by Brett King
“I have a question,” Deena said, riding with Dillon in the back of his limousine. “Aren’t you and the president a little old for sibling rivalry?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
She laughed, glancing out the window at the Dupont Circle neighborhood in Washington, D.C.’s northwest section. “Where’s your penthouse?”
“On Seventeenth and P. I’m staying here during the separation.” He looked at her. “Alex and I haven’t lived in the same town since high school. Even back in Sag Harbor, I realized we needed distance.”
“Why are you staying here?”
“An investment deal. Plus, I’m logging time with lobbyists on K Street.” He pointed out the window. “We’re here.”
The Lafayette was a majestic old redbrick building with brick stairs leading to a bright green door. Deena knew this neighborhood. She loved the area’s trendy restaurants, custom shops, coffeehouses, and small boutiques. As the limo driver pulled curbside, Dillon leaned in. “You need to open a Christmas present.”
“Dillon, a present? I didn’t get you anything.”
“You found the Radix,” he smiled. “It’s going to save my investment in Taft-Ryder.”
1:00 A.M.
Alexander Armstrong headed for the East Wing as Secret Service Agent Kevin Quick shadowed his every step. Like most modern presidents, he found refuge in the White House’s family theater. A night at the movies allowed escape without Secret Service hanging on him. Cinema came in a close second to golf as the president’s favorite way to unwind. He walked down the East Colonnade, a white corridor adorned with a wreath on each window, before entering a narrow room. The place had served as a White House cloakroom until it was converted into a screening room during FDR’s administration. Armstrong had spent countless hours in here, sometimes using it to rehearse his State of the Union address. Willie Cohen, the White House projectionist, waited outside his booth.
“I hate asking you to do this so late, Willie.”
“Not a problem, Mr. President.” He motioned to the seats. “We don’t want to keep Mr. Cooper waiting. Just give me a couple minutes to get it ready.”
As Armstrong headed down the theater’s red velvet stairs, he said, “Didn’t you tell me this movie has been screened more than any other at the White House?”
“That’s what the records show. My predecessor, Paul Fischer, kept notes all the way back to Eisenhower. Enjoy, Mr. President.”
Passing seven rows of chairs, he plopped down on a red overstuffed armchair in the front row. Buttered popcorn waited on the matching red ottoman. Digging in, he reflected on High Noon’s popularity for Oval Office leaders. Gary Cooper’s unflinching portrayal of Marshal Kane resonated with American presidents. They understood the pressure of making decisions against the clock. Especially when you had to go it alone, sometimes with the world against you.
He glanced over as the vice president slid into the chair beside him. Isaac Starr’s face conveyed a sense of quiet authority. He resembled baseball legend Jackie Robinson in his later years—all calm resolve and salt-and-pepper hair—when he had taken up the cause of civil rights.
“I thought you hated Westerns,” Armstrong said.
“Not this one. It’s an existential morality play in a cowboy hat.” Starr looked over with dark, restless eyes. “Nice party, Alex. You made Andrea’s night with that angel ornament.”
“Glad she liked it. How’s she feeling?”
“We started a new program at Children’s National. It’s making a difference with her cerebral palsy.” Starr glanced over. “Had any more thoughts about our reelection strategy?”
“Our latest approval ratings look solid. If we stay on track, we’ll crush them.”
Starr gave a roguish grin. “I just said the same thing to your brother in the Palm Room. I was leaving the presscorps office when I saw him with Deena. Mind passing the popcorn?”
Armstrong handed him the bucket. “When did you see them?”
“Maybe thirty minutes ago. Everything okay, Alex?”
He brought out his cell phone and called for a status update on Dillon.
An agent reported that Fortune—the Secret Service codename for his brother—and Deena had departed the White House at twelve thirty-five in the morning.
“Deena was supposed to spend the night in the Lincoln Bedroom,” he fumed. “They were arguing at the party. Dillon was concerned about spending a lot of money on something called the Radix. I’m concerned he’s planning something rash.”
Starr thought it over. “I’m sure it’s on the level. Your brother is an investment genius.”
