Power Play (An FBI Thriller)

by Catherine Coulter

  “Attacks, Ambassador Black. You were also attacked in England, were you not?”

  “Yes, that’s right. There was a hit-and-run attack on me there that Scotland Yard is investigating. I have been assured they are cooperating closely with the FBI.”

  “And we all hope they succeed. Ambassador Black, I understand you will be speaking tomorrow morning at the United Nations. Will you be discussing your thoughts about these events on that world stage?”

  Natalie smiled. “No, that will not be part of my address. I will not be asking the UN to take up my personal troubles. Tomorrow I will be doing my job, as always. The State Department has asked me to address the General Assembly about the status of bilateral tariff reductions we’ve been exploring”—she spoke fluently and quickly, expecting Rose to interrupt her if she gave him the chance. It was “dead air” time for Fox, the concession to her the network had to make before Edward Rose could continue asking her questions the viewers really wanted to hear.

  When she closed, he said, “I imagine many of the UN representatives will want to know about all your personal difficulties, Ambassador Black, as do many of our viewers.”

  She shook her head. “I tend to doubt that, Mr. Rose.”

  “How will you deal with those questions if asked?”

  “I’ll tell them what I’m telling you, that all the weight of the United States government and the FBI are behind me.”

  “Ambassador Black, Viscount George McCallum, your fiancé, his death marked the beginning of these attacks on you, did it not?”

  She let a punch of grief pass, then answered, “George McCallum was a wonderful man. His death was a great loss to me. Scotland Yard is investigating how and why that accident occurred. There is speculation his death and the attacks on my life may be connected, but I don’t know how or why.” She hadn’t meant to say that; it gave away too much. To her surprise and relief, Rose let it go.

  Instead, Rose brought up the press release of William’s photo, identifying him as an insurgent fighting in Syria. “Two weeks before the viscount’s tragic death, is that correct? And the rumors of your own culpability began?”

  Natalie said, “That’s correct. William Charles McCallum is now Viscount Lockenby himself after his father’s death. We understand he was seen fighting in Syria against the Assad regime. That is a conflict with many factions, and, of course, a great tragedy.

  “Since I have not been in touch with William—indeed, I’ve never met him—I have no personal information to offer as to his current whereabouts or his intentions.” She looked directly into the camera. “I do know William loved his father and he grieves as deeply as I do. I hope he will contact me so that we may grieve together. I hope he stays safe.”

  “And you stay safe as well, Ambassador Black.”

  “I’ll certainly do my best. You know, Mr. Rose, some of the English people still like to refer to us as Yanks. And one of the things they know about us is that we don’t run from threats.”

  Edward Rose wanted more, but he had run out of time. He thanked her. It was over.

  Perry turned off the TV and went online to read some of the early buzz the interview had already started on YouTube and Twitter. “She’s got one more interview tonight. Then it’s on to New York and the UN, with Aunt Arliss paving her way.”

  Davis was sitting back on the sofa, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, his head leaned against the cushions. He said, “I love your mother.”

  “I do, too,” Perry said. The front window exploded inward. A bullet smashed the vase on the side table next to Davis.

  Before they could move, bullets crashed through the front window, another hitting the coffee table, a third hitting the wall above his head. Davis jumped on Perry, knocked her to the floor, covered her.

  A semiautomatic, probably a rifle, Davis thought, as more bullets hit the wall over their heads. He said against her forehead, “Don’t move, you hear me?” He got to his feet, his Glock in his hand, raced crouched over across the room, and flipped off the lights. He pressed against the side of the front door, listening, and waited. Perry stayed where she was. He could hear her breathing.

  He leaned over and unlocked the door, shoved it open hard and fast, and flattened his belly to the floor.

  More bullets shattered a mirror on the hallway wall, blew out the lovely etched-glass panels on either side of the front door. He heard Perry move. “Perry, no, stay perfectly still. I know you’re thinking about your Kimber in the bedroom, but forget it. Stay put, face against the floor.”

  He heard her fierce voice. “I’m calling nine-one-one. Stay put yourself, and be careful, you hear me?”

