Fast Track (The Sisterhood: Rules of the Game, Book 3)

by Fern Michaels

  “Hold on there, hotshot,” Jack said. “You need to hear our problems first. This is not going well, Charles. The shit hit the fan, and it is splattering in all directions. Right now the girls are holed up in McLean at Myra’s farmhouse. Everything is in play with a few side problems. It seems the city is on high alert due to rat infestation at the British Embassy. Reston Exterminating is out of business. Ted Robinson is onto us. There really are rats at the embassy. The Brits are being closemouthed—there hasn’t been a peep out of them. As we speak, there is a mass exodus from the District as everyone is afraid of the plague and the so-called terrorists who are behind it. Traffic going out of the city is unbelievable. Even with opening up the incoming lanes to outbound traffic, there are some places where the roads are one big parking lot. On top of that, the rumor mill is reporting the pending sale of the Post. Our very own Annie is supposedly buying it. Is that true? I don’t have a clue.

  “The girls made contact with Rena Gold. They’re back on for this evening. Right out in the open, Charles. Do you have any idea how frightening that is for Harry, Bert, and me? By the way, the CDC is at the embassy in their Hazmat suits. Apparently the Brits were ‘persuaded’ to agree to let them in. Now, that’s scary for these Washingtonians. They’re into designer labels, not biogear. Homeland Security is trying to take center stage, and the two are warring with each other. You can talk now, Charles. I won’t guarantee to listen. Where the hell were you when we needed you?”

  Something sparked in Charles as he listened to Jack’s tirade. He deserved the district attorney’s wrath. He struggled to remain calm as he looked around at the destruction on the mountaintop. “Actually, Jack, I was holed up in the bunker under the Big House with the dogs for seven hours. A storm hit the mountain and destroyed everything. It might have been a tornado for all I know. I’ve never personally seen or lived through one of them. The high winds blew the helicopter off the mountain, and it exploded. The cable car is hanging uselessly. The only access now is by helicopter. Kollar sent people who are now working nonstop to rebuild everything. The communications room is waterlogged. The satellite dish is gone. I just now got a laptop and a new phone, thanks to Pappy. I’m working as we speak. For the next few hours, until I get things in place and get thorough briefings, you are on your own. Can you handle it, Jack? Just say yes or no.”

  Jack played Charles’s words over in his mind. Suddenly he felt lower than a snake’s belly, and rightly so. “Yes, we can handle it. Do you mean the whole mountain?”

  “Just about. All the roofs are gone. The pool caved in. The tall pines snapped, and there’s no place to walk. We have it under control, but like I said, I’m going to need a few more hours. The plague, eh? Even I couldn’t have come up with that one. I’ll get back to you, Jack.”

  Jack powered down and thought about the call for a good five minutes. He wondered why he hadn’t seen anything on the news about a storm of the magnitude Charles described hitting Big Pine Mountain. Then he gave himself a slap on the head. Big Pine Mountain was not on anyone’s radar, so how could they report on it? But then how did that Greek guy who owned the mountain find out? He snorted then at his own stupidity. Those guys were hooked into the spook business, and the satellites in orbit would have tracked the mountain and told the Greek precisely what had happened there. Damn, he was stupid sometimes. Maybe he needed to get a book on the spy game instead of winging it by the seat of his pants. But, all things considered, working on the fly had worked out pretty well.

  Jack next called Myra. He relayed Charles’s message. He heard her sigh of relief and Annie’s whoop of pleasure now that things were going to be all right. He told them to alert the girls because he had other things to do. What those things were, he didn’t know at the moment. What he did know was that he was going to have to go into the office and pretend he still worked there if he wanted to ever draw another paycheck.

  When Jack arrived at his office he looked around. He yanked at the arm of one of his assistants and demanded to know what was going on.

  “We’re being relocated, Jack. Didn’t you get the memo? Court’s dark. It’s that plague thing. We’re all supposed to go to the clinic and get some kind of booster shots.”

  “Who gave that order?” Jack asked testily.

  The ADA looked at Jack, and barked, “Who the hell do you think gave the order? Your boss, that’s who. I just heard on the news every judge in town has been taken off to some undisclosed location.”

