275 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
275 lines
11 KiB
Plaintext
HOT FOR HILLARY (RODHAM CLINTON) (2/6)
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By B. Traven
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**
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The secretary was on the phone and looked somewhat annoyed at his interruption.
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Still talking on the phone, she gestured for Peterson to enter the inner office.
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He unconsciously ran his palm through his head, smoothing down imaginary
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out-of-place hairs, and walked to the open door of the inner office. She
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was sitting at her desk and was also talking on the phone. She was
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immaculately dressed in a light-blue business outfit that somehow managed to
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look business-like and feminine at the same time. She wore sparkling earrings
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that set off her blond hair. He stood in doorway awkwardly, not sure if
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he should enter or not. She looked up at him at him and smiled while
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continuing to talk on the phone. Since she did not indicate for him to
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enter he continued to stand there awkwardly. Trying to look more casual
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he raised his left arm to lean against the door frame, but quickly took his
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arm down when he realized that he his suitcoat had opened to expose his
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gun in his shoulder holster.
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She finally put the phone down and looked up toward him.
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"And you must be ..." she said in bubbly voice.
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"John Peterson, Ma'am ... Secret Service", he heard himself say in a deep voice
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that sounded like dialogue from a cheap Western.
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"Oh, yes. John or is it Mr. Peterson?"
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"John is fine, Ma'am." She actually seemed pleasant and not at all like an
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Ice Queen.
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"And Mrs. Clinton will do fine, or even Hillary is OK. Ma'm makes
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me sound like an old lady."
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"Yes, Ma'am ... uh, Mrs. Clinton", he felt like a idiot now and felt
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foolish that he had taken this assignment.
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She reached into her drawer and picked out a stack of envelopes.
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She looked at him and smiled.
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"Now that we have the introductions out of the way, why don't you
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deliver these envelopes for me."
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His face dropped and he felt a sudden flash of anger. He was a Secret
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Service agent, not a messenger boy. He had in the past volunteered to
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run errands for the Bushes but those were done as a personal favors. Since the
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Nixon administration it was understood that Secret Service agents assigned to
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the White House are not personal valets. They are professionals trained
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to protect lives. What right does this ... bitch -there he said it - have to
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send me on her errands.
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He drew himself up to his full height and puffed up his chest.
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"Mrs. Clinton, I afraid I cannot do that." he said in a flat voice.
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Her mouth frowned in a pout he would have found sexy if he wasn't so angry.
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"Excuse me?"
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"Mrs. Clinton, I am a trained Secret Service agent assigned to
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protect your life. I cannot both protect your life and deliver your mail."
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She paused for a minute to digest what he had said. She placed her hand
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under her chin, thinking.
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"John, let me see if I understand what you are saying ..." she said sounding
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like a lawyer presenting a case in court.
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"I have approximately a dozen envelopes in my hand that I am asking you
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to deliver. All but two of recipients are down the hall. The remaining
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two recipients are one floor below. An obviously fit man such as yourself
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should be able to deliver each of envelopes to their respective recipients
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within, say, 6 minutes."
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She paused and looked at him. After a few moments he realized she was
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expecting him to respond.
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"Yes." he said. His throat felt dry.
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She smiled and continued.
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"However, you are unable to take 6 minutes to deliver these envelopes because
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you are guarding my life?"
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"Yes." He now felt she was understanding.
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"However ... I do not see any assassins ready to kill me and the White
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House itself is very thoroughly guarded."
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"Yes, but ..." he tried to interject.
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She cut him off and continued.
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"Moreover, there were no Secret Service agents guarding me until
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you came in ...", She looked at her watch, "12 minutes ago."
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He knew it was futile to say anything.
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"Looking at the facts we see that I was without a Secret Service agent since
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5:45am, over two hours ago, since I left my husband to come to my office."
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She continued.
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"So, in spite of the fact that I was without ANY Secret Service protection
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for at least two hours this morning, you are saying you cannot leave me
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unprotected for the six minutes it would take you to deliver these
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envelopes."
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"Mrs. Clinton ..." He knew this was not going to be a good day.
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"Now, I think perhaps there another motive for you refusing to help
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me out with a small errand." she said in an understanding tone.
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"Each profession has its own standards of conduct. If anyone can understand
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that, I can. As a practicing attorney in the state of Arkansas
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I was prevented in many instances of representing clients who do
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business with the state - because my husband happened to be governor.
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This was to prevent an appearance of a conflict of interest - all because
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of the standards of my profession. Can you imagine? I could not practice
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law the same as any other attorney in that hick state of inbred hillybillies
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because of my husband's job. This is an absurd sexist rule that would
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never have applied if I were a man."
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She stopped to look at him sympathetically.
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"So, you're saying that in your profession you could not do me a favor -
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you could not help the First Lady in her official duties -
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because it would violate your professional standards?" she asked in
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a soft voice.
