by Gayle Lynds
But she was saved: Someone else was getting on. Astonished, she saw it was Berianov himself. He straddled the powerful machine, his shoulders square, his head particularly erect. He gave a little lift to his shoulders and tilted his head back as he pulled a helmet with a metallic visor down over his face. Immediately he gunned the motor and hurtled the bike at her. She wanted to escape. She wanted to fire the assault rifle. But she could not move.
Panicked, she watched helplessly as the motorcycle plowed into her and hurled her up into the silvery air. She caught sight of her reflection on Berianov's visor—but it was not her. It was Ogust, his gray hair flying, his face wrenched in pain. Her skull cracked open, and she screamed. . . .
She jolted upright, sweaty and shaking.
"Beth. Beth." Jeff crooned her name. He tugged her back down into his arms in the warm bed in the small room in Evans Olsen's house. "You had a nightmare. That's all. Don't worry. Just a nightmare."
She pressed into him. Burrowed like an animal seeking refuge. "Berianov killed Ogust. I'm sure now." As she described the dream, she knew there was something she had missed. Something important.
Jeffs calm voice comforted her. "You're safe here. Darling Beth. You're safe."
"Stephanie said other cellular memory recipients reported their dreams and ideas changed as time passed, too." Ever since she had stopped herself from shooting the Russian woman at the Watergate, rage and restlessness had plagued her less. She relaxed into him. His skin was smooth, but with the appealing, slightly rougher texture of a man's. The bristles of his unshaved chin tickled her ear. She wanted to stay here. Never leave. Safe forever.
Senator Ty Crocker emerged from his house and looked up at the stars, a distant dusting of diamonds sparkling across the black morning sky. He felt an excited buzz. His arteries might be hardening, but his blood could still rush. He was on his way to tell everything he knew to the Secret Service.
But he was late. Anna had awakened, and he'd had to stay and placate her. Eventually she had let him leave. Now he eagerly anticipated meeting with Dean Jennings. Not only would they put a stop to whatever insane plot had been hatched against the president, he would be able to clear Jeff's name.
He walked past peony and iris beds, leaving behind the house where he had lived nearly forty years. He liked the white Doric pillars, the brick facing, and the three tall stories. Up on the top floor had been the children's playroom. A light wind whispered through the big magnolia tree that sheltered much of the rear and side gardens. Behind him he heard his cat yawn loudly from the front porch.
Smiling, he pulled open the side door to the garage and stepped into the dark interior. Before he could react, hands grabbed his shoulders. A thin cord was around his neck, tightening, digging into his flesh. He struggled. He gasped for breath. There was no air. The garage spun in violent circles, flashing green and red and black. . . . Blurry faces. No light. Black shadows. Images of Anna, their two daughters, and his grandchildren flashed through his mind. Thoughts about next week's doctor's appointment, the stalemate with the speaker of the house, the new transportation bill. So much left undone—so much—
An hour later in Evans Olsen's cottage in Northeast Washington, Jeff rolled away from Beth, suddenly uneasy. She'd had a restless night, but she was asleep again at last. He had been up and down the last three hours, checking Olsen and listening to the house, worrying about intruders.
His Beretta was on the floor next to the bed. He picked it up and gazed down at Beth with a helpless feeling in his stomach. A line of moonlight crossed her face, illuminating her features as she lay gently in sleep. Her lips were parted, and her lashes cast shadows onto her cheeks. Her fair hair lay around her face like a halo. She looked so vulnerable. He remembered the sex. Thinking about it made him hard again. He flexed his shoulders, shaking away anger and the desire to kiss her. He had work to do.
He pulled on his briefs and jeans and padded into Olsen's bedroom. Olsen was still snoring. Every time he had checked, Olsen seemed more twitchy, so he had hopes he could awaken him now. He closed the door, flicked on the light, and went to stare at the sleeping man. Olsen exhaled, and a blast of alcohol steamed the cool air. Jeff pulled him up by the shoulders and propped him against the wall, because there was no headboard. The White House aide's skin was sallow, and his features were swollen from too much drink. His black beard had sprouted at least a quarter inch and made his chin purple. He was wearing only the pajama bottoms Jeff had found on the bathroom floor.
