by Gayle Lynds
And then she knew. With a clarity that rocked her, she knew. The old caretaker had reached up and grabbed a moth and crushed it just before she had followed Jeff into the dark garage. Berianov had been that old man. Now Berianov was Bobby Kelsey. She did not understand how that could be, but she believed it.
She stood up slowly, planting an interested smile on her face. Her new confidence—thank you, Mikhail—settled firmly inside her, preparing her for whatever she must do. She slipped her hand into her purse and gripped the pistol as she moved toward the front of the garden. Other people were on their feet, too. But they were media people, working and talking quietly on the sidelines. Her throat was dry with fear as she wove among them, closing in on "Bobby Kelsey."
51
Millicent Taurino stood over Jeffrey Hammond, who sat at the only table in the small, gray Secret Service room, his fingers laced together on the tabletop, his chin jutting angrily.
"Bullshit, Hammond," she announced, fists on hips. "You can't expect us to believe that your supposedly phoning in a tip to watch for Alexei Berianov to try to assassinate President Stevens today corroborates the rest of your story. You're not only a killer, you're stupid!"
Another Secret Service man entered. "President Stevens is concluding his welcome, and everyone's quieted down." His gaze swept the five people sitting and standing around the secure room and finally settled on Bill Hughes, the head of today's Secret Service detail. "It looks normal, Bill. Putin's getting ready to start. I think they've pretty much forgotten the trouble with Hammond."
"Good," Hughes told him. "Get back out there. Let us know when Putin's finished." He looked at Deputy AG Taurino. "Let's move Hammond out of here now, before the party breaks up. I'd like to get him away with the least amount of fanfare."
Millicent Taurino nodded. "Sounds good."
One of the FBI agents announced, "He's ours. He goes to the Hoover building. It's not just that he's gone after the president today, he's our mole. We've got to find out what he knows and what he's passed on. No press. No visitors. No phone calls—"
Abruptly, Jeff slammed the palms of his hands down on the table. Everyone jumped and reached for their weapons, but Hammond made no other threatening move. Instead, eyes blazing, he bellowed around the room, "Are you people insane? I thought your job was to protect the president! Goddammit, listen to me! I didn't kill Tom Horn. I was in Pennsylvania, going head-to-head with Eli Kirkhart when Tom died. And if I remember correctly, you, Ms. Taurino, are part of the secret team that Eli's been reporting to. If I know that, then the person who most likely revealed that closely held information to me had to be Eli himself. Right?"
Millicent Taurino leaned her elbows on the table, resting her small chin on one fist, only a foot from Hammond's face. Her voice was low and dangerous. "You have said nothing . . . I repeat, nothing . . . to convince me you didn't kill Tom Horn or the young couple in West Virginia. In fact, your behavior now sucks, and I'm even more certain you're nothing but an overgrown gasbag traitor. You're guilty as hell. Tom could've easily told you about me before you murdered him, and it's damn fortunate we grabbed you before you put a bullet into President Stevens and made me really mad!"
Jeff Hammond glared back into Millicent Taurino's angry eyes. "Get as mad as you like, lady. But find Eli. He'll tell you everything I've said is the God's truth. And you've still got a powder keg just waiting to explode in the Rose Garden."
"Right. And I've got cajones instead of boobs, and you're the first baseman for the Red Sox. No way, buddy. You're in deep shit, and the president's alive, no thanks to you."
Just then the door cracked open again, and a weary voice asked in a faintly English accent, "Jeff, old boy, what's going on? They told me you're being held—" Eli Kirkhart stopped, amazed. He was gripping his right arm. The hand and sleeve of his suit jacket were dark with dried blood. More blood had hardened on the right side of his face.
As she approached the raised walkway where the two presidents stood above the Rose Garden, Beth thought she knew the truth about Alexei Berianov and Bobby Kelsey. Gripping her hidden pistol, she studied Kelsey. Around him, the well-trained security men and women formed an intimidating barricade of suits, uniforms, and grave, watchful faces.
Beth ignored them, concentrating on Kelsey. Was he Berianov? Maybe she was wrong. It was disorienting. Impossible, and yet . . . he was taking out his hand from inside his suit jacket.
"Stop him!" she yelled. With one hand she shoved aside a reporter and sprinted. "He's got a gun!" She pulled out her little palm pistol as everyone on the West Wing's colonnaded walkway seemed to turn in slow motion to stare at her.
The Secret Service paid no attention to Bobby Kelsey. Naturally he would have a weapon; he was FBI and one of their own. The lady, however, was not. For a single long beat, they stared down at her and reached for their weapons. At the same time, she saw the open path that existed between Bobby Kelsey and the podiums. From Kelsey's perspective, it seemed to her that he had only one clear shot, and it was not at President Stevens. No, he was in position to assassinate only the Russian president.
Her head briefly rang with confusion, and then the answer came to her clearly: It had been a ruse; Berianov had lied. He must have planned all along to assassinate Putin, and he had expected the ultra-nationalist Keepers to be held responsible. A sitting Russian president assassinated on American soil by fanatic Americans would outrage and ignite the Russian nation, make it an easy takeover target for the much-decorated General Berianov and his vision of a reunited, rearmed, morally righteous Soviet Union.
Before Beth could follow the logic any farther, agents hurled themselves off the walkway and over the bushes toward her. Others rushed to protect the presidents. The audience reacted with screams and shouts. Some jumped up to see what was happening.
