by Brett King
“Aren’t you furious?” Levine had asked.
She wasn’t. In a weird way, it was a compliment. She had an epiphany that night: If people like my work enough to steal it, they might like it enough to buy it. She moved from her loft in SoHo and drove to California to jump-start her bohemian fantasy of becoming an artist. It worked out. The Museum of Contemporary Art in Los Angeles purchased two sculptures for its permanent collection. She created an outdoor piece for the Olympic Sculpture Park on Seattle’s waterfront and was preparing for a solo show at a San Francisco gallery.
She had met John Brynstone at an artist reception during a West Coast exhibition. Desperate for money, she had sold her favorite piece, a sculpture named Eclipse. He bought it and broke her heart. Two weeks later at the Grove, she recognized the handsome black-haired man at a trendy restaurant. He bought her a drink. She told him she missed Eclipse. He promised visitation rights. The rest was history. She loved him but hated his secrets, especially about his intelligence work. For all she knew, he could be having an affair.
She prayed that wasn’t the case.
Chapter Twelve
Washington, D.C.
10:51 P.M.
Growing up on a hardscrabble South Carolina farm, Deena Riverside never imagined she’d visit the White House, let alone spend the night in the Lincoln Bedroom. Now a successful pharmaceutical executive, she had stayed here four times. Like other presidents, Alexander Armstrong favored his affluent donors with sleepovers in the famous bedroom.
This place had served as Lincoln’s cabinet room during the Civil War, but never his bedroom. Decorated with rich fabrics, it was small but handsome, with a beaded globe chandelier presiding over Victorian parlor decor. Her favorite piece was the rosewood bed with its six-foot-tall carved headboard. Framed by a crown-shaped canopy, the bed was draped in flowing satin over white lace, reaching to the floor.
The part Deena never told her friends was that the mattress was lumpy as hell.
She moved to the sitting room east of the Lincoln Bedroom. Curling on the Victorian medallion sofa with her notebook computer, she stared at the marble fireplace in the northeast corner. Her mind drifted to her conversation with Dillon Armstrong earlier in the evening at the Christmas party. She acted like it didn’t upset her. The truth was, she didn’t want to lose her job. As CEO of Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals, she ran one of the world’s premiere pharmaceutical companies. Some stockholders grumbled that she was running it into the ground.
Civil War surgeon Zachary Taft, a relative of William Howard Taft, had founded the company in 1870. A year later, it became the first pharmaceutical company to hire a full-time chemist, Dr. Leland Ryder. Taft-Ryder’s biggest success came from cough syrup marketed as Dr. Ryder’s Miracle Discovery for Coughs and Colds. Sold by Victorian physicians and sideshow hucksters alike, the syrup tripled company profits.
In reality, Dr. Ryder’s “miracle discovery” was actually a cocaine extract.
Taft-Ryder flourished until the Great Depression crushed profits. In the decades following World War II, the company fell behind pharmaceutical powerhouses like Pfizer, GlaxoSmithKline, and Merck. Taft-Ryder’s fortunes changed when Dillon became an investor. After bringing Deena on board, they became unstoppable. As CEO, she had gambled on an antidepressant drug known as Romzar. The drug became Taft-Ryder’s “bread-and-butter molecule” and profits blasted through the ceiling. Management uncorked the champagne when Fortune magazine named Taft-Ryder “America’s Most Admired Pharmaceutical Company.”
Then all hell broke loose.
Patent and other market exclusivity expirations hit Taft-Ryder hard. When generic equivalents for their top two drugs hit the market, branded product sales dropped 90 percent. If things didn’t change soon, the drug giant would need to lay off ten thousand workers and shut down several manufacturing and research sites.
The pressure was on. If she couldn’t turn around Taft-Ryder Pharmaceuticals, she would lose her job. She needed a miracle.
She needed the Radix.
10:55 P.M.
President Alexander Armstrong placed The Night Before Christmas on the nightstand, then tucked his children into bed. The First Lady lingered at the door. Their two children shared a bedroom suite in the southwest corner of the Executive Residence’s third floor.