  “Where are we supposed to go?” Jack asked.

  “I don’t know where you’re supposed to go. I’m being relocated to Chevy Chase, Maryland, with all the other peons and office staff.”

  “This is bullshit,” Jack muttered as he marched into his boss’s office.

  Brandon Hollister, Bud to his colleagues and friends, looked up at Jack. “What are you doing here, Emery?”

  Jack waved his arms about. “I just heard about all this. What’s going on, Bud?”

  “Orders from on high. Show the politicians a picture of a rat, and they immediately identify. They’re the ones calling the shots. That jerk-off from HS is scaring the crap out of this whole damn town. They sure are mum as to what they found at the embassy, and those tight-lipped Brits are not helping matters one bit. By the way, you’re going to McLean, Virginia. Court’s dark for the next ten days. That order just came in an hour ago. Give you a chance to catch up on your paperwork.”

  Jack planted his feet more firmly on the ground and took a deep breath. “Bud, I do not think there is a plague in this town. I think those three reporters stirred this all up because there’s no news going down. I’ve heard so many damn rumors in the past twenty-four hours my head is spinning. I heard the vigilantes are back in town. I heard the plague is going to wipe out this city. I heard the Post is up for sale. And, ask yourself this: Why are the Brits being so closemouthed about all of this? The embassy, after all, does belong to them. Technically, it’s British territory, and they must have given the CDC permission to go in. Personally, I think it’s all a big setup. On top of that, what’s this garbage circulating about the World Bank? C’mon, Bud, look at the whole picture.”

  Bud Hollister eyeballed his best prosecutor and winced slightly. Everything Jack had said made sense. In the end, all he could do was shrug, and say, “I have to follow orders, Jack, you know that.”

  “It’s all a crock, Bud.”

  “So, who’s buying the Post?”

  Jack looked his boss right in the eye, and said, “One of the vigilantes. The rich one, the Countess something or other. That’s the rumor. Of course, with all the layers in place, how is anyone going to prove that?”

  “Jesus! Where do you come up with this stuff?”

  Jack forced a laugh he was far from feeling. “In bars, where else?”

  “Figures,” Hollister said as he resumed his packing. Almost as an afterthought, he asked, “What was that about the World Bank?”

  “Some shifty stuff going on over there. We’ll probably be trying the whole lot of them at some point.”

  “Jesus!” Hollister said again.

  “So, boss, if it’s all the same to you, I’d prefer to stay in my own house, and my paperwork is all caught up. Call me if you need me, okay?”

  Hollister nodded as he continued packing up his things.

  Chapter 17

  Ted Robinson looked down at his watch to see the time: 7:10. He considered leaving the Post and going home. Or maybe he should stop somewhere and get a drink. He looked around to see where Joe Espinosa was. Espinosa hated sports and didn’t know a football from a baseball, and yet here he was writing a sports column. The world was fast going to hell in Robinson’s opinion.

  He slumped in his chair while he waited for Espinosa to close up shop. His thoughts as always went to Maggie and how much he missed her. He knew now, in his newfound wisdom, that if he could turn back the clock and undo what he’d done, he’d do so in a second. Since that wasn’t going to happen, all he could
do was suck it up and move forward. Forward to where?

  Tick Fields had come up dry, so dry, he was gasping for breath. He and Joe had plunked down another thousand bucks for Tick to bribe someone to see if he could tap into credit card usage for Maggie and Lizzie Fox. A thousand dollars to find out neither woman had used her cards since they’d disappeared, another five hundred bucks to another source to find out their cell phones hadn’t been used, either. “Privacy Act, my ass,” Ted muttered to no one in particular. If you had the goddamn dollars, there was always someone willing to take a risk and scoop up the money. Which just left him $750 more out of pocket. And all for nothing. Fields, who was a greedy bastard to begin with, had said there was nothing more he could do in his quest to find the missing women. Then he’d added insult to injury, and said, “Face it, Ted, she doesn’t want anything to do with you, so get over it and forget about whatever you hoped might or might not happen.”