“If Dillon pulls a stupid stunt, it could haunt us next November. Maybe he suffers from Nixonburger Syndrome. It’s a condition marked by excessive greed, poor decision-making, and profound stupidity. It afflicts the siblings of the president of the United States.”
“Including Nixon’s brother, I take it?” Starr asked, handing back the popcorn.
“Back when his brother was vice president, Donald Nixon opened a chain of hamburger stands. He sold Nixonburgers in California, including one near Disneyland.”
“Sounds like a plan suited for Fantasyland.”
“Don was a lousy businessman. In 1957, Howard Hughes loaned Don Nixon more than two hundred thousand dollars to rescue him from bankruptcy. It was a bombshell that damaged Dick Nixon’s 1960 presidential bid and his run for governor of California two years later. After Nixon became president, he had Secret Service wiretap his brother’s phone.”
“Wow,” Starr chuckled. “What are the chances of Nixon doing that?”
“We’ve had a near epidemic of Nixonburger Syndrome. Billy Carter and Sam Houston Johnson. Roger Clinton. Neil Bush.” He frowned as the house lights faded. “Someday, you’ll be in charge of this office, Isaac. When that happens, you’ll be glad you’re an only child.”
“Your brother’s not like those guys. Dillon isn’t a political risk.”
“My brother screwed up before. Not that he’d admit it. We kept it under wraps.”
“Can you excuse me, Alex? I should tell my wife I’m staying for the show.”
“Hurry.” He pointed at the screen as Lee Van Cleef and his henchmen rode down Hadleyville’s dusty street. “You’re gonna miss the best part.”
“What’s the best part?” Starr asked, standing.
“All of it.”
1:30 A.M.
As the fireplace blazed behind her, Deena curled on the mahogany floor and sipped wine.
Dillon’s Lafayette penthouse projected a sleek urban look. It had a more casual spirit than his place with Brooke in the Lenox Hill neighborhood on Manhattan’s Upper East Side. After they arrived at his penthouse, he had given her the Luxembourg account information for purchasing the Radix.
He came over, joining her beside the fire. “I need to ask you something.” His eyes sparkled. “Were you ever intimate with Alex?”
“No,” Deena lied. “We came close. Or maybe it was my imagination.”
“I don’t think so. I saw it tonight at the party. Alex has a thing for you.”
Her face burned. “You’re imagining things.”
He reached inside his suit pocket. He handed her a small white box tied with a sapphire ribbon. As he reached for his Chardonnay, she opened the box and found a pear-shaped diamond necklace. She clamped her hand over her mouth, making a hushed sound of surprise. “I love it.”
“You better. I flew to the Brisbane salon to purchase it from Stefano Canturi.”
She felt stupid not recognizing the designer’s name. He unclasped the necklace, then brought it around her neck as she raised her cinnamon brown hair. The diamond slid into place, finding a home at her neckline. “It’s gorgeous. I hope you didn’t spend too much on it.”
He laughed. “If you hope that, then there’s something wrong with you.”
Hearing the alert tone, she grabbed her cell from the coffee table. “It’s a text from Pantera.” Her eyes widened. “I
t’s confirmed. The Radix has been found.”
Washington, D.C.
2:00 A.M.
President Alexander Armstrong relaxed as Gary Cooper’s stoic marshal faced down his past in High Noon. He appreciated Isaac Starr joining him. Despite an omnipresent army of staff and advisors, the White House was one of the loneliest places on the planet. Armstrong heard whispering at the back of the theater. He craned his neck. His national security advisor, Wendy Hefner, talked with Secret Service Agent Kevin Quick.
He and Starr stood as the black-and-white image of Coop’s face wrapped around them. The president raised his hand. “Hold up, Willie. I need to confer with Ms. Hefner.”
The projector stopped. The house lights brightened. She hurried down the stairs. Dressed in a dark suit, she wore her ash blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail.
“Sorry to interrupt, Mr. President,” she said, catching her breath. “The Saudi ambassador wants to speak on the phone. Prince Zaki wouldn’t share details, but it’s clear he’s not happy.”
