looking "presidential." They liked what he was saying. They liked what he proposed. They liked the people he had gathered to his camp and who would be a part of the new administration.

On Election Day the common man candidate rode an unprecedented landslide to victory. And on a cold, dreary Saturday, six weeks after taking office, the President dealt directly with the major conspirators.

The conspirators did not refute, nor even attempt to offer a defense of the evidence that Cahill had given to the President.

In the Oval Office, with a Supreme Court Justice presiding, the former President and first lady, the former Vice President, and four former White House staff members, pleaded guilty to five counts each of first degree murder for the ordering and planning of the assassination of the President's family.

The President promptly signed a pardon agreement and ordered the record of the proceedings sealed and given the highest level of secrecy available for federal documents. It would be 2160 before historians knew what happened surrounding Peter Montrose's election and first 100 days in office.

The FBI Director met with an accident and was given a state funeral.

The other intelligence and justice officials who were identified as being political met with similar fates over the next three months.

The President took a few days off, never leaving the White House but holed up in the Residence. His Press Secretary told the media that the President had the East Asian Flu and had been ordered to bed. The President's personal physician, Navy Capt. Ronald Nelson, confirmed the diagnosis and treatment of fluids and bed rest.

The truth was that the President was sick in his soul over the deaths of his family and knowing who was responsible. But rather than parade the conspirators before the public he felt he needed to make the matter as if it never happened. And he had.