  Yeah, right. Easier said than done. He loved Maggie. Would always love her.

  “Hey, sport, let’s bug out of this place,” Joe Espinosa said, coming up behind Ted and knocking his feet to the floor. “What say we hit the Bamboo Grill and get a couple of beers? There’s a hottie there I’d like to get to know better. Unless you have other plans.”

  “Nah.” Ted bent down to yank at the backpack under his desk. When he looked up again, he whistled softly. “Do you see what I see, Joe?”

  Espinosa dropped to his haunches. “Yeah. Jesus Christ, this is like a summit meeting. What the hell is going on?”

  Still on his haunches, Espinosa looked up at Ted. “Why are Director Cummings, Navarro, and, I assume, two other agents, and Roger Nolan, head of Homeland Security, here? Who’s that dude in the drop-dead suit?”

  Still bent over, Ted inched his head up for a second look. His eyes almost popped out of their sockets. “Well, bless my soul if it isn’t Nigel Summers, the head dude from the British Embassy. I interviewed him last year. Nice guy. Stiff but nice. I can’t be sure, but I think it is the guy from the Centers for Disease Control. His name is Wylie. Dave Wylie. I think I saw a picture of him not too long ago. Sure looks like him. You should know him now that you’re on sports. He used to be a linebacker for the Rams. What the hell are they all doing here at the Post?”

  “Is that a rhetorical question, or do you really think since I took over the sports desk yesterday that this would come under my purview, Ted?” Espinosa hissed.

  Ted ignored his colleague. “Seven o’clock at night is a weird time of day to hold a meeting of this kind, wouldn’t you say?”

  “This kind, this time? What the hell does that mean? We’re hiding under your desk, Ted. You realize that, right? Shouldn’t we bug out of here before they see us? Do you think this is serious?”

  “So, what if they see us? So what, Joe? Hell yes, this is about as serious as it gets. Levy is still here over in the corner. Jackson was here a few minutes ago. The place isn’t entirely empty. I saw Jessie Greer heading to the kitchen not five minutes ago, so it can’t be a secret meeting. We aren’t exactly hiding, we’re just bent over…doing nothing. The only way we’re going to find out what’s going on is to ask. That means we march right up to Sullivan’s office and ask. We’re reporters, for God’s sake. That means we have a right to be nosy. And we’re on our home turf, so that gives us the right. On the count of three, get up. One! Two! Three!”

  Both men were on their feet when Ted gasped. “Chief!”

  “In my office!” the EIC bellowed. “You, too, Espinosa.”

  “It’s magic,” Ted said out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Magic, my ass. Those guys are here to nail you to the wall, and me, too,” he added as an afterthought. “Guilt by association. I bet if we wait five minutes, someone from the Sentinel and the News will be here,” Espinosa mumbled.

  “Careful what you wish for, buddy.”

  Inside Sullivan’s office, Ted looked from one man to the other, then at his boss. It was a hell of an intimidating group. Ted squared his shoulders. Espinosa did the same. Introductions were made. Handshakes offered. Sullivan then led the parade of men to what was laughingly called the conference room. It was a conference room because it had a long table and chairs, but the twelve chairs were mismatched and the table was scarred and covered in dust. Ted was tempted to bend over and blow at the dust to see what effect if any it would have on the men in the room. Sullivan motioned to the chairs, and everyone took a seat.

  “We’ll wait five more minutes, and if the others aren’t here by then, we’ll simply go ahead of them, and they can play catch-up.”

  No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Jessie Greer arrived, escorting four men into the room, then quietly closing the door. Ted felt light-headed when he saw Monroe and Ellis, along with their bosses. He was afraid to look at Espinosa because he knew, just knew, the guy was hyperventilating. Which was what Ted was going to do any second himself.

  To Ted’s mind, Liam Sullivan was the most imposing man in the room. Freedom of the press, that kind of thing. In his gut, Ted knew that not one of the men in the room would or could intimidate Sullivan or the two EICs from the rival papers. No way, no how. He felt a little better with that thought under his belt.

  Sullivan took the floor, his wild white hair standing on end. Ted thought he looked like a ferocious, aging lion who was about to roar. And he did. In his own way.

