The Raven's Assignment

Samantha’s heart was pounding as she accepted the envelopes.

And that’s what they were. Envelopes, just envelopes. Four brown envelopes, the size needed to slip a typewritten page inside without folding it. Didn’t all envelopes look alike? Of course they did.

Samantha put them on the desk behind her, then sort of blocked them with her body as she asked, “Is the president still deciding whether or not he’ll be able to attend the fund-raiser next week?”

Joan rolled her eyes. “You know him, always trying to be the center of attention. Will he, won’t he? I told your uncle Mark to announce that some Broadway cast, or one of those popular boy bands, or somebody like that would be there to perform. Entertainers always mean more media coverage. That would get Jackson to the affair, you could count on that, humming ‘Hail To the Chief’ to himself all the way.”

“The whole world would want to be there if we could get that sort of entertainment, Aunt Joan. Even the opposition. But this isn’t going to be that big a do, you know. Just two hundred of Uncle Mark’s closest friends and supporters. Individuals. Nothing corporate. Nothing to excite or upset anyone. We’re just getting our feet wet.”

“Nonsense, Samantha. Your uncle has been raising funds on a daily basis for all of his three terms in the Senate. It’s what has to be done. Only two hundred people? He doesn’t need something small to get his feet wet. We’re in fund-raising up to our ears, and have been since the beginning. You know as well as I that money for this presidential bid has been collecting in the proper accounts for almost two years. How else are we able to underpay you so badly, hmm? Now, who do you have for entertainment?”

“I’m…um…I’m still considering several options,” Samantha said, desperately running through the file cabinet in her brain, wondering who she could call at the last moment, because she had not booked any entertainment.

“Well, good, then it’s not to worry, is it?” Joan said, getting to her feet in one fluid, graceful movement. “I must be off, I’m afraid. A stop at the salon, and then we have a dinner with several members of the party’s California Primary Committee tonight at seven. We all know a candidate, to be viable, has to carry California. Have to plan ahead, right?”

“Definitely, and we’re already polling well there, I’m happy to say,” Samantha agreed, following Joan Phillips out of the office and through the central room that was loud with ringing telephones, clicking computer keys and the general babble of any office. “I’ll…I’ll be sure to get those envelopes in the mail for you, Aunt Joan. You said they were from both you and Uncle Mark?”

“Did I? Oh, yes, of course. Although we all know that, to your uncle, we’re all errand boys, happy to do his bidding. Mine, his, ours, what does it matter? We must send out mail by the ton. Maybe I will take you up on that offer of one of those postal machines, dear. Except then I wouldn’t get to see you so often, now, would I?”

With another exchange of air kisses, Joan Phillips was gone, and Samantha, after heaving a relieved sigh, was heading back into her office, carefully closing and locking the door behind her.

She spent the next two hours with a phone pressed to her ear, trying to round up some sort of entertainment that would follow the thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser. As she dialed, then was put on hold, she pushed the envelopes Joan had left around her desktop with the eraser tip of a pencil.

She wanted to keep her distance, just in case one of them tried to bite her.

No return address, not on any of the envelopes. Just like the envelope locked in her bottom drawer. Computer-printed address labels, and all the addresses post office boxes, again just like the envelope locked in her bottom drawer.

Could she open the envelopes? Was that legal? There weren’t any stamps on them yet, so it wasn’t as if she’d be tampering with the U.S. mail.

Technically.

But it would be a breach of trust. Uncle Mark’s trust in her. Her trust in him.

After two long, frustrating hours, Samantha had wrangled a gratis appearance at the fund-raiser out of a popular female country-music trio, promising their agent that the media coverage would be “substantial.” Three very pretty girls; talented, and they wore skimpy costumes. That alone ought to make that thousand-dollar-a-plate rubber chicken go down easier.

But she still didn’t know what to do with the envelopes. Five of them now. Fairly bulky.

No wonder her aunt Joan, known to be tight with a penny so she could spend lots of dollars, hadn’t wanted to trust licking the correct amount of stamps. With only a post office box address, and no return address, the envelopes would end up in the dead letter office if the postage wasn’t sufficient.

So much more efficient to use the postal machine in the campaign office.

Except that, Samantha knew, as a senator, Uncle Mark could send out all the official mail he wanted via his office, and at no charge.

So this wasn’t official mail. Without the return address, it probably wasn’t campaign literature, either.

So what was in these other envelopes? More of what she’d found in the first one?

It was that last thought, the one that had been nagging at her all afternoon, that had Samantha unlocking the bottom drawer and sliding the four envelopes into it, on top of the first envelope.

Jesse checked his watch for the second time in as many minutes. Was he already too late? He should have known he wouldn’t get out of the office at a reasonable hour. Reasonable, in his line of work, meant anywhere between six and eight. Face it, reasonable quitting times, for those working in the West Wing, were a joke.

It was now almost nine, and he had chosen to jog over to Phillips’s campaign headquarters rather than take his car and spend another twenty minutes hunting up a parking space.

He stopped outside the office building and looked up. Second floor. Yes, there were still lights on, which meant that Samantha was there, waiting for him.

Probably with her lovely slim, coral-tipped fingers drawn up into fists. Pacing, cursing him, second-guessing herself for having contacted him in the first place.

No matter what, he was pretty certain he wasn’t going to be greeted as if he’d brought the flowers of May along with him. Not when she was so nervous about whatever the hell she thought was so important about the mail she’d discovered.