  Davis didn’t answer; he was looking out into the darkness. It was now dead silent. Who was out there? It was time to push. He leaned up and turned on the porch light, and fired off his entire magazine at the bushes nearby, fanning back and forth low to the ground.

  He heard it—across the yard maybe, forty feet away, a muffled hiss, like a snake. Had he hit the guy?

  Davis shoved a new magazine in the Glock, elbow-crawled out the front door, jumped to his feet, and ran, firing his Glock toward where he’d heard the sound. He stopped behind an oak tree and listened. The gunfire had sounded battlefield heavy, loud, sharp, and he knew a dozen neighbors had called 911. The shooter knew it, too. He couldn’t stay around much longer. Davis leaned out from behind the tree, scanning for movement.

  A single bullet clipped off the bark not three inches from his face. He fell belly flat to the ground, didn’t move.

  “Davis?”

  She didn’t sound scared, she sounded mad. Amazing. He called out, “Don’t come out, Perry. The guy’s still somewhere out here. The cops will be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “More like a couple of seconds, I hope. You’re okay, right?”

  “Yes, stay put.”

  They heard sirens coming.

  Lights were going on all over the neighborhood, but no one appeared in their doorways or their porches just yet. They were peeking out from behind curtains, around cracked-open doors, waiting for the cops. “The shooter’s got to run from those sirens, Perry. Keep down.”

  “That idiot destroyed my beautiful Tiffany lamp. And the etched-glass panels beside the front door? Shattered, both of them. Do you know how much I paid for those? They were a gift to me from myself when Mike Ditka called me to thank me for a story I’d done on him and the Super Bowl Bears from long ago.

  “I’d like to kick his tonsils into his brain. Who was it, did you see?” No, she thought, it couldn’t be William. He was wounded, hiding somewhere.

  “I didn’t see him, but I may have hit him, I don’t know.”

  Perry came running up to him, grabbed his arm. “What did you do? How could you let this happen?”

  He couldn’t answer her because three cop cars screeched to a halt ten feet away, men and women were shouting as they bounded out, guns trained on him. Davis dropped his Glock and shot his hands over his head, waving his creds. He yelled, “FBI agent! Someone fired on us. FBI!”

  Since the cops weren’t stupid, they kept their weapons trained on him and Perry, and came steadily closer. He called out, “This is Perry Black. I’m guarding her! The shooter’s getting away. Find him!”

  At a nod from the sergeant, cops fanned out into the neighborhood, shouting to neighbors to get back inside and turn the lights out. Sergeant Woollcott, carrying twenty more pounds that he should, checked Davis’s creds and holstered his gun. He said in a cheery voice, “If the guy’s still out there, my people will find him. Both of you are still alive, and that’s got to be good, right, Agent Sullivan?”

  Davis didn’t have a chance to agree with him because Perry had grabbed his arm and was shaking him. “You turkey! You absolute mutton brain, really, how could you let this happen?”

  He frowned down at her. “I couldn’t prevent the guy from shooting at us, Perry.”

  “No, not that, I mean your face. You’re bleeding.
”

  “She’s right, boy,” Sergeant Woollcott said. “Now I’ve got some light, I see you’re alive but you’re not looking pretty. The paramedics will fix you up.”

  What with all the shooting, Davis knew the paramedics, two women and a man, were expecting to see a slaughter. But all they’d get was his bloody face.

  One of the paramedics ushered him inside the condo. She stepped gingerly over a crashed lamp, sat him down, positioned him under the light of the small reading lamp that had escaped destruction, and got to work. The alcohol burned, but he kept his mouth shut, aware that Perry was standing close, her arms crossed over her chest, daring him, he imagined, to make a sound. “Hmmm, it really looked impressive, but fact is, there’s nothing much here. Looks like a bit of oak bark sliced you. A bit of iodine, some Steri-Strips, and you’ll be good to go. We heard there was a war on out here. Lucky nobody was really hurt.”

  The iodine hurt, but he didn’t move, didn’t speak.

