Blowback by Brad Thor

Christian.”
    “And when you look at the deaths by religious affiliations?” asked the surgeon general.
    Tranberg shook his head slowly. “Only the Muslims survived. If you weren’t Muslim, the illness was one hundred percent lethal.”

NINE
    ALBANTOWERS APARTMENTS
    GEORGETOWN
     
    Helen Carmichael didn’t have to sleep with the young CIA analyst-the promise of a position in her cabinet would have been enough in itself, but the sex was a nice bonus. It wasn’t only powerful male politicians who attracted good-looking, hard-bodied young things. Powerful female politicians did as well, although they tended to be a lot more discreet about it.
    Carmichael reached for the half-empty bottle of Montrachet in the ice bucket next to the bed and filled their two glasses. As she handed the sandy-haired twenty-five-year-old his wine, she said, “Tell me about work.”
    Brian Turner knew it was part of the deal, but just once he wished they could talk about something else. “I have a friend who keeps a sailboat on the eastern shore of the Chesapeake who said I could use it any time I wanted, “He said, changing the subject. “How about this weekend?”
    “Brian, you know I’m not a big fan of boats,” replied the senator.
    “That doesn’t matter. It’s supposed to rain anyway. We’ll just keep it in the slip and stay below deck. There’s a DVD player on board. We can rent a bunch of movies and stock up at Dean amp; DeLuca on the way. We’ll get those lobster rolls you like so much. I’ll bring along a case of wine. It’ll be perfect.”
    For a moment, Carmichael was tempted. She couldn’t remember the last time she had dropped everything to run off on a carefree, romantic weekend. There might have been one or two in the beginning of her marriage, but that was so long ago she couldn’t really be sure if they’d happened or if she was just inventing them in her mind to make herself feel better.
    She stared at Brian Turner’s tan, firm body lying on top of the crisp Frette linens and tried to figure out a way to clear her schedule, but it was impossible. There were too many important things going on. She needed to see and be seen around town, especially as she moved to get her committee’s investigation of the al-Jazeera incident off the ground. “I can’t, Brian,” she said. “I’ve got way too much on my plate right now.”
    “I understand,” replied Turner, and he did. In fact, he was glad she had turned him down. He had already extended the same invitation to a much younger and more attractive congressional staff assistant, also known in DC parlance as a “staff ass,” rumored to have an insatiable appetite for wild, marathon sex. Turner was just playing Carmichael. The senator never accepted any of his “romantic” getaway overtures anyway. The thought of spending an entire weekend having to play warm and cuddly was not really his idea of a good time. Not that he found her unattractive. She was okay, but he wasn’t with her for the sex, he was with her for what she could do for his career.
    Carmichael was Turner’s ticket to the big time, his ticket out of the monotonous, post-9/11 slog at the CIA. Short of spending the weekend nailing the pretty little blond staff ass from South Dakota, there was nothing Brian Turner wanted more than to go to work for Senator, and hopefully soon to be Vice President, Helen Carmichael.
    He was ruminating on the perversions the staffer was said to be fond of when Carmichael began nudging him about work again. “What’s going on at Langley?” she asked. “What are you hearing about the al-Jazeera footage?”
    “Seeing is more like it,” said Turner, who, somewhat relieved that the intimacy portion of the evening had come to a close, slid his feet over the side of the bed and walked to his desk.
    The senator watched him walk. His body was a testimony to youthful strength and vigor. She looked down at her own body and was proud of what she saw. She worked out