The 4 Phase Man (7 page)

But it
was
close to the House Chamber, closer to the main pressroom, and photogenic as Hell. So a few of the truly powerful members treasured their suites there for the limelight that existed just beyond the cave’s mouth.

And Valerie Alvarez was one of those.

She almost always smiled as she walked past the pressroom—lingering to go on the record on whatever. Smiling seductively, shaking her head sagely. Generally winning friends and admirers from those gray individuals who had been assigned—or sentenced—to cover the House of Representatives.

Marks
—one and all—for her to play to her advantage … as she always had.

Maybe that defined her, some of the willingly used thought. The “bitch on wheels who would do anything, say anything; persuade, finagle, seduce any opponents to her goals.”

Or perhaps it was more complicated than that, her defenders in the media would argue. Possibly what she was, who she was, had more to do with who she’d been. That to understand the successful—high-flying—politician, you needed to look first at the strength at her core; the resilience and perseverance and resolve of the woman who had raised herself from almost nothing to the highest corridors of power in the land.

Or, wind and weather permitting—a misogynist establishment and a media hungry for sound-bite caricatures permitting—she was more than all of that.

Or less.

Even Valerie didn’t know for sure.

The result of a clumsy date rape or seduction (her parents never did agree on which), Valerie had been born into the kind of poverty that liberals weep over and conservatives deny.

That neither ever does anything about.

Her father was a drug dealer, gang member, and violent alcoholic. Her mother, well, was a victim. No other words ever seemed to fit the young girl’s first memories.

For years she’d watched helplessly as her father beat her mother unconscious, whipped her brothers with a studded leather belt. Came to
her
—crying, drunk, her siblings’ blood on his torn T-shirt—calling for his little girl to “hold your daddy. Show me how much you love me.”

Then he died.

Shot dead with his own gun as he lay in an alcoholic stupor on the couch. The police merely shrugged it off; another meaningless minority death. Bad for the precinct’s statistics, true; otherwise insignificant.

But liberating to the little girl.

The boys in the neighborhood quickly found Valerie when she reached her teens.

Tall, well developed at an early age, an inner arrogance and strength both drew them to her and kept them at a distance. Sex was just another challenge for her to master, as she had school and athletics. The mechanics of it grew
quickly boring—pushing, shoving, vocalizing—but the possibilities for control, for the power that that control implied,
that
ignited her far more than any foreplay or awkward fumbling in the back of cars.

It was in college, though, that the wild girl began to see a world beyond the moment; a prospect of greater things, better places, and new forms of power that were unavailable to uncultivated, uncultured members of society.

So she reinvented herself.

As the five or six reporters—their pads and camera crews at the ready—waited for Congresswoman Alvarez to arrive, they continued their recent game of speculation.

“Fund-raising scandal,” one said.

“Secret abortion, another proclaimed with certainty.”

“An affair with the president was the most popular, if least believed.”

But, whatever the reason, her drastically lowered profile was beginning to cost her in the most important way possible… she was down in the polls.

Valerie was considered to be the leading Democratic candidate for the upcoming New York gubernatorial race. A liberal who was well liked by the party’s conservatives, with strong ethnic appeal and a charm that guaranteed her the larger upstate towns, she seemed formidable competition.

Seemed
, until two weeks ago.

The photogenic politician had dropped from sight. Her carefully orchestrated sound bites on almost every night’s newscasts dried up. And—on the House floor—the normally articulate and appealing woman had become inexplicably monosyllabic.

The rumors had started almost immediately … the consensus being that she was remodeling herself for her race for the Governor’s Mansion.

After so long an absence from her usual limelight, the growing crowd of press was anxious to see how she would emerge this time.

At Columbia, a school she’d chosen for convenience and the sheer challenge of admission, Valerie learned the world was round and possibilities endless.

If you weren’t a half Puerto Rican street girl with a penny-ante criminal record and no connections.

So the reconstruction began.

Appeal was taught to become grace. Sexual manipulation metamorphosed into psychological influences. And sensing that the sorority system would find her out, she concentrated on athletics. Running track, swimming, she could display herself in
acceptable
ways, connecting with the star jock or influential professor.

Who,
amazingly
, always brought out more in her—in the bedroom or the classroom—than she’d
ever
thought herself capable of.

Most important, her strength and native capability were concealed from some, flaunted to others. Allowed to be discovered or nurtured; coaxed out or challenged. It was a flawless, if aimless, performance.

Until one day—in a class on “Political Brinksmanship in the Late 20th Century”—the prize suddenly became clear.

She married the attractive,
connected
but weak—and white—assistant professor in her senior year.

Moonlighting as a consultant to various successful candidates, her husband explained to the eager young woman the intricacies of modern politics. The art of the favor. Why people contribute money or time. What makes a good speech or a bad one.

The roots of real power.

She virtually inhaled the lessons from the man she didn’t love, but liked well enough. And she gave to him an emotional adoration, a sexual triumphancy that he had never known or hoped to know.

It was enough for him, though he would have
liked
to be loved as well.

Then, without expectation or warning, with no intent and definitely
not
part of her master plan, Valerie fell in love.

His name was Drake; red-haired, blue-eyed with a smile that could melt any heart, he was born after a difficult pregnancy and nineteen hours of labor. But from the moment his mother first held the squirming baby in her arms, Valerie was changed.

