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CHAPTER II
Captain Charles d'Artagnan woke up and groaned, burrowing his head deeper into the pillow. He had a splitting headache, and was unsure exactly where he was. Cautiously opening one of his eyes, he found himself in a lavishly furnished room on what was apparently at least the 20th floor of a very expensive hotel. Blinking at the sunlight filtering through the nearly floor to ceiling window opposite the bed, he was treated to a stunning panoramic view of the DC skyline. A sleek black leather sofa was off to the left in a slightly sunken area, with a low mahogany table resting in front of it. An abstract marble sculpture was perfectly positioned in the center of its gleaming surface.
Where the hell am I? This is not the Visiting Officer's Quarters at Andrews Air Force Base. He sat up, disentangling himself from the cream-colored silken sheets, and reached for the elegant stationary sitting on the bedside table. Oriental Suite, the Mandarin Oriental, Washington DC.
Something was definitely wrong. He glanced at the pillow next to his, and saw the clear indentation of a head. Someone was here? How do I not remember? An elegant blue card was half tucked under the pillow. Opening it, he read the message written in a flowing feminine script.
Wonderful night. I'd be more careful with your virtue…and your wallet…next time though. x
Think. Think! He looked around frantically for his mobile phone, then spotted it lying atop his clothes on a chair. Diving for it, he entered the passcode and quickly looked up the hotel suite on his web browser. Oriental Suite, $2500 per night.
In shock, he went to sit down, and nearly tripped over an empty bottle of Dom Perignon that was lying on the floor. Who the heck is paying for this?
He suddenly picked up his mobile phone and dialed the main number for the hotel that was on the website.
"Thank you for calling the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in Washington, DC. This is Amelia speaking. How may I assist you?"
"I…ah…I would like to be connected to the Oriental Suite, please."
"Certainly, sir. Security requirements for that suite do require that the party you are trying to reach be identified by the caller. May I ask for the guest's name?"
He thought wildly, then made a guess that he desperately hoped was wrong.
"D'Artagnan? At least… I believe he is one of the guests."
"Thank you, sir. Captain d'Artagnan is in fact the sole guest registered for the Oriental Suite. Just a moment. I'll be happy to put your call through."
An instant later, the phone in the room began ringing. D'Artagnan switched his mobile off, and put his head in his hands. As he looked down at the carpet, he saw a gold foil matchbook emblazoned in black script with the words The Establishment.
Then it all came back to him…at least, some of it...
ooo
D'Artagnan had just driven into DC early the previous evening, ready to meet a friend from medical school in order to celebrate his new posting at Andrews Air Force Base.
Although he would be the proverbial low surgeon on the totem pole, at least he would finally no longer be in training. He was now a board-certified orthopaedic surgeon, having completed orthopaedic residency at the famed Hospital for Special Surgery in New York, then a very prestigious one year fellowship in orthopaedic trauma at Baltimore Shock Trauma. This position had been the gateway to gaining a coveted place on the orthopaedics staff at the Joint Military Medical Center.
I'll meet you at the Establishment, the text from Wyatt had read. Google their website for directions. For God's sake, do NOT show up looking like you just came off a basketball court. The women in DC are discriminating, and this place is classy.
He arrived just before 10 pm at the bar, which was located in a historic old bank building on Embassy Row. D'Artagnan prided himself on being punctual, and waited outside, his patience with his friend's chronic lateness waning the longer he waited.
Pulling out his phone, he sent a text. Where are you? Been waiting 10 minutes already.
A steady stream of well-dressed patrons, many of whom seemed to be connected with the various consulates on the surrounding streets, passed by him. He sighed, then decided to go in. I might as well have a drink while I wait. As he reached the massive oaken door, someone slammed into him from the side.
"Hey!" cried d'Artagnan, glaring at the tall, immaculately dressed man.
"I believe you owe me an apology." The voice was cultured, but condescending. The speaker, tall and appearing to be of Arab origin, had a matinee-idol face and dark hair that was slicked back with a ridiculous amount of hair product. He was wearing an expensive grey suit that d'Artagnan guessed was made to measure.
"An apology? You're the one who almost knocked me over!"
"Perhaps someone needs to teach you some manners!" snarled the man.
"Roshan, leave him." A petite woman with arresting green eyes suddenly appeared at his side, curving her arm around the tall man's waist. She was dressed in a midnight blue sheath dress with cut out shoulders. The dress fit her like a glove, highlighting the elegant curves of her slim, supple body. D'Artagnan felt his mouth go dry as he stared at her. Long, dark hair curled around her shoulders, and a simple drop necklace with a lone diamond graced her neck.
