Blessed said, “Well, now, Agent Savich, looks like we’ve got us a situation. I say one word to either of these boys and they’ll shoot you dead, or you’ll shoot them, both cops, just like you. As for your wife, forget her, she’s mine. Shall I have her shoot you instead?”
Sherlock stood quietly, her eyes blank, her face slack. She wasn’t there. She held her Glock at her side.
Blessed looked at each of them again. He felt elated, warm to his soul. He could do anything and everything.
“Don’t let him move, boys,” he said, then studied Sherlock, his minion, his tool. He looked at her red hair, all the curls feathering around her face. She was so alive, so vivid, he’d always thought. It was a pity she had to pay for her sins against Grace and Mama, but Father had always taught him and Grace that the way of a just and righteous life was to make sure people took responsibility, paid for their sins. He knew then what he was going to do. It was a stroke of brilliance, really.
He moved quietly forward, stopped. He turned to look at her again. But no need, she was still gone, locked securely into him, her master in all things. It was the best feeling in the world.
“I want you to kill him,” he said to Sherlock. “I want you to kill your husband. A nice clean shot through the head. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she said, “I understand.”
He stroked his hand over her bright hair, then sifted the soft curls between his fingers. “Don’t shoot yourself in the head. I don’t want gore all over your beautiful hair. After you’ve killed your husband, shoot yourself in the heart.”
He looked at her calm, serene face. Slowly, he leaned down and kissed her slack mouth. She made no response.
He jumped back. “Shoot him, girl, shoot him now!”
Washington Memorial Hospital
Connie twisted and jerked until Khalid pulled her tight against him. He felt a surge of crippling pain lash through him and he stumbled back, but he managed to grab Connie again and pull her in front of him. She kept struggling until she felt the cold gun press hard against her naked neck. “Stop it, woman! You, Agent, get back or she’s dead!”
Davis was nearly on him, but that pain-maddened voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He felt so frustrated he wanted to howl. He stared at William Charles—Khalid—and saw he was not only hanging on, he was regaining control over the pain in his side. He could kill Connie in an instant. Davis calmed himself, drew back.
Khalid was breathing hard through his teeth, his voice shuddering from the pain as he whispered against Connie’s temple, “Don’t do that again. My wife is a tiger like you, sharp teeth and fingernails, ready to rip out a man’s throat.”
Natalie’s calm voice rang out: “It’s me you want, Khalid, not her. Let her go.”
Khalid glanced over at Natalie and felt hate roil in his belly. She was here, at last, not more than eight feet from him, and she looked as unruffled and controlled as the bloody Queen. His father had loved the faithless bitch to his very soul. It enraged him. His voice shook with pain as he screamed, “Ah, Madame Ambassador speaks! You murdered my father, you lying bitch! I watched you spin your tales to those credulous morons on the TV news stations last night, saw how they pandered to you, believed every self-serving lie that fell out of your mouth. I only wish I’d have been strong enough yesterday to kill you.”
Natalie kept her voice calm. “It was you who left your father and your family, Khalid. He loved you, wanted you so badly to come home. Why didn’t you?”
“Family? What a bunch of selfish little sods, with a couple of bona fide nutters thrown in. Do you think I’d join them at Ascot, or playing polo, or strut down the aisle at Saint Paul’s with a whey-faced English bride on my arm? They’re carrion, all of them. At least now they won’t have Lockenby Hall to feast on.”
“But not your father. You loved each other. Let me ask you, Khalid, why are you so certain I am responsible for his death?”
“Everyone with a brain knows it! Now you’re claiming someone hacked into your email account and sent that indecent email in your name? Really? Are you ready to tell any tale that can’t be disproved? And then my father was dead, dead and gone. You did that to him. Admit it!”