Her son—and an equally adored daughter three years later—became her reason for existence.

They would never know the world of their mother!

The realm she would create for them—within their home and without, in the real world—would be shining and pure. Using the gifts of her birth—rage, relentlessness, cunning, intelligence, and ambition—she would carve out that world.

With nothing and no one—including their unfortunate, understanding father—getting in the way.

She had to work full-time at two jobs as a cocktail waitress and cabdriver to support them, her husband’s salary never being near enough for the growing family. She became adept with a .38 along the way, practicing whenever she could, so that her babies would feel
and be
as safe as she had made her brothers and mother.

She faced more obstacles than she believed possible, but five years later she became the first Latina elected to the Community College Board of Trustees.

“Am I that late, Barb? Valerie asked as she got out of the elevator from the garage.”

Barbara Krusiec, Valerie’s chief of staff, fell into step alongside her boss. “Not if you’ll go on the record on the coal subsidies report.”

Valerie handed the younger woman her briefcase. “Draft a statement for release.”

“A press availability would be better.”

“No.”

“But…”

They pushed their way through the press that was calling out questions. Not a smile, not a frown, not ignoring… exactly. But Valerie never slowed or said a word as she and her staffer moved on.

She stopped at the private entrance to her office. “No press in the office, right? Not until further notice.” She checked her hair, then let herself in.

Waving to her staff, she moved through the cramped corridors lined with file cabinets and junior staff. “Nothing but the essentials, right?”

Krusiec shook her head. “It’s your funeral,” she said offhandedly, then immediately regretted it as her boss stiffened. “Uh, light schedule this morning.”

“Run it.” Alvarez plopped down behind her desk, vacantly sifting through the overnight faxes, letters, and e-mails.

Krusiec opened her clipboard. “Senator Pierson wants fifteen minutes to talk about the IMF.”

“After lunch.”

“The Speaker’s invited you to his exercise group…” “… in hopes of seeing me sweat through my shirt. Next.”

Krusiec made a note to politely turn down the invitation. “No votes or committee meetings, but you are supposed to review the latest reports from the Intelligence Committee’s staff on the Source 24601 testimony, as well as meet with the minority counsel on the next steps to be taken.”

For the first time, Valerie seemed to be paying attention. Rapt attention.

“I don’t want to see any new reports on that issue until further notice,” she almost snapped. “And blow off counsel until next week.” Seeing the surprised look on her closest assistant’s face, she forced a smile. “I mean, hey! This thing’s been dominating way too much of my time as is, right?”

The younger woman had never seen her boss so desperate for a supportive answer. It was in the tone of her voice, her body language, the look of begging in her eyes. “Whatever you say, boss.” She looked down at her list, mentally crossing off the next four things on it. “What about hometown visits and photo ops? You’ve got three scheduled for this morning. And there’s a fourth that’s a walk-in.”

“I don’t know…”

“You can’t just disappear entirely, no matter what’s going on! Krusiec allowed her disapproval of the current state of things to show. To her surprise, Valerie smiled.”

“Okay. Down,” girl. She laughed in a forced way. “But no one with an agenda, right?”

“Not a problem,” her assistant said with genuine relief. “They’re all tourists and loyalists. And I’ll screen the walk-in myself.”

A moment later Valerie was alone in the big office. Trying hard to concentrate on the latest
Congressional Quarterly
and not stare into the eyes of her children that seemed to beg her from the gold frames on her desk.

A quiet divorce after her first election to Congress had little impact on her rising career.

An articulate, attractive minority woman—and the doors on the left quickly opened for her.

A single mother, working to support her children, who was a gun ownership advocate caused the doors to the right to fly open and invite her in.

A subcommittee chair before the end of her first term.

A seat on the National Security Committee in her second term.

National campaigner for other candidates in her third.

Now, in her fourth term, she sat on the House Select Committee on Intelligence.

But she always had time for her children. They had the run of her offices, knew she would never miss a recital, a game, an important moment for them. They were the passion and the center of her existence.

And while she fought for the secure, safe, and glorious world that she dreamed of for her loves future, she never forgot the past.

Bringing flowers monthly to her mother’s grave.

Shooting for an hour each week at a Virginia firing range.

Life had finally become what she had always longed for.

Accomplishment.

Acceptance.

Control.

Until just over three weeks ago.

“You understand, Mr., uh, Smith,” Krusiec said, “that the congresswoman is an incredibly busy woman. It really would’ve been best if you’d called ahead for an appointment.” She didn’t like the look of the man in the ill-fitting suit across the conference table from her.

“I appreciate that,” Xenos said easily. “But I still need to see her.”

Krusiec looked at the mostly blank information sheet she’d had the man fill out. “I’m afraid that without more detail, the best I can do is put you with one of our general caseworkers.” She started to reach for the telephone.

Xenos shook his head. “If I said it was a matter of life and death?”

“I’d say whose, and you’d still have to wait. This is a busy office, we deal with so-called life and death issues every day of the week; and without more information from you, the best I can do is put you with…”

“… a caseworker. So you said.” He stood, apparently to leave. “You really do a good job of guarding the palace doors.”

“That’s my job,” Krusiec said as she moved past him to open the door to reception. “Next time, call ahead. It’ll make things…”

But when she turned around, Xenos was gone, the door to the inner office area opened, and nightmares flashing through her head.