He read to his children every night. That surprised Helena, because he’d never made time for it during his years as governor of New York at the Executive Mansion in Albany. With greater demands on his schedule now, reading to his children counted among his few simple pleasures at the White House.
Curled on her pillow, Alysha was asleep. Not Justin. At three, he was already a chronic insomniac like his old man.
“Give me a scratchback, Daddy. Pleeeeease.” He raised his Batman pajama top and rolled over, hugging his pillow.
“Not tonight, Justin,” Helena said, her hand poised at her forehead. The migraine had passed like an earthquake. Now she was dealing with the aftershock.
“I’ll scratch your back, tiger. Let me talk to Mom first.”
Armstrong came over and kissed his wife. “I promise Justin will be working on visions of sugarplums in no time. You’ve had a rough day, Helena. Get your rest.”
She nodded and yawned. Lean and regal, with sable brown hair, Helena Armstrong had become one of the more fashionable first ladies in history. “Sorry I missed the party.”
“Everyone sent you warm wishes.”
“Even Deena Riverside?”
“Even Deena.”
“You’ve had a rough Christmas Eve too. Have you talked to Ambassador Zaki since he stormed out of here?”
“I’ll call tomorrow. We’ll work it out.”
“Can you get some sleep?”
“I have a love-hate relationship with sleep. Lately, it’s been hate.”
“Why don’t you watch a movie?” she suggested, running her finger along his pebbled black tie. “It always helps you relax and focus. It’ll take your mind off things.”
“I’ll think about it.”
They kissed again. He watched her move to the hallway. Returning to the bed, he was ready to scratch Justin’s back. Little guy was conked.
“Some kind of a miracle,” Armstrong whispered.
He pulled down Justin’s shirt before tucking in the sheets. After the heated exchange with Ambassador Zaki, he was hoping for a peaceful holiday.
Chapter Thirteen
Airborne over Colorado
9:05 P.M.
Brynstone cupped Banshee’s face. She issued a deep purr. The cat’s one green eye formed a slit, disappearing in silky black fur.
Last July, he had traveled to Ireland to meet a Radix scholar named Reece Griffin, a historian at University College Cork. When he arrived at the man’s flat, he heard gunfire. Kicking in the door, he found Griffin facedown, with an exit wound in his back. A rangy young man had stepped into the room, aiming a gun. Griffin’s cat squealed from the kitchen, as if crying at the sight of her dead master. In surprise, the man fired at the kitten. Brynstone slammed into him and sent the guy crashing through a third-story window. He had peeked out the shattered window, finding the man sprawled on the dented hood of a white car. Waiting for the police to arrive, he grabbed his medic kit, then cleaned and stitched the cat’s swollen eye.
The kitten’s cry had distracted the gunman and saved Brynstone’s life. In choosing the cat’s name, he had found inspiration in the Irish myth of the banshee, a female spirit who wails when someone is about to die. Whenever he headed out on a mission, his one-eyed companion joined him. Kaylyn called them soul mates, sharing a fearless streak and a craving for adventure.
Lowering the cat to the floor, he grabbed his belt pack.
Jordan Rayne moved into the seat facing him. She crossed her long legs. Jordan was beautiful without even trying. And she wasn’t used to men ignoring her.
He dug inside the belt, then placed the stone box on the table. He ran his finger across the engraved lid.<
br />
Jordan met his eyes. “Is that—?”
“The cista mystica.”
“Is the Radix inside?”
He nodded.
“Wonderful,” she purred. “I’ll deliver it to DIRNSA.”
Before he could answer, his cell vibrated. He checked the number. “It’s Kaylyn.”
Jordan nodded. He tucked away the box as she walked to the galley. He put the phone to his ear and paced the Learjet’s aisle. His wife didn’t waste time.
“We need to work on so many issues, John. I’m frustrated. I just wish you could be here. Is that too much to ask?”
“I know, Kaylyn. I know you want Christmas to be special for Shay.” He closed his eyes. “Look, I can’t make Christmas Eve, but I’ll make sure I’m home tomorrow.”