“You will listen to me, and this is the absolute truth. I loved your father. We would have stood together with you if you had come back to England, and we would have stood together by ourselves if you had not. Do you understand me? We loved each other. When your father died, it broke something deep inside both of us. You feel the same pain losing him as I do, I know that, but you’re blaming someone else for it, and there’s no one to blame, not even yourself. Your father didn’t kill himself. They think now he had a problem with his heartbeat, and fell unconscious, and that’s why he went over the cliffs. I know he didn’t kill himself, Khalid, he cherished life. He would have never killed himself, never, even if I had broken our engagement in that ridiculous email, even if I’d announced it in Trafalgar Square. Don’t you know your father well enough to realize that?”
For an instant, Khalid looked uncertain, then his eyes filled with pain again, pain for his father and the physical pain that was bowing him into himself. “So now you call it a tragic accident rather than murder? You prefer that story now? Isn’t it a pity no one can prove it either way?” He had no more words. He sucked in a gasping breath, realized he was losing control of his mind and his body, and backed away from Connie. “You, get over there.”
Connie moved away from him.
Davis said, “Khalid, give us a chance to prove who sent the email. Don’t make another mistake before we all know the truth. Natalie was never the calculating monster you want to believe she is. Why can’t you see that?”
It was hard to breathe, the pain was pulsing hard, harder still, his body struggling, fighting, but in vain. So much pain, it was going to burst out, black and hot, and he would die as his father had died, his beloved father. He couldn’t stand the pain of it—he raised his gun, aimed it at Natalie. “I had to end my life because I had to avenge my father. I’ve lost every tie that meant anything to me, my wife, my children, my family. Killing you is all I have left.”
In a smooth, precise move so fast it was a blur, Connie swung her leg out and struck him in his wounded side.
Khalid screamed and fired.
Morganville, Virginia
Amity Ransom shouted “No!” from the living room doorway, and fired the old revolver at Blessed. There was a clicking sound, but nothing else happened. She kept pulling the trigger as Savich dived for Blessed, grabbed him around the neck and jerked him backward against him. “All right you madman, tell the officers to drop their weapons or I’ll twist your neck off.”
“Shoot him!” Blessed screamed at Sherlock. Savich smashed his fist against Blessed’s temple and lurched toward Sherlock. He was on top of her before she could raise her gun, but she was strong, stronger than he’d ever imagined. Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her gun arm out from beneath his chest and pinned her arm to the ground. She lay there, staring up at him with empty eyes. He slapped her hard, once, twice.
It seemed an eternity before she blinked, stared up at him. “Dillon?” Her voice was a tiny thread of a sound. “Why’d you hit me?”
“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re yourself again?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice filled with surprise. “Of course. I’m fine.”
Bibber and Pilson stood quiescent, waiting to be told what to do. Blessed stirred and sat up. Savich walked over and pressed his Glock against his ear. “You say one word and you’re a dead man.”
Sherlock shook her head as she slowly got to her feet. She knew what had happened, but she had no memory of it. She didn’t look at Blessed. She pulled off her jacket and ripped the sleeve off her blouse, handed it to Dillon. He wound it around Blessed’s eyes, knotting it in the back. “Watch him, Sherlock.” He walked to the two policemen, sent his fist into each of their jaws. They grunted in surprise, and then they were back. They straightened, loo
ked at each other, and almost in unison said, “What happened?”
“Are you all right?” The old woman was lightly touching her fingertips to the blood on Sherlock’s temple.
“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”
Amity Ransom looked around her entrance hall. “Goodness, what a to-do. I think all of us need a nice cup of tea.”
Blessed hurled himself up and grabbed Sherlock as he ripped the sleeve off his eyes, stared at her, and shouted, “Kill him! Kill him!”
Savich shot Blessed in the forehead as Sherlock raised her gun. Amity Ransom hit her on the temple with her heavy old revolver. Sherlock sank to the floor on her knees, holding her head and moaning. The old woman leaned down and lightly touched her shoulder. “I don’t understand this, but you should be all right now. Are you back here again?”
“I think so,” Sherlock said.
“I’m sorry. Your poor bruised head. Isn’t that strange how this man can hypnotize you so fast? I simply looked at him and I wasn’t there anymore until you hit me. Are you all right now, child?”