The man glared at d'Artagnan for a moment longer, and the brunette tugged at his arm. "Please don't make an issue of it, Rohan! I'm sure he didn't mean it!" She shot an imploring glance at d'Artagnan, then was towed away by her companion as the doorman hailed them. "Mr. Hariri! Delighted to see you!" They were ushered in as VIPs.
After arguing with the same doorman for several minutes, d'Artagnan finally was able to gain entrance by virtue of the fact that Wyatt had reserved a table for them. He was shown to a tiny table for two that was jammed in behind a large pillar, just next to the restrooms.
"Brilliant," muttered d'Artagnan, glancing across the room to see the woman and her escort seated at the long bar together. She was sipping a nearly empty martini, her attention focused on her companion, who seemed to be telling a long and involved story. Suddenly, he leaned over and whispered in her ear, causing her to glance away, blushing. Her eye caught d'Artagnan's for a minute, and he sensed she was uneasy. A moment later, the bartender placed two fresh drinks in front of them. The brunette dropped her purse, and as Roshan bent over to pick it up, d'Artagnan, blinking, swore he had seen her hand hover over her date's drink for just an instant.
Passing the slim Prada clutch back to her, the diplomat took a large swallow of the martini, then grinned at her. A few minutes later, she excused herself, then walked past d'Artagnan's table, her hips gently swaying as she walked. As she passed by, she unobtrusively dropped a folded napkin in his lap with a note hastily scrawled on it.
I'm in over my head with this guy. Please get me out of here! He's starting to scare me. I had no idea he was like this!
He sighed. What am I getting myself involved in?
When he saw her heading back, d'Artagnan pulled her behind the pillar. She was obviously distressed, but he was still wary.
"What do you want me to do? And what exactly am I getting myself into?"
As her green eyes began to fill with tears, she pleaded, "Please! You have to help me!" Her voice rose in a panic. "It's like I'm having a...a flashback! Several years ago, a man I loved tried to kill me….and this guy is starting to remind me of him! I've got to get out of here!"
"Okay, okay!" d'Artagnan put his arms on her shoulders, and spoke to her soothingly. "I'll help you. My friend is late anyway, so I've got some time to kill." He glanced around the pillar to see Roshan chatting up a curvaceous redhead in a black minidress. "Your man seems to be otherwise engaged at the moment. Come on." Taking her by the arm, he propelled her through the back of the bar into the kitchen.
"What are you.…"
As they burst through the swinging doors, the kitchen staff stopped to stare at them. "Good evening," D'Artagnan nodded at the kitchen staff, and kept moving. "Lovely place you have here. Keep up the good work." His eyes scanned the large room, and fell on an emergency exit. "Go!" he hissed. As he pushed the door open, an alarm began to blare, and they began to run.
ooo
Suddenly, d'Artagnan realized that his mobile was ringing, and was snapped back to the present. "Hello?"
"Captain Charles d'Artagnan?"
"Speaking."
"This is the American Express Early Fraud Detection Program. My name is Anthony. Sir, we have noticed an unusual pattern of activity on your card within the past twelve hours, and wanted to take steps to verify that the charges placed were authorized by you."
D'Artagnan felt his stomach drop. "An unusual pattern?"
"Yes. Sir, may I have the last four digits of your social security number?"
"3693. What charges were placed?"
The representative smoothly stuck to his script. "First of all, I would like to confirm that you are indeed currently staying in the Oriental Suite at the Mandarin Oriental hotel in Washington, DC. One night was charged under your card last night for $2500...plus 14.5% hotel tax and a $525 bottle of 2002 Dom Perignon, for a grand total of $3657. Is that correct?"
"NO!"d'Artagnan blurted out. "I absolutely did NOT…" Suddenly he stopped and looked around him. It was impossible to deny that he was indeed standing in an opulent hotel suite at the Mandarin Oriental with an empty bottle of Dom Perignon on the floor. Picking up the bottle, he groaned as he read the label. 2002. "No wait…that's correct. I forgot about that...apparently it was a long night." He gave a weak laugh. "We've all been there, right?"
"Well, I hope you are enjoying your unexpected stay." D'Artagnan could almost see the customer service representative smirking over the phone. "Now to the two other charges…a $2000 Air Canada gift card?"
"That did NOT come from me!" He began rummaging through his wallet, searching for his American Express card.
A moment of silence. "Are you quite sure, sir?"
