Ambition
PROLOGUE
SENATOR ASHTON FREDERICK crouched over the vintage Smith-Corona typewriter, his wiry fingers hunting then pecking the key arrangement.
The composition he created required just two carriage returns with text nearly identical to another sent weeks earlier. The addressee
then had been the Republican frontrunner and had resulted in the suspension of his campaign. The Senator slipped the completed extortion into a #12 envelope and added a single
photograph before sealing the gum tab. A picture might be worth a thousand words, but in this case the value was priceless. In the background triumphant music played.
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of Glory. Lord of Love. Hearts
un-fold like flow'rs be-fore Thee, Op'-ning to the sun above . . .
Ode to joy was the classic of all classics. It called for cognac. The Senator reached for the etched
crystal Waterford decanter, a gift from the Bahraini King containing Otard: 1795 Extra. Otard, revered and prized by the French, had been
the creation of a Norwegian. A Viking no less. How many were aware of the Vichy's efforts to downplay this fact? he considered, filling a tulip shaped tasting
flute to its middle curve.
The Senator raised the apertif, savoring the olfactory rush, as the distinct ring from an antique Herschede Hall clock echoed nine times. His eyes closed,
his thoughts drifting to his campaign, from the grass root harvesting to the sweep of delegates from Iowa, New Hampshire, and Nevada.
Super Tuesday, just days away, would be all his.
While his PR mechanism gave credit for the double-digit surge in the polls to the sacrifices of a lifetime of public service, the fact of the matter he was just more likeable than the
others—especially the Oregon bitch. The composition, if needed, was just insurance.
The CD changer, set to random, switched to Chopin and lured him back to the moment. Prelude in E Minor. Largo in perfection;
broad, very slow, and fitting of the anticipation he was beginning to feel. He glanced at his Audemars Piguet: its diamond encrusted hands indicating 9:15 p.m.
In forty-five minutes she would arrive.
Vaccara, a madame, was a cultured and skilled temptress, and the only practitioner of her profession he trusted. Their
business relationship—liaisons—covered nearly a quarter century. But over the last year it had taken on an exciting new dimension: at each visit
Vaccara would introduce the Senator to a fresh and nubile apprentice.
The Senator licked his lips in anticipation of what Vaccara might have planned, as urges escalated by the Cialis soft-tab,
began to kick in. When Wagner's Under the Double Eagle began to play, the fast cheerfulness of the allegro matched his own. He leaned back, sure
that if the nation's governance hadn't needed him so, he would most certainly have been a renowned composer or conductor.
At exactly ten, the high-pitched shrill of the CH Byron butler's bell, a timeless gift from Lord Astor of Leeds, alerted
the senator to her arrival at the side portico. The Senator answered the door himself, having given the estate staff the night off. Beyond the entranceway
stood Vaccara, her charcoal Bentley parked just behind. She wore an elegant low-cut silk party dress, tailored perfectly to fit her curves. A
sparkling diamond choker adorned her neck.
The Senator's gaze fixated on the swell of firm breasts and the protruding tips of erect nipples helped no doubt by the
designer shelf bra. She was timeless—maybe fifty now—but with the ability to turn heads in ways most thirty year-olds only dreamt. Their lips met.
"Ashton, darling, you look tense," she whispered, her accent finishing school distinctive and melodiously refined. "You need release."
Vaccara's hand glided down below his waist, her head cocking and her smile growing in mock surprise at his readiness. "Mister President," she purred,
as their lips met, her tongue tip delicately probing and then luring his in.
The Senator's hips bucked against Vaccara's electric touch. His hands swarmed around the small of her back and then lower.
Vaccara began to rock slowly. The Senator matched her rhythm, upping it a notch and then again.
"Soon," she whispered, the back of her hand running down his chest and then playfully pushing him away.
The Senator's vision split at the presence of another.
"This is Anastasya."
The Senator inhaled sharply; the oxygen combining with Cialis and Otard and pushing him into sensory overload. That the
woman was beautiful was a given, but to an extent even the Senator was unprepared for. Anastasya was in her late twenties, perhaps, with
aristocratic high cheekbones, pouty lips, and a delightfully small but well-proportioned frame. Her eyes were innocent, yet flickered with an
intoxicating naughtiness. The Senator exhaled, as Vaccara tugged aside Anastasya's chiffon overcoat.
"As you can see, our new friend is quite beautiful, and, as you'll soon find out, able to teach you many things."
The Senator barely heard Vaccara's last words. The sheer lingerie hardly masking Anastasya's defined and most feminine
features called to his rocketing libido. His right hand fell to her frilly golden thong, kneading, pressing, parting. His manhood pleaded
for affection. Anastasya did not disappoint. Deft fingers unbuckled his belt and the Senator's tailored silk slacks slipped down around his calves. In the
background, Brahms played. The Senator recognized it immediately: Symphony #1, the fourth movement. A perfect depiction of what was called a melody: a
succession of single tones or pitches perceived by the mind as unity. Unity. Anastasya and he, united as one. A performance. It was perfect.
"Not yet darling," cooed Vaccara, prying the two apart. She grasped the Senator by the hand and urged him toward the
staircase. The melodic sway of her hips was mesmerizing. Anastasya's overcoat fluttered to the marble floor as she followed closely behind. When the
trio reached the second floor landing, the Senator could take no more. He tugged Vaccara to a halt and drew her into his arms. Their lips met as
Vaccara giggled naughtily, the shoulder straps of her party dress cascading over her sinuously slender triceps. Mint-sized areolae beckoned to his
hands. Vaccara nibbled at his ears and then neck and then lower, her fingers and teeth unbuttoning his shirt until she was on her knees. The Senator moaned
as hands and then moist lips searched, found, and coaxed.
The moment grew, becoming a symphony, arabesque and consonant, and rising near crescendo, before being brought down by a
blue note, copiously applied. Over and over, Vaccara took him to the brink of climax, only to skillfully draw him back and deny release. Just as there
was no end in sight, the Senator felt another set of hands spider across his chest while hot breath tickled his ear. The Senator shivered uncontrollably and
his back arched. The time for the chromatic chorus had arrived. The Senator, known for his tenacious fighting spirit, surrendered, but before the
long-awaited moment could arrive, another, da capo, took its place. The nerve rush was intense. It shot up his spine and then
quickly turned numb.
Before he collapsed, Ashton Frederick saw his angel: Perfect; exotic; pure. In her hands she held a syringe.
The Senator's vision kaleidoscoped. Darkness descended . . . and then, a glimmer of light.
"Senator," taunted a voice, a familiar one, from behind. "Were you just born an asshole, or did you have to work at it?"
The Senator tried to turn and see who had spoken, but his body wouldn't respond. Uncertainties fragmented his mind. Who is it?
I know that voice; I heard it today. Or did I? Out of the corner of his eye he saw a shiny revolver.
"If only the adoring press could see you now," the voice chided.
The Senator tried to speak but the words came out only as garbled, indistinguishable gasps.
He heard music, beautiful music. It was Hayden, Symphony #94. That it was the third movement and titled Surprise
was somehow fitting. Measure came to mind: a rhythmic grouping-notated as a vertical line through the staff.
Rhythmic . . . rhythmic . . .
"Such a shame," the voice taunted. "All that ambition—and then whish gone."
The second bullet shattered the Senator's skull. The first rendered the effects of the Cialis moot.