Sherlock’s head was swimming, pain pulsing through her, she wanted to vomit, but somehow she found a smile. “Yes, ma’am, thanks to you I am. Thank you.”
Washington Memorial Hospital
The shot hit the pitcher beside Hooley, not a foot from Natalie. Khalid wasn’t screaming now, he was on his back, clutching his side, moaning, nearly unconscious with the pain, as Davis pulled the gun from his hand. Connie was beside him, applying pressure to his bleeding side.
Davis said over his shoulder, “Perry, get a doctor in here. Connie, I think you’d make a fine FBI agent.”
She never raised her hands, now red with Khalid’s blood. “You think?”
Natalie walked slowly over to where William Charles lay gasping for breath on his back, his eyes glazed with pain. She saw the spreading blood through the white lab coat from his wound, saw the blood covering Connie’s hand. She went down on her knees next to him, lightly touched her fingers to his face. “Billy,” she said, leaning close, “I’m so sorry your father died. I’m so sorry you believed the press that I was the one who brought it about. I didn’t, Billy. I loved him as much as you said.” She paused for a moment, dashed the tears out of her eyes. “Medical help is on the way for you. You’ll get well and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
Perry said, “Mom, he didn’t try to kill me.”
“No, he said he didn’t.” Natalie looked up at her daughter. “So who did?” She rose and moved back as a doctor and two orderlies pushed in to take care of his lordship, Viscount Lockenby.
Secretary of State’s office
Tuesday noon
Theodore Reynolds, chief staffer to the secretary of state and guardian of the inner sanctum, watched the six people march up to his desk. He recognized all of them, but it was the sight of a grave-looking Eric Hainny, the president’s chief of staff, that brought it all together for him. He looked over at Ambassador Black’s face for confirmation, but her expression was set, giving no clue to her thoughts. Still, Theo knew this had to do with that photo of her fiancé’s son, the one sent up through State from the NSA that had ended up on Mrs. Abbott’s desk, and then front and center in the English papers. He knew something bad was going to happen. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was too dry.
Special Agent Savich stopped in front of his desk and showed him his creds. “Agent Savich, FBI.”
Theo said, “Yes, sir, I know who you are.” His eyes flickered to Hainny, who looked grim. Still, he had to try. He cleared his throat, hoped his voice stayed smooth. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Hainny, “but the secretary of state is with her son at the moment. This has thrown off her schedule, and—”
Eric Hainny said, “Listen, you shite, we’re here at the request of the president. Hold her calls. No, don’t buzz her, I know the way in.”
Theodore Reynolds shut up. He watched Hainny lead Ambassador Black; her daughter, Perry; and the three FBI agents toward his boss’s office. The ambassador wore a sad expression now, and her daughter was obviously angry. Mrs. Abbott should have buried that photo, she should have alerted Mrs. Black and the president about the diplomatic problem it posed if it ever got out. He’d advised her so himself. Now the silly thing was blowing up on her. He wondered if it would mean the end of her career, and his with it. There was little he could do for her, but he had to have time to confer with Mrs. Abbott before he was questioned, evaluate their options, come up with a strategy. He pulled his recent files out of his drawers and put the contents and his laptop into his briefcase. He was waiting for an elevator to the lobby of the Truman Building, then he felt a hand on his sleeve and turned to see a serious-faced young man holding out an FBI shield. “You need to come with me to the Hoover Building, Mr. Reynolds. We have some questions for you about a criminal matter.”
Arliss Abbott felt a surge of impatience when the door opened with no warning and without her permission. When she saw Agent Savich, her impatience morphed into rage and a dollop of fear she refused to acknowledge. She saw Eric Hainny, and stilled. He looked grimmer than he’d been when the president seemed to be losing Florida in the last election. Her heart kettle-drummed in her chest when she saw Natalie and Perry, as well as Davis Sullivan and Savich’s wife, Agent Sherlock, behind them.
