Blind Trust by Barbara Boxer

Author:Barbara Boxer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781452123585
Publisher: Chronicle Books LLC

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Carl Satcher drummed his fingers with controlled impatience against the buttery leather of his briefcase while his driver went through seemingly endless security rituals at the gates. But it was not until the yellow Labrador bomb dog had had a final sniff around the tires that the steel barricades lowered, like a drawbridge, so the big car could enter the driveway of the Vice Presidential mansion.

It was an attractive house, a turreted Queen Anne–style Victorian located on the edge of Rock Creek Park in Georgetown on the high ground of Massachusetts Avenue. However, despite its size and graciousness, and the twelve protective acres in which it was nestled, Satcher always felt confined and claustrophobic among the tall trees, since, to be honest, he found the entire Eastern seaboard encroaching and dark and the skies too narrow.

Give him the wide ranges, the rolling hills, the mountains and the ocean; for that matter, give him the vast tracts of his own housing developments throughout the Western states with their mile upon mile of turned earth and access roads where the bulldozers, cranes, and backhoes moved across the landscape like orange dinosaurs.

However, if his new position as Director of Homeland Security required him to live in these parts, he could adjust as readily as he had previously, when he was a U.S. Senator, and certainly he could arrange for a satellite office on the West Coast. And next year, when he was invited to share the Republican ticket with Craig Fulton, and when Fulton subsequently won the Presidency, then he, Carl Satcher, would be living here in the mansion himself. Nothing worthwhile ever came without a price, and this price was one he was quite prepared to pay.

“Good morning, sir!” said the rosy-cheeked ensign at the door. Satcher handed over his coat and allowed himself to be led to the dining room.

Craig Fulton, seated at the head of the table, rose as Satcher entered and extended a hand. “Carl! Glad you could make it.”

“Good morning, Mr. Vice President.”

“An okay flight?”

“Uneventful.”

“Good, good … Bad weather out there. Pilots his own plane,” Fulton explained to his other guest, a large man in impeccable navy worsted whose round blue eyes and smooth skin reminded Satcher of an overfed baby.

“Not these days,” Satcher said. “Skies are too crowded. I leave the job to younger guys with faster reflexes.”

“Nonsense!” Fulton said jovially. Then: “I’m not sure if you two gentlemen have met, but you’ll certainly know of Brian Driscoll.”

“Pleasure!” Satcher reached across the table to shake hands.

“Likewise,” Driscoll said.

The two men exchanged congenial nods, and Satcher seated himself to the Vice President’s left. He spread a snowy linen napkin across his lap, as herbal tea was poured from an antique silver pot, and chilled orange juice from a pitcher of faceted crystal.

“Brian was Chief Counsel for Ford Motors,” Fulton said, “and now helps out Ken Stearns. You’ll remember our friend from Michigan, who’s also a member of a certain subcommittee.” He made an expansive gesture across the

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