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"Yes, Mrs. Clinton." he said relieved that the confrontation appeared to
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over.
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"Please call me Hillary." she said sweetly.
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"Yes, ... Hillary." he said in a friendly tone.
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"I'm glad that we understand each other now." she said with the hint of
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a smirk.
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"Now that we have our knickers down, and I understand your position, let
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me tell you what I think of it:
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You work for me, Peterson. You're just the hired help, here. We all
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have to do whatever it takes to get the job done. I've had to do
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that all my life fighting against sexism that permutes this society."
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He was mortified.
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"Peterson, you're a hired gun. A boy who never gave up his toy guns. A
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boy playing with his gun while the girls were relegated to playing
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mommy with their dolls. Professional ethics? Don't make my laugh.
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You don't want dirty yourself by putting your toy gun down for a
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moment and doing some real work."
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She continued with a grin.
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"You're going to do this little errand for me, or you're going to
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get your ass the fuck out of the White House - and the Secret Service.
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This is a new regime, and anyone not willing to help out will be
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out on their ass. And don't forget I'm the one who calls the shots
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here. My husband may be the one who wooed the public with his boyish
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smile but I am the one who is working in the trenches. Some
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men have problems working for women but the times that are a'changin', buster.
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DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?", she was screaming now, and he was afraid someone
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else would hear.
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He nodded his head mechanically and felt very small.
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She continued in soft, intimate voice.
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"Good. John, please deliver these envelopes for me. It would help a
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lot. After you're done just take the rest of the day off and cool
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off. Just be here bright-eyed tomorrow morning and we'll have a fresh
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start. I'm not really the bitch you may think I am. Let's not have any more
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confrontations, and everything will be alright. I'll see that everything
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is cleared with ..." she looked in her notebook. "Mr. Art Green"
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He meekly took the envelopes from her and turned to leave.
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"John?"
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He turned around to face her. She smiled brightly.
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"Ah, yes, ... Hillary?"
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"Nice watch." she said with an evil grin.
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He felt a flash of white-hot anger. He turned and walked away quickly before
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he did something stupid. He delivered the envelopes
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and, then, left for the nearest bar.
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**
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After downing a half-dozen Wild Turkey's his outlook was improved measurable.
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This bar had the just the right ambiance with ripped nagahyde bar stools,
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garish neon beer signs and a permanent cloud of smoke.
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Someone sat in the stool next to him. He looked over and saw
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a bosomy blond who wore too much makeup.
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"Hi, there." she said a voice cheery voice that sounded sickening sweet to
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his ears.
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"Uhh, hi." he finished his shot glass and motioned to the bartender to get
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a refill.
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The haggard-looking bartender came over with his refill.
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"Get the lady one, too." Peterson said with a slight slur.
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"Thanks, honey!" she said brightly. She leaned over toward him and
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squeezed his arm. "Are you an athlete, or something?"
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"Nope, I'm not a cop, either."
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"Well, you're in real good shape, if you don't mind my saying, that is." she
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leaned against him drinking some colorful drink containing fruit. Looking
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at it made him want puke.
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"Can I ask you a question?" Peterson said.
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"Sure, honey."
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"Are you a lawyer?"
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She burst out laughing.
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"No, why would you ask that?"
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"Then let's go fuck." He took her by the arm and they left together.
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**
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The next day he woke up with a hangover. The events of the previous day
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came back to him, and his stomach sank. He debated whether to talk with
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Green about his run-in with Hillary, but he decided to try and stick it.
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Civil service regulations or not he knew someone in her position could get
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back at him. Besides his experience in the military taught him to obey
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orders even if he didn't personally go along with them. Its wasn't just
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the orders themselves that mattered it was the discipline that they entailed.
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It was the discipline that stood between him and chaos. If life taught him
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anything it was the need for self-discipline. If he had trouble dealing
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with Hillary or anyone else his self-discipline would get him through the
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situation.
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Everything went alright that day. Maybe, he and Hillary had really
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started a new day as she had suggested. She was friendly as if nothing had
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happened and gave him no errands to do. He realized afterwards that her
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performance the previous day was a really a power play where she was
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asserting her dominance over him. When it was clear in her mind that she
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was dominant, she didn't need to play any more power games with him.
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He inwardly stewed when he realized this but he reminded himself that he was
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the one with self-discipline.
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**
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A few weeks later she called him into her office.
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"Get your bags ready, John. We're going off together." she said
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conspiratorially.
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"What?" he was momentarily astonished.
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"I'm going to speak at the AMA convention in Chicago on health care.
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You have to accompany me."
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Of course it was all standard operating procedure. She required Secret
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Service protection and he was the agent assigned to her. He normally
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liked to travel but felt uneasy about going with her.
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"Our flight is at 8:40 on Thursday morning. I'll be looking forward to our
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trip."
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"Yes, Hillary." He groaned silently.
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