Текст книги "The End Game"
Автор книги: Catherine Coulter
Соавторы: J. T. Ellison
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 25 страниц)
63
QUEEN TO B8
Off I-95, near Lorton, Virginia
The motel room smelled like wet dog and burned coffee, and the tatty bedspread was a nasty orange. But Matthew knew it wouldn’t be smart to stop at a better place. He and Andy would make do. If only Andy would shut his mouth.
At least the grid attack had worked well, so well that when the lights came on ten minutes before, both he and Andy were startled.
Now Matthew was pacing the length of the stingy room, back and forth, thinking, worrying. Had Darius managed to get through the fence when the electricity shut down? Stop worrying, sure he had, Darius was that good. He glanced at his watch. Yes, Darius was in place by now.
At least today everything had gone according to plan, but still, he felt itchy, his brain looping in and out, and nothing seemed right. Matthew knew he was ready, knew he going to pull it off, even though Darius was making other plans in case he failed or lost his nerve. But he didn’t feel pumped with the familiar manic excitement, didn’t feel hot blood whipping through his body. And he knew why. I killed my best friend and Vanessa. He’d murdered her and even now he wasn’t sure what she’d been to him. But no longer hearing her voice joking with Ian or one of the other men, listening to her hum as she built one of her small Semtex bombs, watching her eat a hamburger, mustard, not ketchup—she’d been a part of his life and look what she’d done—she’d forced his hand because she’d betrayed him. She’d played him and here he’d always thought he could judge people so well. She’d blindsided him, and then she’d turned Ian against him, too.
She’d only wanted his bombs. She’d forced him to act against her, not his fault. Back and forth, his brain kept looking from guilt and pain to justification.
Matthew finally threw himself down in the single chair in the room. He looked over at Andy, sprawled on the bed, headphones in, listening to one of his frenetic hard-metal excuses for music, eating red licorice from the bag, probably hacking God knew what or watching porn on his laptop. Matthew had cleaned and bandaged his knee and given him two Vicodin, both now swimming happily in his bloodstream. At least it had stopped his infernal whining, stopped his questions about why Matthew was doing this, doing that, something he did more and more.
Andy sat up suddenly and turned the laptop around.
“Matthew, you’re not going to believe this. Hurry, look.”
Matthew leaned over the laptop and stared at the shot of downtown D.C., nothing he really recognized. It was no longer dark and empty since the power had come back on.
“What is it?”
“George Washington University Hospital.”
“So what?”
“Matthew, listen, Vanessa’s alive. She’s alive!”
Matthew shook his head. “No, impossible, I shot her in the heart and burned the building down around her. With Ian. What are you talking about?”
“They’re talking about Vanessa. Listen.”
Andy pointed to the laptop screen, turned up the volume. A reporter—long smooth blond hair, perfect makeup—stood, mike in hand, in front of a hospital.
“Turn it up, Andy.”
“. . . The explosion at Bayway Refinery in Elizabeth, New Jersey, continues to be under investigation. We can now confirm the reports that a federal agent tied to the investigation was also recovered Monday evening from a burning building in Brooklyn. The agent, thought to be undercover, was transported to George Washington University Hospital. I have been told she is in serious but stable condition in the ICU.”
Andy was shaking his head back and forth. “That’s gotta be a lie, I mean, I saw her with my own eyes. Like you said, you shot her dead, and she was on the floor, bleeding all over the place, and she wasn’t moving. They’ve got to be making that up.”
Matthew felt strangely detached from himself at that moment.Andy was right, it was a lie, had to be. Vanessa was dead. True, he hadn’t seen her sightless eyes staring up at him as he had Ian, he hadn’t leaned down to feel for a pulse, but he’d never doubted that she was dead. Obviously they were trying to set up a trap to get him to the hospital. The idiots. He wasn’t that great a fool.
His brain looped back. But what if she’d really survived? Vanessa was smart, he knew that. He didn’t doubt she was a hotshot agent, always thinking, always on red alert, always knowing what to do.