“Are you serious?”
“I need some more time on this assignment. After I wrap things up, I’ll fly to LA.”
“You promise?”
“Promise.” He laughed softly. “Seems like our life’s turning into an Elvis song. You know, ‘If I Get Home On Christmas Day.’”
“Yeah?” she asked. “I’ll take that over ‘Blue Christmas’ anytime.”
They talked a little more, the conversation playing smoother than Brynstone had expected when he’d first answered her call. After hanging up, he contacted a microbiologist named Bill Nosaka, asking him to analyze a soft-tissue sample from the Zanchetti mummy.
Jordan peeked from the galley. She walked to his seat with another Grey Goose martini.
“Not your style to eavesdrop on people,” he told her.
“You’re kidding, right? I work for the United States Special Collection Service.” She handed him a drink. “Why so paranoid?”
“Because I work for the Special Collection Service.”
“We’re a lot alike,” she said, relaxing in the seat beside him. “We’ll both put our lives on the line if the SCS demands it.”
She was right. Brynstone thought about the time he had bugged the Moscow home of the director of the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation, the successor to the Soviet KGB. He’d barely escaped with his life. And then, last summer on the Philippine island of Jolo, he’d used his surgical skill to implant a nanotech bug inside the mouth of a World Islamic Brotherhood leader. Brynstone had sedated the terrorist as he slept, then installed the microscopic recording device in his upper gum line. Unaware that the American government could monitor his conversations, the terrorist had provided invaluable intelligence on the Brotherhood’s activities. Brynstone thrived on those assignments.
“The SCS is notorious for destroying marriages,” Jordan continued. “How is Kaylyn?”
His voice softened. “Lonely.”
“I know that feeling.”
“Your parents divorced when you were a kid, right?”
She nodded. “They still don’t talk.”
“Your dad’s a scientist?”
“Stephan Rayne. A Nobel laureate in chemistry.” The cat batted at the lacing on her boots. Jordan reached down to pet her, but Banshee shot back her ears, then skittered up the aisle. “They had nothing in common. Mom was a fashion model.”
“Why’d they marry?”
She made a face. “Dad’s family had money. Simple as that.”
“Are you more like your mom or your dad?”
“Dad, no question. He raised me. Mom always said I got her body and his brains. My older brother, Robert? He got dad’s body and mom’s brains.”
“You got the better deal.”
“Thanks.” She giggled again, brushing back red hair. “Why the questions?”
He took a drink. “My wife hinted at divorce earlier tonight.”
“Is that what you want?”
“No. I don’t think Kaylyn does, either. She’s torn, feeling like she can’t go on like this.”
“That’s no surprise, given the danger and secrecy of our work,” Jordan added. “Like I said, the divorce rate among Special Collection Service agents is astronomical.”
A glance, still guarded. “I’ll do everything I can to save my marriage. I don’t want my daughter to deal with divorce.”
“Sometimes that’s better than parents who fight all the time.”
“We’re not together enough to do that.” He shook his head. “Wanna know one strange part? General Delgado has been giving me marriage advice.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. DIRNSA acts like you’re the son he never had.”
“James Delgado saved my life,” he said, dropping his gaze.
“When you were an Army Ranger?”
“Long before that. He and my father were best friends. My dad was a high-ranking intelligence official. One night when I was ten years old, Delgado visited our vacation home. He caught an intruder attacking my dad. Delgado warned me to get out. He stopped the intruder, but the guy stabbed Delgado. My dad died that night. Delgado came close.”
“Is that why DIRNSA has that jagged scar down the side of his face?”
He nodded.
“I’ve wondered, but nobody talks about it.” She sipped the martini. “Didn’t you say your father was interested in finding the Radix?”
“I didn’t learn about that until a couple years ago. From what Mom told me, he didn’t discuss stuff like that.”
“A man of secrets, huh? Guess it runs in the family. No wonder your dad and General Delgado were buddies.”