  Perry, her sarcasm so heavy Davis was surprised it didn’t flatten the paramedic, said, “Sorry we couldn’t oblige you.”

  The woman waved her hand, impervious. “I prefer it this way, darling,” she said, and continued to examine the thin slice on Davis’s cheek.

  “Would you like me to get you a Band-Aid?”

  The paramedic grinned over at her. “Nah, we came loaded for bear, so we can handle this little cub here, no problem. Hey, Curry, want to bring over that dressing kit for our FBI agent here?”

  “Look at my living room, Davis. My notebook—it’s wrecked. The insurance company isn’t going to be happy.”

  Savich’s house

  Sunday night

  Sherlock snuggled in, pressed her cheek to his neck. Her curly hair tickled his nose, a familiar feeling, both comforting and unsettling, and he breathed in the faint rose scent that always stirred him up. He hugged her close. “We need to sleep.” He kissed the top of her head.

  “I know, and believe me, I’m so tired I’m ready to fall over, but I’m wired, can’t seem to shut off my brain, much less slow it down. First Blessed last night, and tonight someone fires on Davis and Perry. I hate guns. Well, and motorcycles, too.”

  “Ben Raven has the neighborhood locked down, Sherlock. Blessed won’t come back here again, not tonight. He’s probably afraid of you now, after being in that grocery storage room with you and all the flying cans and shelves that weighed a ton when they toppled over.”

  He felt her mouth curve up. “Now, that was something. Too bad Blessed didn’t get pinned under one of those shelves. I can’t believe he was dolled up as a little old lady. I wonder where he got the clothes. Off a clothesline, I hope, and not off someone he killed. He’s a nightmare, Dillon.”

  “The operative description here, sweetheart, is failed nightmare. We’re still here and Blessed won’t be.”

  “But I don’t know how I’m going to get to sleep, Dillon. Too many crazy people tromping through my brain.”

  “What if I tell you a story about me you haven’t heard yet? That’s right, rest your head on my chest and close your eyes and I’ll get you to sleep in no time. That includes your hand. Your hand can’t be strolling downward. Really. You’ve got to help me out here.”

  “Maybe my fingers can find us a better way to relax. You think?”

  He had to admit it, she had a point.

  • • •

  A half-hour later, Savich pulled the covers over them, kissed her forehead, squeezed her tight. “Ready to sleep now?”

  She heard the lazy satisfaction in his voice, and lightly punched her fist in his belly. “Not yet. I want to hear that bedtime story you were going to tell me.”

  “Well, then, I’ll tell you,” he said, and pulled her against him. “When I was fifteen years old, my junior high school football coach, Mr. Jeffries, was in a bad car accident. A drunk driver, we heard, ran him into a bridge abutment. He went right over it, twenty feet down into the Beaver River, and you know what? He managed to get out of the car and swim to the surface. A passerby saw the whole thing and called nine-one-one. The doctors said it was a miracle he survived the fall, even more of a miracle he was able to climb out of the car with all his internal injuries and broken bones. And the biggest miracle, it looked like he might pull through. My dad went with me to visit him in the hospital. I’ll tell you, to see my coach, a man about my own age now and strong as a bull, always in charge, all broken and bandaged, even his head—he looked nearly dead to me. They had sedated him and put him on a respirator. Only his eyes were open.

  “His wife, Mrs. Jeffries, was standing on the opposite side of the bed when we walked up and looked down at him. I wanted to run, but I was with my dad, so I didn’t. She suggested we leave, that he needed to sleep, but he saw me, recognized me. I don’t know why, but I took his hand, and I waited. He looked over at his wife, then he looked at me, right into my eyes. His fingers tightened in my hand. And I knew what he was trying to communicate, as if he were speaking to me, clear as day. Of course, he wasn’t speaking, wasn’t even moving his mouth, since that hissing regulator in his mouth was breathing for him.”

  “What was he saying, I mean, what was he thinking to you?”

  “That he was afraid of his wife, that she’d hired someone to run him off the bridge. He’d heard her on her cell phone when she believed he was still unconscious, talking to someone, telling him she was real mad because she’d wasted five thousand dollars.

