Last night, before taking in Arias with a Twist at the Woolly Mammoth Theater, Cerise and I were relaxing over tapas at Jaleo. While we waited for our order to arrive, Beaumont noticed me and sidled over. He’s a very decent sort, and works for the Secret Service. Some people, of course, might wonder about the native intelligence of somebody who did, after all, spend eight years willing to take a bullet for George W. Bush. To them I would say, as de Tocqueville pointed out, Americans elect idiots, geniuses, saints and scoundrels to high office without making any apparent distinction, and there’s nothing to be done about that. So I would suggest that if you consider Beaumont as being willing to die not so much to protect an overprivileged dimwit who says “nuculer,” but rather think of Beaumont as offering himself up to be slain – a human shield for the constitutional office of the Presidency – his chosen profession assumes its appropriate and well-deserved reputation for bravery, valor and patriotic sacrifice.
“The Secret Service?” Cerise exclaimed as I introduced Beaumont and asked him to join us, “it’s an honor to meet you.”
“Thanks, ma’am,” Beaumont cordially replied as he shook her hand, “it’s mighty nice to hear a kind word these days.”
“I suppose so,” Cerise acknowledged, “what with this Columbian… um… escort fracas all over the media.”
“Exactly,” he concurred, “which is why, when I saw your friend Tom, here, I decided to come on over and ask his advice.”
“You came to the right person,” Cerise beamed. “Tom dispenses the best advice available in the Nation’s Capital.”
“Not that I can afford his rates,” Beaumont joked sheepishly. “But I was hoping maybe he could waive his usual fee.”
“Sure,” I agreed. “I do plenty of pro bono work. And I have a general policy of not charging anything for a client’s initial consultation anyway, and you’ve never asked me for advice before. So either way, you’re good – don’t worry about the money. What can I do for you?”
“Well,” he began, “up until about a week ago, I was assigned to Rick Santorum’s Secret Service detail. His code name was ‘Petrus,’ which he selected himself.”
“A reference to St. Peter, perhaps?” Cerise inquired.
“I think so,” Beaumont confirmed.
“Although,” I pointed out, “it’s also Greek for ‘rock,’ which is appropriate, given Santorum’s stone-age philosophy.”
“Yeah, maybe,” Beaumont nodded, “but either way, since Santorum quit, I’ve been reassigned to the White House, watching Radiance and Rosebud.”
“Who?” Cerise asked, puzzled.
“Malia and Sacha,” Beaumont explained, “The Obama girls.”
“Oh,” Cerise smiled. “I get it. Cute Secret Service code names.”
“We think so,” Beaumont smiled back. “And I thought my stint protecting Rick Santorum was history until this Cartagena call girl thing hit. It’s like crab grass in July – it just keeps on growing and growing and it seems like nothing you can do will stop it. There’s a congressional investigation. Guys are being grilled like cheese sandwiches, and the brass are giving them polygraph tests. They’re having their security clearances pulled, they’re being forced to retire, they’re being asked to resign…”
“But you weren’t there, were you?” Cerise sought to verify. “You just said, you were either at the White House watching the Obama girls or off following Rick Santorum on the campaign trail, right?”
“That’s true,” Beaumont “which is what I wanted to speak with Tom about. You see, back in February, when Santorum was campaigning in Michigan and Ohio, I… ah… committed an indiscretion, I guess you’d say… in Columbus.”
“Columbus, Ohio?” I sought confirm.
“Yes, unfortunately,” Beaumont affirmed. “The first thing that worries me about it is that ‘Columbus’ sounds enough like ‘Columbia’ so most people would get the two confused.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “Most Americans couldn’t find Columbus, Ohio or Columbia, South America on a map, so it’s reasonable to assume they’d get them confused pretty easily.”
“Right,” he continued, “and what happened was, while I was in Columbus, Ohio, and off duty, I went down to the hotel bar and had a couple of beers after work, you know, like a lot of people do.”
“Nothing improper about that,” Cerise observed. “You work at a very stressful job, I’m sure, and have as much right to relax with a brewski as anybody does.”
“Well,” Beaumont clarified, “it had been a really hard day, and maybe it was more than a couple of beers – but nothing I couldn’t handle. Anyhow, while I was knocking back Beer Number Four, I think it was, this… young lady… I guess you’d say, this… ah… woman, she sits down on the bar stool next to me and asks me what I’m listening to…”
“Listening?” I inquired.