"Evans! Wake up!" He slapped one cheek then the other.
Olsen groaned.
"Evans Olsen! Open your eyes!"
The man's eyelids fluttered.
Jeff slapped him again and shouted his name.
"Who . . . who are you?" Olsen's words were slurred. He was still drunk. Fear radiated from his red-rimmed eyes. He raised a shaky hand, feeling his cheek.
Jeff was relieved. At last the man was talking. He boomed, "I'm Satan himself, asshole. You're a dead man unless you tell me what you and Alexei Berianov are doing!" He raised his Beretta in front of Olsen's face.
Olsen's puffy eyes grew large. He swallowed. "I'm going to be sick—" He bolted for the bathroom.
Jeff sighed as he listened to the man vomit. After a while the toilet flushed. Then there were more vomiting sounds. At last the toilet flushed again.
Beth appeared, dressed in her jeans and turtleneck. "He's awake?"
"I guess no one could've slept through that. Sorry I was so loud."
She smiled, crossed to him, and slipped an arm around his shoulders. "Miss me?" She kissed him.
He grabbed her and held her close. "Like you wouldn't believe."
"Ohhh." The groan was from the doorway. Then in a shocked voice: "Beth? What are you doing here?" Too feeble to stand, he slid down the doorjamb to the floor.
She said, "Hi, Evans. Every time we meet lately you seem to be falling down."
Jeff picked him up and helped him into the kitchen. While Jeff made coffee, Beth turned on the television news in the living room. In the kitchen, Jeff put Olsen back into the breakfast nook. Weak and disoriented, Olsen leaned forward until his cheek rested on the table. He sighed and closed his eyes.
"Don't get too comfortable," Jeff warned.
As the aroma of percolating coffee filled the small kitchen, Jeff used the wall phone to dial Ty Crocker's house. When Anna answered in a sleepy voice, he hung up. No point worrying her. If Ty were still there, he would have answered himself. Ty must be meeting with the Secret Service by now.
Jeff tried to shake off tension as he poured coffee and carried it to Olsen. "Time to get sober, Olsen. Drink this. We've got to talk."
Olsen moaned.
"Coffee. Drink. Or do you want me to pour it down you?"
"Jeff!" It was Beth's voice from the living room. "Come and listen to this!"
He trotted into the small room that fronted the street. The dusty blinds were closed, and the old furniture was draped in shadows from the light of two weak lamps.
Beth was sitting on the faded sofa. She pressed a finger to her lips and nodded at the TV screen, where Washington's Up to the Minute news program was airing on WUSA, the local CBS affiliate.
Jeff stopped in the doorway where he could see the TV set and still quickly turn his head to keep watch on the hallway that led into the kitchen and out the back door.
The junior senator from Mississippi was speaking: " . . . our president borders on perfidy for his liberal views on international relations. We have the perfect example right now. The Russian president is spending tonight in the Russian Embassy, but tomorrow night, this . . . Communist will be sleeping in the Lincoln Bedroom. Who knows what else these two like-thinking leaders have in mind to turn our fine nation away from the democracy we've fought so long and hard to preserve. . . ."
"Maybe we were right," Beth said over the senator's voice. "Maybe Berianov plans to kill President Stevens because there's some secret pact between the two president
s that they're going to sign and announce during the visit."
"Not that I know of." Evans Olsen's thin voice carried down the hall.
Jeff and Beth rushed back into the kitchen. He was sitting up. His bloated face was pasty, but his gaze was clearer. He had drunk the coffee and shoved the empty cup across to the edge of the table. He leaned back and sighed.
"Go on," Beth said impatiently. "Tell us why you think there's no secret deal between the presidents."
He seemed to rally. "Because I would've heard something. The White House is a sieve. President Stevens is grandstanding. That's all it is. They're going to address the American and Russian peoples live on TV and radio at the press conference, and then tonight Putin's going to sleep in the White House. It's a good-neighbor gesture to show how much more alike the two peoples are than dissimilar. Nothing subversive. But it sure has caused a lot of controversy here and in Russia. Some people in either place just don't want the Cold War to be over, I guess."