Back in the Oval Office a few minutes later, Armstrong put Zaki bin Abdelaziz on speaker. The vice president stood beside the desk.
The ambassador sounded terse. “Mr. President, we have enjoyed a cordial partnership until yesterday afternoon. Given our past alliance, I must ask for an end to your harassment.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I am speaking about the man who broke into my Hala Ranch home last night.”
He barked a laugh. “If someone broke in, Mr. Ambassador, you should notify Aspen police. Not the president of the United States.”
“This goes beyond a police matter. I have a state-of-the-art security system, Mr. President. This man used advanced technology to bypass it. He disabled my camera equipment. He immobilized my security team. He crashed one of my helicopters. Five members of my security team were sent to the emergency room. Two had to be fished out of the Colorado River. This man is not a common intruder. He is nothing less than a sophisticated vandal.”
“Sounds impressive. I still don’t see why you called me.”
“I believe the break-in was a retaliation for my troubled meeting with you yesterday.”
Isaac Starr shook his head.
“With all due respect, do you realize how ridiculous that sounds, Mr. Ambassador?”
“The intruder disabled all but one camera. I have sent pictures of him.”
Wendy Hefner hustled into the Oval with photographs. She spread them across his desk.
“I was handed the pictures, Mr. Ambassador. My people will look into this situation.”
“He called himself John Robie, but I suspect he lied. He escaped in my helicopter. A heliport camera took the pictures you are looking at. Please find someone to identify this man.”
Zaki ended the call.
“Wendy,” Armstrong told his national security advisor, “get the CIA director and the NSA director in here for an immediate meeting.” He moved to the south-facing windows behind his desk, then stared at the December night. “I want to get to the bottom of this fast.”
Chapter Seventeen
Baltimore
2:12 A.M.
Sleep had been merciful. Much to her surprise, Cori didn’t dream about her mother. Something else jolted her awake. A sound.
“You in here?” a man asked, stumbling into her darkened room. “Cori?”
She recognized the voice. Leonardo. How had the mental patient escaped his secret ward? He staggered to her bed. Blankets cascaded off the mattress as she scooted against the headboard. She twisted a sheet across her chest.
“Don’t have much time,” he rasped. “The Borgias want to kill me.” He coughed, switching on a flashlight. Blood speckled his cheek. Leonardo placed her mother’s book on the bed, then brought out a business card. “My name’s Edgar Wurm. Contact the man on this card. Tell him, ‘The Tree of Life can kill as well as heal.’ Got it?”
“I guess,” she stuttered.
“Tell him to get inside the mind of Carl Jung. Learn his secrets.” He gave her the card. “This is critical. It could affect the lives of millions.”
“But Leo—Edgar. Let’s call Mack Shaw. Or the police.”
“Do not call the police. If the Borgias discover we talked, they’ll kill you.” Wurm turned off the flashlight, then glanced out the hallway. “They’re coming. I must go.” Looking back, he whispered, “Sorry to get you involved, Cori. Good luck.”
Then he was gone.
It was confusing. Who were the Borgias? Tonight had been one of those Alice-in-Wonderland moments in her life, situations where curiosity led her into discovery and danger.
She flipped over the business card. Wurm had scrawled a series of numbers on the back:
157:13:08–09/14:05:02–03/316:01:01/07:07:07 98:28:01/03:05:13/64:02:16/63:25:07/404:30:04–05/84:08:06
She had no idea what it meant. She slid the card inside her mother’s book. This night seemed surreal, like a new nightmare. And it was getting worse. Muffled voices came from outside her room. Was it Leonardo—Wurm—talking to someone? She rolled off the bed, then slid her mother’s book under the mattress. She hurried to the doorway.
A flashlight blinded her. She shielded her eyes.
“Stop right there,” a woman hissed. Dressed in a white lab coat, she was in her late twenties, tall and athletic. Sleek black hair halted above her shoulders. She had gray eyes with flawless lips and skin—a fusion of coldness and beauty.
“Who are you?” Cori asked, catching her breath as she looked up. Her head came an inch below the woman’s shoulder.