  “It looks like everyone came to the party even on short notice. Neither I nor the owners of this paper nor my employees want to be involved in whatever business you’re in. We run and publish a paper, we report news. That’s the bottom line. In addition to that, we do not ever, as in EVER, reveal our sources. Having said that, I’d like to get home to my family, so make this, whatever this is, quick.”

  Roger Nolan from Homeland Security spoke first. “The president wants a lid put on the rat plague mess immediately. He’s been taken to a secure location, the VP to another undisclosed location. I’m here to ask you nicely to refrain from publishing any more articles on this mess. And make no mistake, it is a mess.”

  “Take your bullshit somewhere else, Nolan. Weren’t you listening to me? I’m here to publish news. This mess that you refer to is news. You have people sitting hours on end in traffic, all the highways are choked. People are scared out of their wits. For what? I have yet to see or hear one damn thing that this town is anywhere near a plague status. We have pictures of rats. Rats running away from the embassy. Running away, not toward it. That’s all we have. Now, if you want to manufacture news, go somewhere else. You can’t shut this paper down.”

  “No, but I can,” Elias Cummings said, so quietly the others in the room had to strain to hear what he’d said.

  The three EICs looked at Cummings and rose as one. They looked at their reporters, and barked, “Get our lawyers in here, now!”

  Sullivan’s eyes narrowed as he focused on the director of the FBI. “I don’t think you want to go there, Elias. Your organization has taken a few too many hits lately. I have freedom of the press on my side. Don’t even think about telling me the news stations are going to go along with threats. The people have the right to know what’s going on. Now, if you’re trying to cover up some kind of hoax, that’s a whole other ball game.”

  “We’re talking national security here. The president and the VP have been relocated. That should show you how serious this is,” Nolan said.

  “I think it’s all bullshit to cover up more bullshit,” Sullivan growled. “What do you have to say?” he asked, fixing his gaze on Dave Wylie of the CDC. “Go ahead, tell me you found one case, one smidgen of something that would lead you to believe the plague is a possibility. Go ahead, tell me so I can quote you. Did you even find any rat poop? If so, I want to see it.”

  “I can’t tell you that. Yet. We’re working around the clock. I have dedicated people working to keep this city safe. We don’t work on a timetable.”

  “Well, I work on deadlines. You know what, Wylie?
This city was a hell of a lot safer before you guys got here,” Sullivan said. “I’m going to put out a special edition, and I’m sure the Sentinel and News will do the same thing.”

  The other two EICs agreed, then both of them banged their fists on the table to show they meant business. Dust flew.

  Ted’s colleagues rushed back into the room, their faces full of excitement. This little meeting was the closest thing to excitement the Post had seen in years. “The lawyers are on the way, ten minutes tops,” he said to his boss.

  Cummings spoke for the second time. “We had men comb this city, and would you believe we came across a man who says he sold three dozen rats to a man of Middle Eastern descent. We think those rats were injected with a plague virus.”

  “What man?” Sullivan barked. “Give me a name. Give me a date and time the rats were purchased. Did the guy give your people a description other than to say the person was of Middle Eastern descent? That description alone fits thousands of people here in town. Did you use a sketch artist? If so, why wasn’t that on the news?”

  “It’s all you need to know, Liam. You know I can’t disclose FBI information to you. It’s real. We have his affidavit, and that’s all I will tell you. We need you to cooperate.”

  “When pigs fly.”

  Nigel Summers took that moment to speak up. “I think this is all rubbish. I have orders to move my people back into the embassy tomorrow. It would appear our vermin sightings were just that. The situation was nowhere near as critical as we first thought. Reston Exterminating set glue traps in all the ductwork, and the situation is under control. Since it is the British Embassy, and therefore British soil, I must ask you all to step down and let us get on with our business. The permission I reluctantly granted for you to enter the premises is rescinded as of this moment. Any further interference with my country’s right to exercise sovereignty over its own territory will be considered a hostile act against a sovereign nation. You can go to war with yourselves, but please exclude my people and myself. What that means to all of you is, have your people call our people. Good evening, gentlemen.”