Beth studied him. Mustering an intelligent response had exhausted him. He drooped low over the table. Looking at him in his stupid state, she could not believe he was part of the inner circle of any diabolical plot. "You're being used," she guessed. "Is that why you're drinking so much? What does Berianov want you to do?"
He said huffily, "I've taken a small vacation. I'm entitled to drink if I like. And I don't know any Berianov."
"Alexei Berianov, former KGB general," Jeff told him as he poured more coffee. "He defected back in nineteen-ninety-one."
"Don't know him," Olsen repeated. He looked warily around, seemed to listen to the TV in the other room, then settled on Jeff. "Are the doors locked? And who the hell are you?"
Jeffs expression was severe. "The doors are locked. And the windows. What's made you so afraid?"
Olsen's lips thinned. Terror compressed his features. He looked at his wrist for his watch, but Jeff had taken it off before showering him. "I can't be late! He'll kill me!" It was a scream of horror. Frantically his gaze found the wall clock. "Oh! Thank God, it's only five-thirty. There's time—"
Jeff grabbed him. "Settle down, Olsen. Tell me exactly who's going to kill you."
"I . . . I . . . " He gulped air, too frightened to speak.
"We'll help you," Jeff promised. "I'm FBI. Tell us what you know about the president's assassination."
Surprised, Olsen wrenched away and fell back into the breakfast nook. "They're going to assassinate him? Oh, no!" He wiped a hand across his face as if trying to erase a lifetime of misdeeds. "Some guy named Yakel's been working me. It started when he offered me money, but then when I realized he didn't just want souvenirs from the White House, I tried to get rid of him. But it was too late. He had deposited a hundred thousand dollars into an account in Mexico for me. He said he wanted invitations for himself and three vet buddies for the ten A.M. press conference in the Rose Garden so they could see the president. That's all. Innocent, you know?"
"The Rose Garden!" Beth looked at Jeff. "We were wrong."
He nodded, remembering the mock-up of the Oval Office and the Rose Garden in the big underground cavern. "I should've guessed. They did a much more detailed job recreating the garden than they did the Oval Office."
Beth said, "Anytime the American and Russian presidents get together, it's historic, and the Rose Garden isn't all that large. The press conference will be a hot-ticket item." She had heard about it during the newscaster's recapitulation of the day's schedule.
"What did this guy, Yakel, look like?" Jeff said.
"We met only once, in a bar. The rest of the time we talked by phone. He was old. Not very tall, but he gave the impression he owned the world. A cowboy in battered jeans and a Stetson."
Beth and Jeff exchanged a look. "The 'old caretaker,' " Beth said.
"Well, if he was a caretaker, he wasn't the usual run-of-the-mill," Olsen said. "This guy knew a lot. I mean, he read books, he was on top of events, and—worst—he knew things about me and my family he couldn't have found out easily. He'd been snooping in my past, or someone had. When I wanted out, he threatened to kill me. I believed him. He said he had ways I couldn't imagine to make me suffer."
"Did you see the car he arrived in?" Jeff asked. "Maybe a license plate number? Or did he give you some way to get in touch with him?"
Olsen shook his head. "No, he was careful. I never saw his car, and he was the one who did the calling. One time I tried to trace back his phone number, but it was blocked. Some kind of electronic door, according to a hacker friend of mine."
Beth frowned. "So tell us about the invitations."
"Oh, God," he moaned. "I'm supposed to tape them under a mail box near the Mall by seven o'clock. If they're not there, I know they'll come looking for me. As soon as I delivered them, I was going to fly to Rio and hide. I won't be safe here. Once they have what they want, they'll try to kill me anyway. It's the only logical thing."
"We'll help you," Jeff assured him. "We'll stow you away in a secure safe house. Where are the invitations?"
"In my trench coat. I hid them in an IRS envelope. Nobody ever looks inside anything from the IRS, if they can avoid it. I figured it was the best place."
"Oh, damn!" Beth raced to the back door. "I threw that smelly coat onto the back porch. Anyone could've walked off with it!" She spun open the dead bolt and yanked. Cool morning air gusted in.