“Dr. Elizabeth Reese.” She swept a penlight’s beam down Cori’s face to the name sewn on her lab coat. “We have a problem.”
She caught herself shivering. “What’s wrong?”
“An escaped patient.”
“I didn’t see him.”
The woman smiled. “I never said the patient was a man.” A soft laugh. “Climb back in bed.”
She ordered another person—maybe a man—to search the other rooms.
Cori crawled onto her bed, then pulled up covers and watched the door. Wurm had warned about the Borgias. Is that them? He said they’d kill me. She listened for a sound.
The woman darted into the room, stopping at the bed. She dropped the penlight into her lab coat, then leaned down. “Tell me,” she cooed, running her fingers through Cori’s blonde hair. “Did this madman visit your bedroom?”
She thought it over. Perez claimed Edgar Wurm had killed three people. She remembered blood smeared on his cheek.
“You have beautiful hair, dear. Did you have it cut?”
She nodded.
“On the hospital ward?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t allow patients to get haircuts. Nothing sharp, you know. Bad things happen when dangerous patients handle sharp objects. But you don’t seem dangerous. In fact, you don’t seem crazy at all.”
Following Berta’s orders, Cori hadn’t acted psychotic during her hospital stay. Now seemed like the time to feign madness. She tapped into a conversation she’d had with Delsy.
“I did get a haircut,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper, as if someone were listening. “Jesus cut it.”
“What?” the woman asked.
“Jesus slips into my room every night with golden scissors. The Ten Commandments are engraved on the handle. All seventeen of them. An angel gave them to Christ for his birthday. He cuts my hair, then checks my teeth for sin. Jesus wants me to take my meds like a good girl, then kisses my forehead and tells a bedtime story. Promise you won’t tell or the whole floor will want Jesus to cut their hair. Promise?” Cori breathed hard. Is she buying it?
The woman sneered. “You crazy bitch.”
“Excuse me, lady,” Mack Shaw’s rumbling voice broke in. “What’re you doing in this patient’s room?”
Cori hugged herself. Thank God he’s here.
The woman was as tall as Mack. “I’m a psychiatrist. Dr. Elizabeth Reese.”
“No, you’re not. Liz Reese is a foot shorter. Now, who are you?”
She ripped off the lab coat, then pitched it at his feet. “Didn’t fit anyway.”
“How’d you get this?” he asked, bending to pick up the coat.
She grabbed Mack’s arm and yanked it behind his back. She shoved him on the bed, pinning Cori beneath them. The woman raised a knife. She sliced Mack’s neck. Cori screamed. Blood sprayed the sheets. His body convulsed. Cori couldn’t catch her breath. She couldn’t believe this was happening.
A man called from the door. “Adriana, I found Wurm.”
“Good,” she answered. “Take him to the Hartlove Slaughterhouse.”
The woman glanced back, then disappeared into the hallway.
Blood dripped from Mack’s severed neck onto Cori’s arm. Awash in grief and fear, she struggled to free herself, squeezing out from under him. Wiping tears, she crawled off the bed and scooted against the wall. Sliding to the floor, she curled into a fetal position.
Not Mack. Not Mack.
She was scared, unsure about whom to trust. Wurm said she shouldn’t call the police. Confusion settled in, but one thing was clear: she needed out. Mack’s body straddled the bed, his fingers pointing to the floor. Then it hit her. Mack knew the truth about me. Everyone else in here thinks I’m crazy. They’ll think I killed Mack.
She saw a security pass card dangling from his belt. It was her ticket out.
“Sorry, Mack,” she whispered, unlatching the pass card. She slid on the lab coat. It fit her better than it had Adriana. Cori snatched her mother’s book from the mattress.
Sneaking into the dayroom, she inched along the wall, then sprinted toward the door leading to the secret ward. She swiped Mack’s card before hurrying down the white stairs.
The elevator took her down to Edgar Wurm’s room. Perez had mentioned an exit beneath the observation window. The card could unlock it. She reached in Liz Reese’s coat and found Adriana’s penlight. Was the woman a Borgia?