"This time, yes."
"Is the card currently in your possession?"
"Just a minute! I'm checking!" Frustrated, he pulled every card out of his wallet and looked through them twice. "Apparently not."
"So the $3850 Tag Heuer watch bought at the Duty Free shop at Washington Dulles International Airport was not an authorized charge?"
"WHAT?" d'Artagnan choked back the profanity that rose to his mouth. "Definitely not."
"Very well, sir. As the card is no longer in your possession and the last two charges were not authorized, we will cancel your card effective immediately. A new one will be reissued, and we can arrange for it to be sent by Federal Express to you within the next twenty four hours. Shall I send it to the Mandarin Oriental?"
Cursing under his breath, the captain controlled himself with an effort. "No, thank you. I will be checking out shortly, as I have a meeting at 0800." He glanced at the clock and was horrified to see it was 0750. "Okay, I've…I've gotta go! I'll call back by noon with the address to send the card to, as I'm currently traveling. Thank you! Good catch on the unauthorized charges!" He switched the phone off before the representative could reply, and began to throw on his clothes, simultaneously switching on the TV to check the local weather on the morning news.
"Uniform…uniform…" he glanced around the room and swore. "Okay, no uniform….and I have no idea where my car is right now… I'll be late to my interview for the CCATT team…and will have to show up in rumpled clothes I wore to a club last night. That'll make a perfect first impression."
All of a sudden, the news anchor's voice caught his attention. "In other news, Ambassador Rohan Hariri of Saudi Arabia was found dead early this morning in an alley near the Saudi Consulate. Ambassador Hariri had no known medical conditions, and there were no signs of foul play. An autopsy is expected to be conducted today." D'Artagnan stared at the screen at the face of the dead man, and in his mind, he saw the dark-haired woman's hand pause over Hariri's drink just for an instant. Long enough to have poisoned him.
xxx
Athos, Porthos, and Aramis stood at attention in front of Colonel Treville's desk. Their commander leaned back in his chair and stared at them for a moment, then stood up and sat on the edge of his desk.
"This is not a happy Monday for your commanding officer. I've had some complaints. To be specific, there are allegations that you have had some recent…confrontations with OSI agents? Is that true?" His steely blue eyes came to rest on Athos, the highest ranking of his men.
"Let me think…no, sir. Because that would be conduct unbecoming of an officer and a gentleman, sir."
Treville narrowed his eyes at his men. "I give you fair warning…I can't protect you from the Office of Special Investigations if Richelieu decides to stir up trouble. As the head of counterintelligence for the Air Force, he has the direct ear of the Secretary of the Air Force…and the President. And I just hear he made the selection list for Brigadier General...so I assume he is in the President's favor as well."
"Speaking of the President…" Treville looked at his men. "I've been summoned to the White House."
Porthos and Aramis exchanged a look.
"Really?" Athos' eyes were instantly wary. "Any idea why, sir?"
"Well, I've ostensibly been asked for a game of tennis, but I believe it has something to do with the medical care for the First Family. So please try not to stir up anything with Richelieu's staff while I'm gone."
"We'll be on our best behavior, sir," replied Aramis innocently, offering the Colonel a sunny smile. "Model citizens, see?"
Treville raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me for being skeptical."
xxx
"Ha! Foot fault!" crowed President Louis Bourbon. Treville looked up at him, and fought the urge to throttle the leader of the United States of America. How the HELL can he possibly see the position of my feet from nearly 80 feet away?
"Thank you for pointing out my error, Mr. President." Treville glanced over at the First Lady, who was playing as his doubles partner. Anne Wainwright Bourbon had played tennis at Stanford University, and had made the All-Pac 12 Conference Team. Not only was she a far better athlete than her husband, but she was a joy to play with..unlike the arrogant President.
Treville sometimes wondered just how in the world Louis had succeeded in getting the American public to elect him as their leader-and as the youngest President ever, no less. It had been thought that no one younger than JFK would ever become President, but then along had come Louis, the son of one of the wealthiest oil men in America. His father's money had gotten him elected to Congress at the age of 26, and by 34 he was the junior senator from Texas.
His courtship of Anne, who was the daughter of a storied old-money North Carolina family, had enchanted the country, and they had married just 12 months before the election. Treville suspected that Anne, who was fluent in Spanish, had been a key factor in Louis' victory. The campaign had come down to the wire, and Anne had been tireless in stumping for her husband. If she was not gracing the couch of a late night talk show, winning over the acerbic host with her beauty and wit, she was visiting an inner city public health clinic in Spanish Harlem, soothing crying babies while talking companionably to their teenage mothers.