“I… um… I’d forgotten to take out my official Secret Service earpiece,” Beaumont blushed. You know, you wear that thing for hours and hours at a time and sometimes you just plumb forget it’s there. But she thought it was the ear bud for an iPhone or something. So I explained that no, I wasn’t listening to anything, the thing she saw was an official Secret Service ear piece. And as soon as I said that, she was like ‘Oh, my God! You’re in the Secret Service? That’s awesome!’ And so on and so forth, you know? She told me that nothing ever happens in Columbus, Ohio, how it’s the most boring place on earth…”
“Believe me,” Cerise interjected, “I’ve been to Columbus, Ohio, and that woman was absolutely correct. If you’ve only got a year to live, I’d say move there, because every day seems like a bloody week!”
“That’s pretty much what she said, too,” Beaumont concurred. “And… uh… I guess meeting a real, live Secret Service agent from Washington was about the most exciting thing that had happened to her in… well, judging from the way she… ah… that is… how she…”
“We get the picture,” Cerise politely interrupted.
“… uh, yeah… in years, I guess… maybe in her whole life,” Beaumont sighed. “It was… fantastic, actually. All night, practically. Lucky for me, I was off duty until lunch the next day, because she kind of… wore me out, I guess.”
“I assume,” Cerise cautiously asked, “that you’re single?”
“Yeah,” Beaumont vouched. “Never even been married, not yet, anyhow.”
“And,” I pressed, “this… young lady… she wasn’t too young, was she?”
“Oh, oh, oh, no, no, no, no!” Beaumont stammered. “Absolutely not. I… um… I checked out her identification while she was in the shower and she’s… almost thirty, in fact.”
“So, let me get this straight,” Cerise ventured. “You’re off duty, and you meet another consenting adult of the opposite gender in a perfectly legal context.”
“Uh, yeah,” Beaumont responded with a hopeful tone. “That’s right!”
“And she likes yours,” I added, “and you like hers…”
“Yeah, yeah, very much,” Beaumont assured me.
“And nature takes its course,” Cerise continued.
“Uh-huh,” Beaumont responded, a bit breathlessly, as he recalled the encounter. “It sure as hell did!”
“And you never discussed the whereabouts of Rick Santorum, or any confidential details of his campaign itinerary with her?” I queried.
“Oh, no, take my word for it,” Beaumont insisted, “the last thing either of us wanted to talk about was Rick Santorum!”
“And she never asked you for money?” Cerise pointedly probed.
“Never,” Beaumont shook his head emphatically. “She even paid for her own drinks at the bar.”
“And she’s not… pregnant, by any chance?” I asked.
“If she is,” Beaumont shrugged, “she’s keeping it a secret.”
“So what’s the problem?” Cerise wondered.
“Um… well,” he explained, “even though that woman thought my Secret Service earpiece belonged to an iPhone, and it didn’t, I do, in fact, have a government-issued Blackberry – with a camera.”
“And you…” Cerise knowingly began.
“Yeah,” Beaumont confessed, “I set it up on the dresser and made a video of the whole thing.”
“All night?” I marveled. “That’s quite a Blackberry.”
“It came with an ultra-high capacity memory chip and extra-long life batteries. Special government issue,” he elaborated. “Afterward, I uploaded the entire video to my computer at home, then deleted it from my Blackberry. And I’ve… enjoyed watching it a lot since February, but now, with this Columbian hooker stuff, I’m really worried. You never know what some yahoo congressman or suspicious rat from the Inspector General’s office is going to think when they see that video – I mean, it’s four hours and twenty-seven minutes long, and all of it smoking hot – begging your pardon, ma’am – even if I do say so myself. So Tom, can you tell me – how do I erase it, or what’s left of it, from my Blackberry? And how do I delete it from my home computer so the fact that it was there before can’t be detected?”
“There are ways to do those things,” I advised, “but I’m afraid that employing them will only give you a false sense of security.”
“Huh?” Beaumont sat bolt upright. “What do you mean?”
“Since you work for the Secret Service,” I revealed, “it’s dollars to doughnuts that the National Security Agency already has a complete copy of everything that is, or ever has been, on your home computer.”
Beaumont turned ashen. His face sunk into his hands. “Oh, no, oh, Jesus,” he mumbled. “I should have known. I should have known.”
“But I don’t think you have to worry about them turning it over to Congress or the IG,” I consoled.
“Really?” Beaumont raised his head from his hands and brightened considerably. “How come?”
“Because,” I stated with a confidence borne of my considerable experience inside the Beltway, “if NSA does that, then it will become common knowledge that NSA has that particular video.”
“And then?” Beaumont gazed at me in frank puzzlement.
“And then,” I concluded, “they would have to stop watching it.”