The reporter continued: “The Federal Bureau of Investigation has been tasked with finding her assailants. It is not known how she is attached to this investigation, nor what her role was. We’ll have more on this story at the top of the hour. Back to you in the studio . . .”
Matthew sank back into the chair, covered his eyes with his hand. No, he didn’t think it was a lie, not now. Vanessa was that smart. She’d played dead until he was gone. How had she not burned up with Ian? The hidden exit to the roof—that must have been how she’d managed to get out.
“She’s alive,” he heard Andy repeat again. Andy seemed a mile away, his bewildered kid’s voice like a loud echo. Matthew scarcely heard him. He was utterly unimportant at the moment.
Andy’s voice broke in on him, louder now, “Hey, Matthew, she’s a federal agent. Can you beat that?” Andy started slapping his hands against his head and his voice rose to the familiar whine Matthew hated. “Man, we are screwed. Totally and completely screwed. What do we do now? She’s going to tell them all about us. Wait, she’s already told them about us, they already know who we are.
“And how did she survive? Why didn’t you make sure she was dead? But you didn’t, you just ordered me around and wouldn’t even let me set the fire, and here it was my own special mix, and look what happened.”
Matthew looked toward the grating voice. He didn’t really see Andy. He saw failure, and it was bright and hard and burned deep, making rage grow, roil around, twisting, bending his mind, taking over.
Andy shouted, “And Ian named you the Bishop? Because you’re such a genius, like a great chess player who can figure out twenty moves ahead? Well, you sure blew this one, didn’t you? Talk about failure, this is the biggie, Matthew. They’re going to find us and if they don’t kill us dead, they’re gonna put us in prison forever or fry us. You’ve killed us both!”
Matthew stood slowly, looked to where Andy’s voice simply wouldn’t stop, and said, “Why not get it over with now, Andy?” And Matthew raised his gun and shot Andy in the forehead.
Andy fell back without a sound, his head striking the cheap backboard, flipping him onto his side, away from Matthew.
Matthew sat down again, laid the gun on his thigh, and listened to the golden silence.
Andy was probably right, the whining little puke, so best hit the button now. He picked up the blood-splattered laptop, set it on his knees, opened the program.
He had to admit, it was a beautiful program. Andy had done well. He smiled as he hit the button, launched the attack. The countdown clock started in the window.
His beautiful bomb would show the world power beyond belief. There was no stopping it now, and no stopping him. He was set, he was ready to go, ready to change the world, locked and loaded.
He was whistling as he shoved the gun in his waistband, grabbed his bag. He was only forty minutes from downtown D.C. This time he would do it right. This time he would look into her sightless eyes and know she was finally dead.
If it was a trap, he’d still make it happen, and who cared if he bit the big one? Maybe he didn’t care, he was no longer sure about it.
As he closed the door to the motel, hung up the flimsy DO NOT DISTURB sign, he wondered how long it would be before someone went into that room.
Good-bye, Andy.
He was still whistling as he walked to the car.
64
PAWN TO B5
Georgetown
Mike stuck her face in the shower stream of the hot water. She was angry, but she knew it was no use getting into another fight with Nicholas. In the morning she’d present her case to Dillon, maybe Mr. Maitland, that she would be the best at playing Vanessa. It wasn’t like she was helpless—no, she’d have her Glock. She was fast and smart. She was a professional.
She fumed and fretted as she towel-dried her hair, combed it out, and pushed it off her face, hooking it behind her ears. She pulled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her go-bag.
The bed looked nice and firm, the way she liked it. She had to admit she was dog-tired, and the bruises were singing out loud and clear. She cursed Nicholas one last time and pulled back the covers.
There was a knock at her door.
“Yes?”
Nicholas opened the door, closed it behind him.
“We need to talk.”
She eased out of bed and stood facing him, hands on her hips. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about, unless you’re ready to stop being such a lamebrain about me taking Vanessa’s place. I am a professional, Nicholas, I’ve played bait before, not a problem. I’ll be armed, not helpless, like Vanessa. And I’d—”
He waved his hand in front of her. “Pay attention, Caine. This is a CIA op. Bait will be a CIA operative. Hang it up.”
