Home Free - Fern Michaels [30]
“Your government, like all governments, has, for want of a better way of phrasing it, tons of money no one knows about. Secret slush funds. Sometimes those amounts total in the billions. Confiscated monies is what we’ve always been told. Ugly-gotten money to do good. Think of Robin Hood. That sort of thing. There seems to be some kind of problem—that’s all I’m at liberty to tell you—concerning those slush funds.”
Annie’s mind raced as she tried putting two and two together with what Nikki and Alexis had told her just yesterday about Maggie and her new beau. Meaning Maggie’s suddenly being invited and actually going to Camp David with that beau, no less. It all had to mean something. But, what?
“Maggie Spritzer, the editor in chief of the Post, was also invited to Camp David. She’s taking a guest, some financial guru or someone involved in making and investing money.” Annie tossed this out to see if Fergus had a reaction. He didn’t. “She thinks something is going on. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been invited. Her reporter’s instincts, I guess. We’re going to miss her at dinner today.”
Fergus finished his coffee and very deliberately carried the cup over to the sink. He turned and said, “All we have to do is set the dining-room table, and we’re done. That gives us around three hours till we have to be back down here. Are you up to giving that recital?”
Oooh, this is such fun. “Fergus, are you partial to red or black skimpies?” Annie asked, bee-lining for the back staircase.
“I guess I’ll put off getting that cat after the holiday,” she mumbled to herself as she whizzed through the bedroom to her dressing room, where the pole awaited her.
Fergus thought he was going to black out when he heard the runway music start. Who knew Thanksgiving could be so exciting?
“Yoo-hoo, Fergus!” Annie trilled. “You can open the door now!”
“Oh, my God!” was all Fergus Duffy could manage as he watched Annie take a running start and mount the pole as the music rose to a thrilling crescendo.
Chapter 8
Maggie felt like she was, as her old grandmother used to say, at sixes and sevens as the marine assigned to her small party drove them in a security vehicle to the main lodge at Camp David.
Once, years and years ago, both she and Ted, part of the White House press corps, had been here. She was stunned to see how beautiful it was now, even though the trees were sleeping for the winter. She’d been here in the late spring, when the entire compound was awash in color, the flowers so profuse, the shrubbery so dense, it had boggled her mind at the time at how beautiful and serene the camp was. If she were the president, she would spend every free minute she had right there at Camp David.
She risked a glance at Jason Parker, who was rattling away to the marine driver, asking question after question. She was annoyed because she could have answered every single one of them. She was also annoyed at the way Jason was dressed. He could have attended an opening night somewhere in his fine cashmere suit and pricey shoes, not to mention all the jewelry he wore. She hoped he’d brought some outdoor gear, because Camp David was all about the outdoors.
Maggie half listened as the marine recited chapter and verse about Hi-Catoctin, also known as Camp David. It had originally been built as a camp for federal government agents and their families by the WPA back in 1935. Then, in 1942, it had been converted to a presidential retreat by Franklin D. Roosevelt and renamed USS Shangri-La. Camp David received its present name from Dwight D. Eisenhower, in honor of his grandson, David. A visit to such a famous place should have been researched by Parker.
They were proceeding down the Camp David entrance road to the Gate House, where she knew that identification would have to be shown regardless of the marine driving them and the fact that they had arrived aboard Marine One. Once through the gate, the marine would take them to the guest parking area, where a shuttle would take them to their assigned cabins. Each cabin, named after