Flight of the Green Bird
a novelBy Myra S. ShapiroAuthorHouse
Copyright © 2009 Myra S. Shapiro
All right reserved.ISBN: 978-1-4490-0379-1Chapter One
The day began like most steamy summer days begin. In the pastoral setting of Laurelwood, the red-hot sun sat on the landscape as if an accomplished painter had thoughtfully placed it just behind the hilly knoll. Its early morning rays touched down on the broad green lawns that surrounded this country estate, swept along the wooded drive, grazed past the underbrush of rhododendron and mountain laurel and moved on to brush the corner of Senator Winston Ainsley's second floor bedroom balcony. The estate, marked by a familiar signpost along the winding rural road, lay nestled in the midst of a grassy valley of Potomac horse country, thirty minutes yet a thousand worlds away from the shrill noise and hectic pace of the nation's Capitol, a quiet sanctuary that gave Winn shelter from the maddening crowds.
As he did most summer mornings, the Senator stepped onto his balcony for his morning ritual. He was a striking figure, his mane of snow-white hair and piercing pale blue eyes set in a sun-bronzed face, his tall, athletic build impeccably dressed in a well-tailored Brooks Brothers suit, an immaculate white Hugo Boss shirt and his signature polka-dotted bow tie. He read his text messages, scanned the Web, and then glanced in the usual order through the three newspapers neatly placed on a round marble topped table. If he missed anything important he knew that on any typical morning, when he arrived promptly at 8 o'clock at his high-ceilinged walnut-paneled office in Suite 203 of the Old Senate Office Building, his alter ego, Griff Foster, legal counsel to Winn's Senate Intelligence Committee, would provide an executive summary of all the hot news he needed to know. The summary, double-spaced and never more than two pages long would be placed precisely in the center of an enormous antique table, a family heirloom that served as his desk. Winn knew this day would be different.
As usual, Charles, the faithful family houseman who had looked after him from the time he was a teenager and had come along to tend him after he married and moved into his wife's childhood home, brought Winn's breakfast to him. It was always the same - two cups of strong coffee in a Sheffield silver pot, a small pitcher of whole milk, two slices of buttered whole grain toast, two selections of marmalade and six-ounces of fresh-squeezed orange juice in a sparkling Waterford tumbler. Each item was placed on a well-polished silver gallery tray covered with a starched Irish linen placemat and napkin. Winn still longed for a cigarette and restlessly reached for one, forgetting for the moment that he had abandoned that habit years ago.
A lot of newsprint on the new intelligence estimate but no mention of a security breach, and on this morning he was grateful for that. The press conference was scheduled for 4 o'clock. That would give Griff the time he needed to set up his end, and then Winn could blow the lid. He steeled himself for the chaos that would surely follow.
With the methodical mind of a cautious man, he reviewed in his mind's eye the events of the past two days just to make sure they were not a figment of his imagination, a manifestation of a very bad dream. He relived with some satisfaction the pleasures he had enjoyed two nights ago, the same sensual pleasures he enjoyed every Tuesday night at the well-secreted white palace that existed mainly to satisfy the sexual desires and fantasies of the powerful men who controlled the nation's Capitol. It was just something he did for the past fifteen years, a standing appointment every Tuesday at seven to safely and anonymously take care of his carnal needs for the week. As always, his mind drifted to Celeste. He would have preferred to make love to her, but he could barely remember how it felt to hold her close, to inhale her fragrance and caress her well-cared-for body.
Fifteen years had passed but the memory of that last time still seared his brain when he thought of it. In the first aftermath of that terrible night, he agonized that she would never forgive him. So many years later with so many lost opportunities to bury the incident and move on, he worried that he could never forgive her. He suffered bouts of profound loneliness, painful times that came late at night after they had spent an enjoyable social evening together. In those dark hours he was often struck by a strong urge to escape the emptiness of his room, and he would wander onto his bedroom balcony to seek comfort in the stars. But these moods were stubborn, and he learned to wait it out, knowing that eventually the mood would pass. Still, he was grateful that he and Celeste maintained a careful, polite and even affectionate demeanor around others, and this cordial public face would have to do for now.
When they first met, Celeste was a popular debutante, once described on the society pages as "a beautiful brunette with the willowy figure of a cover girl and the graceful stride of a gazelle." Greatly admired in privileged Washington circles not only for her beauty, but also for her sharp mind and her Ambassador father's valuable political connections, she was courted by an endless procession of suitors. She chose Winn, and they were married within six months of their meeting. Now, when he reflected on their brief courtship, he wondered if her gently probing questions were more about the political partnership he could provide than about him. Yet there were times when he glimpsed real affection in those expressive eyes of hers, green catlike eyes that drew him to her from the very beginning.
They met at an exclusive party for the Maryland Hunt Cup steeplechase races, held annually in the valley of the aristocrats, Winn's home turf in up-country Baltimore County. The gathering was set up for a small group of favored and fashionable elites in a special enclosure separated from the casual observers who lined the wooden fences of the participating farms. Celeste and Winn knew a lot about this time-honored timber race, a risky sport across the rough terrain of field and stream with twenty-two formidable jumps, some up to five feet high, a grueling course where it was rare for an entire field of horses to finish. For reasons that neither of them could explain, they hadn't attended this big event before and their rookie enthusiasm for the local horseflesh and the amateur blue-blooded jockeys who dared to take up the challenge, kept the early conversation going.
The party was located at the difficult 13th jump, named the Union Memorial, after the Baltimore hospital where riders who fall and injure themselves were often taken. Their host, a friend of Winn's who knew them both and thought they would be ideal together, introduced them. Winn was running for public office, Celeste was comfortable in the public arena, and in the beginning, they were as their host suspected they would be, a perfect pair.
In some respects, Celeste was her father's daughter and like him, her political instincts were impeccable. Until now, Winn had made no important public move without running it by her. But this one was dicey, and he had carefully avoided any hint of it. He wanted to insulate her from any nasty repercussions, and he was sure that so far he had succeeded.
This past Tuesday night was like no other. On this night, the usually unseen Madam X sought him out. The Madam, an Asian with an exquisite round face and a tiny graceful figure, was wearing her customary outfit, a long...