That stopped her mid-rant. She should have come to that obvious conclusion, which went to prove how tired she was, even her brain was operating at twenty watts. It hurt to say it, but she did. “Very well, I suppose you’re right. It’s too bad, their mistake. What did you want to talk about?”
“About what didn’t happen today, between us. I think we should, don’t you?”
She took a step back. “There is nothing to talk about, since nothing happened. How many times do I have to tell you that? You’re like a dog with a bone. And isn’t that fitting? No talk, do you hear me?”
“Is a dog with a bone better than a bad dog? Never mind. Since you’re shouting again, of course I can hear you. I like those pants and that shirt—what does it say?”
She looked down at her chest. It was one of her favorites: FEEL SAFE, SLEEP WITH A COP.
“So you can read. Bravo.”
He grinned. “Yes, okay, I want to feel safe.”
She stared at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms that came low on his hips and a T-shirt, black and snug, and she kept staring.
In the next instant, she ran those six feet across the room and he grabbed her up in his arms, brought her long legs around his waist, and pulled her tight against him.
“Mike—Michaela.” The words sounded magic in her mouth and in her brain, and she was kissing him like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.
Her hands were in his hair, pulling his face to hers so she could kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, but it wasn’t enough. She yanked and pulled on his T-shirt as his hands went under her bottom, stroking up her back beneath her shirt, feeling the soft flesh, smelling the jasmine in her damp hair. She carried her shampoo in her go-bag? Of course she did. He was losing his mind and didn’t care. He butted her head back to kiss her neck, felt her tighten her legs around his waist. His hands found the smooth, stretchy band at her waist, and he wanted to jerk them down even as he moved to the bed.
“Uncle Nicholas?”
They froze.
“Uncle Nicholas? I woke up when you left our bedroom. Is Aunt Mike okay?”
He touched his forehead to hers, managed to grab a breath. “Sean, sure, Aunt Mike is fine.” Was that his voice, all deep and gravelly, like he was in pain?
He felt her heart pounding, cleared his throat, gave her a final fast kiss, then felt her legs loosen at his waist. He lowered her feet to the floor but didn’t let her go. He wanted to cry, maybe howl. He called out, “Sean, I always have to say good night to her or she doesn’t sleep well. And I forgot.”
“Are you telling her a story? Do you want me to sing to her? I know lots of words to Papa’s songs.”
Mike cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sean, but that’s okay. I’m really tired and Nicholas already sang me ‘Soft Kitty’; it’s one of my favorites.”
“Mine, too,” Sean said, and both of them pictured his small hand on the doorknob.
Nicholas took a fast step back. “Good night, Mike, sleep well. What’s ‘Soft Kitty’? I don’t know that one.”
She waved him away. He was nearly back to the door. She saw his pajama bottoms were riding even lower and his lovely tight black T-shirt was ripped. How had that happened? Surely she should remember. She stood perfectly straight.
“Good night, Nicholas. I will sleep well, as will you. We will have nothing to speak about tomorrow. This did not happen, do you hear me? This. Did. Not. Happen.”
He gave her a grin and was out the door in the next second. “Hey, Sean, let’s go back to bed.”
“Sean, Nicholas?”
All he needed. Slowly, Nicholas turned to see Savich standing in the doorway of his and Sherlock’s bedroom. Unlike Nicholas, he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, only pajama bottoms.
“Papa, everything’s okay. Uncle Nicholas had to sing Aunt Mike a song, like you do me, so she could go to sleep.”
“I see,” Savich said, and Nicholas knew he saw very well, particularly the tear in his T-shirt. “Both of you sleep well. Sean, don’t keep Nicholas up. He’s had a very long day.”
You don’t know the half of it.
Wednesday
6 a.m.–Noon
65
PAWN TO H4
Georgetown
Mike woke to a quiet knocking at her door. She rolled over to see Nicholas standing in the doorway, already dressed in one of his crisp handmade white button-down shirts, and, oddly, a pair of jeans. Tight jeans. He looked like a prep school boy gone rogue. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she liked him better in the low-slung pjs, but she didn’t. But it was close.