Anne, her back to her husband, rolled her eyes at Treville. He's such a cheater, she mouthed.
Treville grinned, and prepared to receive service from Richelieu. The Colonel tossed the ball in the air, then sliced a serve to the far right of the court. Treville, lunging, somehow got his racket on the ball, and sent a winner down the baseline. Anne squealed and gave Treville a high five. "Brilliant shot!"
"Oh, but the ball's been damaged." Richelieu's sarcastic voice came floating over the net. "Look."
He held up the ball and smirked, indicated a small nick along one of the seams. "You know what the rules say...if a ball gets damaged, or broken, during play, the point is to be replayed. Such a shame after all that effort, Treville."
A Secret Service man stepped on to the court. "Excuse me, Mr. President, but you asked me to inform you when it was 8:45."
"Ah, yes! Thank you, Wilson." Louis jogged over to the sideline, and accepted the proffered towel with the Presidential seal. Treville extended a hand to Anne. "It was a pleasure, as always."
"And as always, you were the perfect gentleman." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Unlike some people on this court."
"Anne, darling! So sorry you didn't get a chance to relive your glory days!" Louis called. "But it appears that Colonel..excuse me, General—Select," he winked at Richelieu, punching him playfully on the shoulder, "and I have upped our game. Better luck next time! Here, give me a congratulatory kiss!"
Anne smiled, and dutifully kissed her husband, avoiding close contact with his sweat-soaked tennis shirt.
"There's a dear. Now off to your engagement…what important business are you up to today? Judging a kindergarten finger painting competition? Picking out the color for the draperies in the guest room at Camp David?" He laughed, oblivious to the remote expression on Anne's face.
"Actually, I'm testifying before Congress on behalf of the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation."
"Well done! Great exposure! Every time you beat the drum for your condition, it gets fantastic press! Nothing like a pretty face to make a disease real to the masses. Plus, talking about your...challenges.. with your disease makes you more relatable-and is sure to improve my approval ratings by extension. I'll look for you on CNN tonight!"
Picking up her racket and shrugging on a light jacket, Anne left without a word, another Secret Service agent trailing along behind her.
"Come, Treville, have a beer!" The President walked over to a cooler sporting the Presidential seal that sat at the edge of the court. "Ah, one of the perks of leading the free world…..feast your eyes on this!" As he lifted the lid, Treville stared in shock at the golden bottle. "Is that…"
"Yes, the ambrosial pinnacle of the beer world...Sam Adams Utopia!"
"But... it's not due out until next year! Isn't it only every two years that they release a limited amount?"
"When you are president," Louis lowered his voice and winked with a chuckle, "you can get anything you want Treville, at any time…for free! Drink up! This liquid gold has been …how do they make it again, Armand?"
"Each batch, Mr. President, is aged in sherry, brandy, cognac, bourbon, and scotch casks for up to 18 years. Just a touch of maple syrup is added. It's the most expensive beer in America…some would say it's fit for a King," remarked Richelieu slyly.
"And they would be right! In fact, that's part of why I brought you here today, Treville. The more I think about it, the more I am convinced that the medical team for the President needs to be brought into the 21st century. This idea of having a White House physician…it just doesn't do anything for me….it's like I'm living the life of Harry Truman! I'm trying to capture the imagination of the Millennial Generation...and I've been rethinking every aspect of how the White House runs. We need a new way of doing business! How about this...I'm envisioning a crack military medical team…with-what do you call it? TIGER capability?"
"I believe you are referring to CCATT, Mr. President," Treville offered politely.
"Yes, that's it! I want a medical team with…fancy flight suits with some kind of eye-catching squadron patch that identifies them as my men—or women, I suppose….but please make them attractive as well as capable if you recruit females…. and I want them to be the best you have!" If my wife…" he lowered his voice…"is able to become pregnant…and God knows we've tried everything except singing "God Bless America" while…well, you know….I must have the best medical care for her at all times. They tell me this type I diabetes thing can be a problem in pregnancy. It's such a bore, really…all that constant checking of blood sugar and carb counting. I don't know how Anne does it! I would go insane….after all, I'm really not one for rules and restrictions." He giggled. "So, off with you, Treville! Comb your ranks and find me the best! You've got until….oh, at least Monday. I want to have something catchy to announce when I go on Jimmy Kimmel next week."
Next time...d'Artagnan does not make a good first impression...