Green had helped him get through the nights following what he called, "The Rat Cleaning."

~~~~~~~~~~

Green was now on her knees in the middle of the bed. Her hands were handcuffed behind her back, her face and chest pressed to the mattress and her ass in the air. Her back and buttocks bore the red welts of a whipping with a riding crop. The President was thrusting viscously into her; she screamed each time he thrust. It felt as if he was trying to drive himself deep into her belly.

Abruptly, the President pulled out, rolled her onto her back and remounted her roughly.

Immediately he took her by the throat as he started to thrust again. The chokehold on her carotid arteries was tighter than their usual play and it was starting to hurt.

"Uncle," she rasped. It was their safe word.

The President did not stop.

She looked into his face: his eyes were cold and dead. Sweat trickled from his forehead and down his face and onto her.

"Uncle...please..." Her voice was barely a whisper and her eyes were wide with fear. She sensed something was very wrong as her consciousness started to slip away.

"Unc..."

She lost consciousness, the President loosed his grip on her throat but kept on thrusting until he grunted and filled her.

The President got off the bed, toweled off and put on his robe. He sat in the chair next to the bed and waited for her to wake up.

Presently her body stirred and she coughed then moaned. She managed to awkwardly sit up and she looked through her tangled hair that covered her face for the President.

"Peter? Peter...what's wrong?" Her voice was quiet and pleading.

"Get up and come and kneel in front of me." His voice was cold and distant. She was frightened.

"It would be easier to do without my hands being cuffed behind my back." She tried to lighten the atmosphere. He didn't respond.

Slowly, awkwardly, she obeyed. As she dropped to her knees, the President reached down, caressed her face and pushed her hair away from her eyes. For a fraction of a second she perceived him soften. He whispered, "I'm sorry."

Just then there was a knock at the bedroom door. Green took stock of her position and how she looked, hair disheveled, body covered with sweat, whip marks on her back and now sperm starting to trickle down her inner thighs and onto the carpet.

"Shouldn't I, you know, uh, hide?" She looked at the President. He did not look at her. Quietly he said, "Enter."

Green gasped then gave a short scream when she saw the visitor.

"I'm assuming I don't need to make introductions."

The visitor stood in front of the President and beside Green. He said nothing. Green looked at the President, pleading in her face and voice. Her voice was small like that of a frightened little girl, "Peter?"

"Get control of yourself Cynthia. Answer my questions when I asked them and you may live to see the dawn."

Live to see the dawn? Oh, my God! "Yes...I mean no, you don't need to make introductions."

"Tell me where you know this man from."

"I met him in Berlin about 5 years ago. I was with a lover then. My lover and Mr. Cahill were friends. Please Peter...dear god, are you going to have me killed?"

The President was slow to respond. He looked at her then at Cahill. "And why would you ask such a thing?"

She looked at Cahill. "Because according to my lover then, this man is one of the best assassins the U.S. has on its payroll."

"I didn't know Yuri kept tabs on me that well," Cahill said mirthlessly.

The President turned to Cahill. "Is that true?"

"Yes. Before I got promoted to Case Officer I was a contract wet work specialist." Cahill looked down at Green, "But, according to Yuri, you weren't bad yourself. You specialized in the close work - drugging diplomatic agents then putting bags on their heads until they suffocated."

"Ohhhhhhhh, nooooooo...," she felt like she was about to come undone, "please, it's true, I worked for Mossad. Yuri, my lover, he was a deputy in operations and he ran me in the field. He got a promotion and I left the agency. He released me. I haven't worked in the community since."

"My sources say otherwise. There are people who would have me believe you were a plant shortly after my family's assassination."

She hung her head, feeling lost and then she looked up at the President with some resolve, "NO, Peter! I came to your campaign because I believed in you. And you spent quite a bit of time in Jefferson City; it was inevitable that we met. But...I...yes, I got a call from Mossad after the explosion and they reactivated me. But they simply wanted inside information if things ever got critical.

"I've only reported twice. I think it's more of a way to keep my skills in shape than anything else. It's no big deal. I don't even think the reports are going to Tel Aviv."

Cahill interrupted, "Why would you think they aren't going to Tel Aviv?"

"Yuri called me a month ago. He wanted to run me - for fun he said. He knew I was in the White House. I told him that Central already had me on line. He got very strange at that point, said his goodbyes and told me to be careful. Yuri runs Central. If he didn't know I was active then someone else is running me. I don't know whom. I've never met the control officer."

Cahill mumbled "shit" under his breath and looked at the President, "You realize what this means Mr. President?"

The President covered his face with his hands, exhaled loudly. "Yeah Mitch, I realize. We're dealing with a hidden enemy."

Green looked between the two men and became frantic, certain that she was going to be killed by Cahill, certain that the President would order it. "Please! Please.... Oh God, Peter, you know> I would never harm you!... Peter... Peter, I love you..." and she began to cry softly.

The President was stunned by Green's admissions of spying even though he had her intelligence file. He felt betrayed, used. What could a woman as beautiful as Cynthia want with a plain, average guy like himself except power? He thought.

"SHUT UP!" The President suddenly backhanded Green so hard she fell over. She curled into a fetal position on the carpet and began to sob. "Let me think, damnit!" The President shouted.

The President ran his hands through his hair and then covered his face to think. Now, not only was he concerned by who might be controlling Green but also he felt guilty about how he was acting toward his lover. He had never struck her, or any other woman in anger.

"Mr. President..."

The President held up a hand, "A minute Mitch."

Cahill stood silently.

Minutes passed. Green's sobbing lessened though she still lay curled on the floor, still terrified of what might happen. Neither man paid her any attention.

The President slowly stood up and cinched up the belt of his robe. "Mitch, see what you can find; quickly and discretely. Use the newsgroups to keep in touch."

"Shouldn't you bring in the Marines for security?"

"Oh, I'd love to bring in Colonel McKenzie and his Force Recon boys. But any sudden changes are likely to tip off whoever is watching. No. For now nothing changes."

Cahill pointed at Green. "What about her?"

"Mitch, listen very carefully: Cynthia's my problem. Hands off. If I end up dead then I expect you'll know what to do but until then, if that time ever comes, Cynthia's innocent. Is that crystalline clear?"

Cahill frowned, "Peter, for Christ's sake she's been trained by the best, she's done good work for them and now she's here, under control and we don't know by whom or why...come on..."

"Mitch."

"Yes, Mr. President."

Cahill left the bedroom and the President bent down to Green. Her body was trembling. He touched her face. "Cynthia, can you hear me? Cynthia?"

She startled at his touch and then slowly Green turned her eyes toward the President; they were filled with absolute terror.

"Come on, Cynthia, let's sit up." The President gently lifted her into a sitting position on the floor and went to the nightstand to get the handcuff key. He took the handcuffs off and then knelt to massage her wrists and shoulders.

"Got some feeling back?"

Green nodded. The President got her robe and covered her shoulders with it. "Let's see if you can stand." He put his hands under her arms and helped her stand.

"I...I want to go home. Now. Please." Green whispered, fear still in her voice.

The President lifted her face by the chin and then spoke gently, "Cynthia, no. You're in no shape to go home. You're safe here; you have my word. Mitch is gone and if you want, you can sleep in another bedroom with a female Secret Service agent to stay with you. I want to make sure you're okay. That's all."

Green looked down again. "Peter, my back hurts really bad," she said softly.

"Okay, come on back to bed." The President slowly guided her back to bed. "Have a seat. I'll be right back."

The President went to the bathroom and brought back a tumbler of water and a prescription bottle. He knelt in front of her. "My script for Valium. Open the bottle and take two out. Give one to me, watch me take it and then take the other one and let's settle down in bed. I'll make your back feel better, okay?"

Green didn't speak. She simply opened the bottle, slid two yellow tablets into her palm, gave one to the President and held out the water glass. He took his and then hesitantly she took the other pill.

As she swung her legs into bed she quietly said, "The easiest way I've found to assassinate someone you're sleeping with is a benzodiazapene in their Scotch. When the person's asleep then I put a bag over their head until they stop breathing. Looks like natural causes and they rarely check for the old benzodiazapenes in the post mortem drug screens."

"I know. Saw it in a movie a long time ago. You planning on bagging me?"

"No."

"Good, I'm not planning on doing you either."

Green lay on her side in the bed; the President lay behind her, gently dabbing camphor on her whip welts with a cotton ball.

"Cynthia, it's going to be okay," he whispered gently to her, smoothing her hair, caressing her shoulders.

For a long while Green didn't speak, then, "How can you trust me, Peter? How can you stand to be in the same room with me?" she whispered in a trembling voice.

"I can trust you because I chose to," was all he said.

After a long silence he snuggled against her shoulder and quietly said, "And, if my trust is misplaced then Mitchell will see that there is retribution.

"Life goes on, eh?

"As to how I can stand to be in the same room with you - you obviously haven't looked in a mirror lately."

Green half giggled and half sobbed with relief as if the President's declaration of trust and admiration of her beauty was unexpectedly flattering.

"Pancakes in the morning?" she whispered.

"Lots of syrup, please," he said as he kissed her shoulder.

The President buried his face in her hair and gently wrapped her in a hug, his hands cupping her breasts. He held her tightly until he felt her body relax and her breathing slow indicating she was asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

Marilyn Lang was Assistant to the Appointments Secretary. Her office was 20 feet away from the outer warrens of the Oval Office. She was one of only a handful of people to know the President's schedule, minute by minute. And who the President was with at any given time.