She quickly regained control. She was the secretary of state, she never panicked, and she wouldn’t start now in front of these bureaucrats and glorified policemen. She would deal with anything this group had to say. Why was Hainny here?
She felt Day lightly lay his fingers on her arm. She saw he was staring at Perry, such hunger in his eyes it made her want to weep. Day, her son, her precious son. She took his hand, squeezed it, said low, “Listen to me, Day. This is important. Don’t say anything, all right? I’ll handle this.”
She stepped forward, effectively blocking him. She said to Hainny, her voice brusque, “Eric, please tell me what you’re doing here. What do these people want?”
Hainny said, “We’re all here at the behest of the president, Mrs. Abbott. As of this moment, I am here as an observer of the FBI, to be sure you hear them out.”
Day didn’t understand. He stared at Perry, willing her to look at him, but she didn’t. She was standing with her mother, holding her hand. She looked pale and resolute, and Mrs. Black looked immensely sad. What was this all about? He looked at Sullivan, felt a leap of anger that Sullivan knew but he didn’t.
“Very well, Eric. What is it you want, then, Agent Savich?” Arliss asked him.
“Madame Secretary, we can begin with that photo of William Charles McCallum taken by a United States intelligence operative in northern Syria over a month ago. We knew it was forwarded to the NSA and it was they who identified that apparent jihadist as the son of Mrs. Black’s fiancé, George McCallum. They recognized the possible repercussions of that photo to Mrs. Black and to the State Department, and so they forwarded the encrypted photo and its particulars directly to your office.
“It seemed obvious to them that you would inform Mrs. Black and the president of the photo discreetly. Instead, you arranged to leak it to the British press.”
Arliss said, “Yes, of course the NSA sent me the photo. However, before I could consult with the president and Mrs. Black, it was leaked to the British press. Who was responsible for this, I don’t know.”
“And yet you never let Mrs. Black or the president know about the photo, even after it was released,” Savich said. “You followed that with the crass email you arranged to have sent from Mrs. Black’s private email account to George McCallum that made it appear she was abandoning him because of his son. You had corresponded with Natalie on that account for years, enough for you to find out her password if you didn’t already know it. You forwarded that forged email to the press as well.”
Arliss cocked her head to one side, then smiled at him. “Another absurd tale you’re weaving without any proof? I suppose your fantasy includes some kind of motive?”
Savich said, “The motive, Mrs. Abbott, yes, the motive was the difficult part. You knew Natalie hadn’t looked at another man since her husband’s death until she met and fell in love with George McCallum. You knew all her hopes for the future were centered on him, as George’s were centered on her. You saw that Natalie was looking forward to that future, saw that she was happy again, and how you hated that. When the photo from the NSA came to your desk, you realized William Charles McCallum’s photo presented you with your chance to end it.
“The press was thrilled with the photo, of course, with being able to label the son of a peer of the realm, the man who was slated to marry the ambassador to the United Kingdom, as a terrorist. Naturally, Natalie told you the circumstances, told you she and George were handling it. You hoped it would break them apart, hoped even more that the mounting pressure from the scandal would force her to resign her post. To make sure you upped the ante, you arranged for that email you’d forged to George McCallum to be sent anonymously to the papers.
“The point of your email wasn’t to fool him. The first thing George did was call Natalie and find out it wasn’t from her. The point was to leak the email to the press, to have Natalie’s private life, real and imagined, dragged through the tabloids. Could she survive that?
“I imagine you were pleased with the serendipity of George McCallum’s car going over a cliff near Dover, Mrs. Abbott. The autopsy was inconclusive, and his death was ruled accidental. He probably suffered some kind of cardiovascular event with all the stress he was under. Perhaps he lost consciousness. We will never know. But you didn’t want the scandal to end with McCallum’s death. No, you wanted it to go viral, and so you planted more rumors. Shortly after George’s funeral, it didn’t take the press long to happily announce that George McCallum had been driven to kill himself because Natalie had ended her engagement to him.
Power Play (An FBI Thriller) Page 29