  “I remember I wasn’t scared when I first heard his voice in my head. Surprised, yes, but then it felt like the most natural thing in the world. His wife was pacing. She wanted us gone. I was afraid she’d try to kill him then and there as soon as we left.”

  Her voice was getting low, a bit slurred. “This had never happened before?”

  “No, first time. I squeezed his hand, so he’d know I’d tell my dad. On our way out, Mrs. Jeffries thanked us for coming and said she was sorry her husband hadn’t been with it enough to thank us himself. But she didn’t sound sorry at all.

  “I knew the cops wouldn’t believe me if I told them that, so I told my dad everything on the elevator back down to the hospital lobby.”

  He waited for her to ask what happened, but she didn’t. She was down for the count. He kissed the top of her head, wishing Sean was in his bed down the hall and everything was back to normal.

  “What happened then, Dillon?”

  So she wasn’t all the way out. “My dad never doubted me for a second. We went back up to the hospital room and he informed Mrs. Jeffries that he’d be assigning a guard to protect her husband. He held her there until he got a warrant to take her cell, one of those big suckers everyone used back in the day, and check her cell phone records, and sure enough, there was a series of calls back and forth from the man she’d hired. Later, they discovered there’d been another man in the background, a lover. My dad arrested her himself, hauled her to the New York FBI Field Office at Federal Plaza, before turning her over to the police. My coach lived, remarried two years later and has three grown kids now. He’s still coaching.”

  He felt her mouth curve against his shoulder. She was finally asleep a couple minutes later, and soon Savich was, too. He didn’t dream about the crazies who’d kept Sherlock awake, he dreamed of a long-ago evening in a man’s hospital room when he’d realized what was possible.

  Criminal Apprehension Unit

  Hoover Building

  Monday morning

  Janice Hobbs poked her head into Savich’s office. “I got blood.”

  “Blood from Perry’s yard?” Davis said, right behind her. “I was right? I wounded the shooter last night?”

  “Yep, one of the officers found a couple of bloody leaves on the ground right where you thought it would be. Had to look close, though. I had enough to type, all ready for a DNA match. We’ll run it through the database, of course, but have you got a live suspect handy?”

  Davis said, “Not yet, but we’ll have him in twenty-four hours, okay?”


  “Yeah, it’ll wait, but matching DNA is like sex, you know? You get all ready, all excited, but it’s no good without two people. Perry Black was there with you, right? Okay, I’ll need cheek swabs from both of you to cover all the bases. I won’t find my dancing partner, so you gotta make my day, Davis. Get me the bozo that’ll match. Hey, I like that Band-Aid on your face. Those leopard spots look cute, like you’re a little kid who got banged up on the jungle gym.” Janice punched Davis’s arm and took off, like she was wearing roller skates, waving to agents in the unit as she glided by. She called out as she disappeared out the door, “Hey, Davis, did you get the Sex Pistols mix I sent you?”

  “Yeah, I’m already singing it in my sleep,” Davis called back, but Janice was already halfway to the elevators.

  Savich smiled, shook his head. “So you have someone in mind to bring in, Davis?”

  Davis settled himself into a chair across from Savich. He said, “I’d bring in William Charles McCallum, if he were in reach. Has there been any word from Scotland Yard?”

  “The car they tracked down appears to be a dead end. The owner isn’t talking, or doesn’t know anything more. They’ve had no luck running down the identity William is using, and neither has Homeland Security. We can’t exclude him as the attacker last night, but he’s got a fresh bullet wound, and it’s hard to see any strong reason for him to go after Perry like that. Sure, Natalie is well protected now and harder for him to reach, but Perry had nothing to do with what happened in England.”

  “I know it wasn’t him. He’s an experienced fighter in a bloody civil war, an expert at exploiting surprise and position. If he was the shooter and he’d wanted Perry or me or both of us dead last night, we’d be dead. Whoever that was last night squandered his chance by shooting up Perry’s condo like an arcade. I suppose it could have been a hired thug who didn’t know what he was doing. Or someone else entirely, with a different agenda.”