“Jordan, we need to discuss Operation Overshadow. Something about tonight’s mission at Hala Ranch is eating at me.” He sunk back in his seat. “And I may need your help.”
Los Angeles
8:15 P.M.
Little more than a year old, Shayna Brynstone wobbled toward the Christmas tree. The toddler gurgled, holding a conversation with her fish-eye reflection in a glass ornament. For Kaylyn, the tender moment brought a smile. And a tear. She wished John could be here.
Earlier in the evening, she had blurted the word divorce while talking to her husband. As much as she despised saying that, maybe it had inspired John to head home tomorrow. She knew almost nothing about her husband’s intelligence work, but she understood that he thrived on it. He was addicted to taking risks.
His childhood had been riddled with Perthes disease. The illness brought avascular necrosis, sapping blood supply to his hipbone. He was subjected to multiple surgeries. Bedridden and in traction for months, John was forced into a body cast. Even a wheelchair at times. After his body had betrayed him, he developed his mind. His father encouraged John to read everything he could get his hands on.
His illness hadn’t been the only challenge. His father, Jayson Brynstone, had been murdered one night in their Nantucket summer home. Fortunately, his father’s best friend, James Delgado, had stopped the intruder from attacking John. Since that night, Delgado had become a substitute father for her husband.
John had hit a turning point at age eleven, dealing with the disease, if not his father’s death. He left behind the wheelchair and body casts and returned to school. The disease had run its course. Children who had teased him for being small and frail were astonished to find that John was bigger and stronger than his classmates.
After that, John never looked back. Sometimes that was a good thing. Sometimes bad.
He refused to talk about his disease or his father’s passing. She’d never had the chance to meet Jayson Brynstone, but her mother-in-law claimed that John and his father had shared a close bond. The basic architecture of John’s face bore a resemblance to his father’s, all chiseled lines and tanned features. The similarities persisted over generations. Shay’s cool blue eyes matched perfectly the eyes of her father and grandfather.
John had confessed that coping with disease had taught him to live without fear. She sensed that the only time her husband lowered his guard was when he was with his family. After his bedridden childhood, he craved risk because it made him feel alive. That’s why he’d followed his father’s career path as an intelligence field agent.
John thrived on chaos and danger. She needed safety and stability. They made it work until Shay came along. Kaylyn had always dreamed about sharing holidays with her own family. Raised by her grandparents, she had never celebrated Christmas during her childhood. She had vowed to make the holiday special for her child. She couldn’t wait to have John home.
She scooted off the sofa and moved to her daughter. She reached under the tree, then placed a package at Shay’s feet. The child’s eyes brightened as she tugged on the ribbon. Kaylyn helped her daughter tear the paper. She and John had bought this gift back in October.
Shay squealed when she saw the stuffed pink bunny inside the box. Grabbing it, she plopped her face into its fluffy back. She raised her head, seeming to talk with her eyes. Kaylyn wished she could read her daughter’s mind. She couldn’t wait to hear Shay’s next words.
Airborne over Colorado
9:20 P.M.
Brynstone could read the bewilderment on Jordan’s face. He drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Something tonight didn’t feel right.”
“Hala Ranch was an unusual op for us. The SCS doesn’t go around stealing relics.”
“Exactly. What is your understanding about the goal of Operation Overshadow?”
“Here’s what I know,” she said. “You were tapped to break into Hala Ranch and steal the Radix. Ambassador Zaki will do anything to get it back.”
“That’s where I have a problem. The intelligence was correct about Zaki locking a valued possession inside his mummy room. Turns out that his prized possession was the mummified remains of Alexander the Great, not the Radix. Zaki went bat-shit crazy when his men fired in the direction of Alexander’s mummy. He never mentioned the Zanchetti mummy.”
“Maybe he was acting.”
“Don’t think so. I’m starting to believe Zaki doesn’t know the Radix even exists.”
“We were briefed that he has ties to the World Islamic Brotherhood. We were ordered to retrieve the Radix as leverage, so we could pressure him into sharing intelligence.”