He was all business. “Get dressed. We leave for a briefing in ten minutes with Vice President Sloane.”
“You’re wearing jeans to the White House?”
“We’re heading to her place. And they’ve requested we dress down.”
“What in the world is going on?”
“I don’t know, but you need to hurry. I’ll see you downstairs.”
• • •
Five minutes later, Mike presented herself in the Savich kitchen, her hair in a ponytail, dressed in jeans and motorcycle boots, a short lightweight black leather jacket over a boatneck black-and-white-striped shirt. Without a word, Nicholas handed her a cup of coffee.
Savich was sitting at the kitchen table, two laptops open in front of him. She recognized magic MAX, wondered what in the world was happening.
He looked up from one of his computers. “Good morning, Mike. You slept well?”
“Yes, yes, thank you.” Was there something in his voice? Nah, she was imagining it. She had to stop it.
She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. A dollop of milk, nothing else.
“The lord and master of the coffee universe made it,” Sherlock said, and smiled. “Enjoy.”
“Five minutes,” Savich said, “and we’ll need to hit the road.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but with Gabriella down with a cold, you’re elected to take Sean to school.”
“Yeah, yeah, curses on all of you,” Sherlock said. “Good luck to you guys.” And she immediately left the kitchen when Sean’s voice came loud and clear from upstairs: “Mama, where’s my special Batman shirt?”
Mike said, “Do I need to know anything in particular?”
Savich packed up MAX. “The vice president set a plan in motion last night and has decided to bring us in.”
Mike stared at him. “So the vice president is behind the leak about Vanessa? I guess it makes sense, after all, she was in the CIA.”
Savich nodded. “Yes, a planned leak. If you’re all set, we can go.” He called out as they went out the front door, “See you later, Sherlock. Sean, have a good day.”
They piled into Sherlock’s sturdy Volvo and headed toward the Naval Observatory. Mike knew the vice president’s mansion was on the grounds, and it must be close to Savich’s home in Georgetown. She was right.
Savich drove straight up Wisconsin, turned right onto Observatory Lane. They were checked through a tall gate, then wound around the circle to park in front of an impressive white Victorian mansion. She wished she weren’t so nervous, so on edge, to fully appreciate it. The vice president’s house, and wasn’t that something, Mike from Omaha visiting the VP? She tightened her ponytail, then checked herself to make sure she was put together.
But still, meeting the vice president of the United States wearing jeans and biker boots and no makeup, it would make her mom cringe. So unlike Nicholas, curse him, who looked very cool, she felt like she should be going to a bar to drink beer and line dance.
She said to Nicholas, “Savich didn’t tell you what was going on?”
He shook his head. “I think this is a command performance. He woke me, I threw on some clothes and grabbed you.”
She saw half a dozen Secret Service agents patrolling the house, each of them focused, each of them ready for anything, and she wondered how they could keep up the edge day after day. A tall, fit gray-haired man who looked like he’d never taken crap from anyone in his life came down the steps to greet them.
“I’m Tony Scarlatti, no relation to the dude who wrote all that cool music for the harpsichord back in the day. I’m the vice president’s lead agent. Thanks for coming to us this morning. Come meet Vice President Sloane.”
They all shook hands, introduced themselves, then trailed after Tony into the house. Mike immediately wanted to whisper, it was so quiet inside. It was also more modern than she’d expected, all cool grays and creams with a few sprinkles of pale green. There wasn’t much time to admire the house; Tony herded them through the round entrance foyer toward the back of the house.
Vice President Callan Sloane was in a large modern kitchen overlooking the gardens, sitting at a Carrera marble countertop, a large cup of tea in front of her, The Washington Post in her hands. She looked completely relaxed, at ease, as if she was used to a bunch of FBI agents interrupting her breakfast every day.