"Wait a minute!" Jeff strode past her and stared around outside. He grabbed up the trench coat and carried it in. The IRS envelope was in an inner pocket. He threw the reeking coat back toward the door and tore open the taped envelope. Inside were four white envelopes, and inside each was a handsome engraved invitation on heavy paper. Each contained an etching of the White House and the invitee's name written in calligraphy. Tasteful, restrained, and the fulfillment of Berianov's plan.
Olsen explained, "I marked off that I'd received an RSVP from each of them, and since part of my duties is to oversee background checks, I got Yakel's friends okayed for fake Social Security numbers and dates of birth."
"Then what happens?" Beth asked.
Olsen looked miserable. "There's a list at the White House gate. When a guest gets there, he has to say his name and show the invitation and some kind of photo ID. After that, guests have to walk through a machine like airports use, a metal detector. Plus there's an X-ray machine to check purses and bags. Yakel said he'd take care of getting identification for his four friends."
"We're going to stop him before it gets to that point," Jeff said.
Beth nodded. "Yes. The mailbox. Someone will go there to pick up the invitations—" She paused to listen. "Did you hear that?" She ran back into the living room where the television was still on.
" . . . Senator Ty Crocker, one of America's most beloved and eminent Republican leaders, was found strangled to death in his garage early this morning. His wife discovered his body when . . ."
Jeff's face went ashen as he gazed at the screen. His body seemed to shudder as if struck by a blow. Beth watched Jeff a moment, then took his hand.
"Jeff—"
"They killed him. It's all my fault." His voice was hoarse, as if the words were stuck deep in his throat, impossible to squeeze out.
"You warned him. He knew he was taking a risk. You can't save everybody."
He turned his face away from the news. "Ty was special. Honest. Decent. After Mom and Dad died . . . he'd call me up at the paper every couple of months, and we'd have lunch at the country club. Play a round of golf. He'd talk about his grandkids and that cat of his. Tell me what Anna was up to. You know. The usual stuff that we all live with but doesn't add up to much . . . until it's taken away." There were tears in his voice.
"I'm sorry, Jeff. It's terrible. Really terrible."
He nodded. "And of course, it puts all of us in a worse position. Especially President Stevens."
"You're right!" Fear shot through her. "There's no way for us to know whether Ty actually got those belt buckles to the Secret Service."
/>
"Or if he did, whether he told them about the significance to the president's life."
"Or that we're the ones who delivered them to him," she added. "We may still have no credibility. Which means we could be right back where we started."
In Olsen's bedroom, a telephone rang. Olsen jumped as if a firecracker had exploded beneath him. He stared around wildly, terrified.
"It's him," he whimpered. "It's got to be him!"
His face ravaged with grief and rage, Jeff picked up Olsen under a shoulder and hauled him into the bedroom. A cell phone lay on a table beside Olsen's rumpled bed. It rang again.
Jeff ordered, "Answer it. If it's him, tell him you're on your way. Don't screw this up, Olsen. I'm warning you!"
His lower lip trembling, Olsen picked up the phone. "Hello?"
As his insides ached, Jeff watched and listened. He was still trying to comprehend that Ty was dead. But even though his emotions roiled, his mind had a diamond-like clarity. Now he had one more reason to stop Berianov: He felt as if a vital organ had been torn out. He wanted Ty back.
And he wanted his own life back. In one savage stroke, Ty had become the symbol of all he had lost. He wanted to go back to when everything made sense and he was young and could afford to take huge risks. Chasing Berianov had been the greatest gamble of his life. As he stood there glaring at Olsen, he saw he had taken the risk thoughtlessly, without concern not only for how he would pay, but more importantly for how it would hurt the people he loved. How it had cost one of them his life. Ty's life. Being right was not always compensation.
"I'm not drunk, Yakel," Olsen said in a high, frightened voice into the cell phone. "Maybe a little hung over." He listened, his bloated face tense. "I'm sorry, but I'm running a bit behind schedule—"
Olsen held the phone away from his ear, and an enraged voice bellowed, "You candy-assed twerp, I don't care about your problems! Deliver those invitations!"