“Thank you, Tony. Hello, come in.” Introductions, handshakes, then, “May I get you coffee? Tea? Tony, could you ask Maisie to bring the trays into the dining room? And I’m sure you can smell the cinnamon buns, they’ll be out of the oven in a couple of minutes. Follow me, we’ll talk in there.”
The few times Nicholas had seen the vice president on TV, he’d thought her impressive, an in-charge type, probably scary competent. In person, though, he realized not only did she look like the ruler of her world, she was also a stunner—pale skin, blond hair without a single strand of gray, and a stubborn chin. Nicholas knew she was fifty-seven, but she didn’t look it. Unlike them, she was wearing black silk slacks and a cream blouse with small mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, and a choker of graduated pearls around her neck.
She looked expensive and completely in charge, ready to greet the leader of a country or three FBI agents. For a moment, she reminded Nicholas of his ex-wife, Pamela Carruthers, always together, always ready to stride out on the stage, ready for any situation. He remembered the card Pam had sent him upon his graduating from the FBI Academy. Showed a dog with a wagging tail, enthusiastically digging a deep hole. She’d signed it “Your Pam,” whatever that meant—well, he knew what it meant, particularly after the dinner they’d shared in New York. He shook his head, paid attention.
They followed Vice President Sloane into the dining room, wallpapered in the same creams and grays, with draperies that nearly touched the ceiling above the windows, making the room seem taller than it was. Nicholas knew his mom would really like the rosewood table, large enough to seat twelve people, without extra leaves.
Mike sat down, wondered who else had sat in this exact chair, looked over at Nicholas. He looked like he belonged, like he assumed a servant would quietly appear at his elbow and pour him a glass of wine. And Savich, his face showing nothing but polite interest, taking in his surroundings with a professional’s eye.
Once they were served, the vice president got right to it.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I decided last night to let the media know Vanessa Grace is alive. I did not use her real name, but obviously Matthew Spenser will know it’s her.
“It’s imperative we draw him out as quickly as possible. I’m counting on his seeing the media’s announcement, and believing that the woman he believed he’d murdered had miraculously escaped. I am personally amazed she survived.”
She turned to Mike. “Agent Caine? Agent Savich tells me you wanted to be bait, but the CIA will be using one of their own agents. Do you believe as I do that Matthew Spenser will come to the hospital to try to kill her again?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said. “Given what we heard Vanessa saying on the videotapes, Matthew Spenser felt something for her, at the very least he believed to his soul she was there for him, sharing his goals, sharing his missions. Her betrayal hit him very hard, sent him over the edge enough to kill his best friend, Ian McGuire, and believe he’d killed her. So yes, I believe he’ll come and he’ll see killing her as righteous.
“Also, Vanessa told us Spenser is a news junkie, so if he’s anywhere near a screen, he will see the announcement, and then he will make plans.”
“Her uncle Carl Grace agrees,” Callan said. “Anything else?”
Mike said, “Ma’am, we also believe you need to talk the president into canceling the Yorktown event.”
“Already done. Neither of us will be there. We will announce the cancellation at noon today. The president is not happy about it, but we can’t take any chances with his life, and that is an understatement. And I’d just as soon keep my own hide intact as well. What else, Agent Caine?”
Mike hadn’t expected humor, and smiled. She said, “Ma’am, we don’t know that Zahir Damari was planning to kill you at Yorktown. We don’t even know where he is and that means we have to keep on red alert, as well as you and your protection team. Damari is a consummate professional. As you probably know, we have a photo of him at a diner in Baltimore. He looked nothing like the photo Vanessa managed to send from COE, which means he makes it a habit of altering his looks, which is why we haven’t been able to identify him. He never gives up and from what we’ve heard and read, he always has redundancies built in.”
“So he’s never at a loss,” Callan said, and nodded. “He’d make a good politician. Now, trust me, none of my people are letting down their guard. I was told it was possible he was also here to kill another, still unverified, target. Do you agree, Agent Savich?”
Savich nodded. “Unfortunately, we’re not certain as yet who this other person is. Mossad still doesn’t know?”
“Not yet. Take a guess, Agent Savich.”
“The president of the United States.”