But in those few seconds before any of the agents arrived at their destinations . . . before the crowd had time to run away in terror . . . and before Beth could reach him . . . General Alexei Berianov—master of disguise, genius of the covert action—aimed Bobby Kelsey's big Smith 10. Berianov was smiling. He was lost in his dream, a captive of the magnificent vision for which he had sacrificed everything. He could hear the ringing words of the great Soviet leader Lenin: "History will not forgive revolutionaries for procrastinating when they can be victorious."
As the American and Russian agents raced away from him to do their jobs, he stood exposed, his pistol in full view. But in his mind, he was unworried, savoring the moment. Already he was back in the Kremlin where he belonged, sitting at the head of the historic Politburo table and calling the regular Thursday meeting to order. There was much to be done. Wrongs to be righted. A corrupt private economy of gangsters to return to the ownership of the whole people. The greatest mission of his life would be achieved: He would see the Soviet Union rise again, a great Phoenix from the ashes of capitalism, more magnificent than ever.
As the Secret Service agents converged on her, Beth's hand sweated on her little palm pistol. The faces of the two men she had killed threatened to overwhelm her: The burly KGB assassin, Ivan Vok. And the nameless Russian who had attacked them from the station wagon. She did not want to kill again . . . but she saw Bobby Kelsey's finger on his trigger—
She jerked herself out of her trance. This is for your people and mine. Inwardly she nodded quick agreement. As the sun's rays pounded down, and a rumble of panic rolled through the crowd, she fired at the man she suspected of being Alexei Berianov, not because he might be Berianov, but because she knew he was trying to assassinate the Russian leader. At nearly the same time, the assassin fired at Vladimir Putin. The noise of the two almost simultaneous explosions seemed to shatter the sky as if it were a windowpane. The audience screamed.
Blood burst from Berianov's chest, and he fell back. Dizziness swept over him, and then anger as he realized he had been shot. He craned to see who could have done such a thing. . . . It was a tall woman with wind-blown brown hair . . . no, flaming red h
air. It was his Cossack, the beautiful Tamara, the love of his life. A shoulder crashed into him, and he fell hard. Someone yanked away his weapon. Bastard. His fingers went numb, and his blood poured out smelly and hot against his skin. Somewhere inside he realized the bullet must have pierced his heart. Pain detonated a final time, and darkness swept over him.
Russia's president, Vladimir Putin, lay under a pile of bodies. The scent of American aftershave overwhelmed him. He groaned, the weight on him oppressive. "What was it?" he demanded, reverting in the heat of the moment to his native language. "What's happened?"
"Someone shot at you, sir. The bullet missed. Stay down, sir!"
One of his own agents repeated the message in Russian, and Putin forced himself to be patient.
President Stevens was also buried beneath protective agents. His ribs ached, and he craned to see. But more than anything, he worried that he had an explosive international incident on his hands. If an American had attempted to assassinate the Russian leader . . . he did not want to think about how bad it could get.
"Is he all right?" he demanded. "Who tried to kill him? Was it one of ours?"
On the other side of the walkway beside the bushes from where Beth had shot the would-be assassin, rough hands tore away her gun and dragged her toward the steps. Another agent ripped away her purse. It broke open, and her pills spilled across the grass, jewels on a bed of green.
Then she heard Jeff's powerful voice, "No! Leave her alone! Don't hurt her!"
She felt odd. No longer herself. She had shot the assassin purposefully, and now her emotions raged. Disgust. Outrage. Relief. And at the same time, she felt peaceful. She felt as if a year-long, painful burden had been lifted. The man who had killed her heart donor and had tried to kill her and Jeff was—
She looked up and saw Jeff. His tall figure. He was tossing people out of the way as he rushed to reach her. "How's Putin?" she asked him. "Did he survive?"
"He's fine. Are you all right?" he demanded. "Let her go. Dammit! Let her go!"
Secret Service team leader Hughes was right behind Jeff. "He's right," he ordered the agents. "Do what he says. Release her."
Freed, Beth fell into Jeff's arms.
The Rose Garden was controlled chaos. The Secret Service and White House aides ordered everyone back into their chairs. A few chattered nervously. Many were still in shock. Word spread like burning oil that a top FBI man had tried to assassinate the Russian president. Or had it been the American president? Some wept. Under the bright-blue sky of a perfect April day, in the protective setting of the White House's lovely Rose Garden, they shook their heads and asked each other exactly what could have happened.
Beth and Jeff moved aside. She stood away so she could see him. The padding was gone from his cheeks, and he looked again like her Jeff. She drank in the sight of his aquiline nose, his dark, handsome eyes, and his high-planed face. There was something about him that was both aristocratic and rugged, an irresistible combination that right now was also comforting. He pulled her close.
As he held her, Beth said, "Is Kelsey dead?"
"Yes." He shook his head, mystified. "I never thought he'd go so wrong. He must've tried to kill Putin for Berianov. We'll probably never find Berianov now."
"Can I see Kelsey, Jeff?"
"Why?"
"Call it a hunch . . ."
He led her up the steps to the colonnaded passageway outside the Cabinet Room, which was teeming with agents. Jeff pushed through, she at his heels. Every time agents tried to stop them, Bill Hughes ordered them to back off.
By the time they reached the corpse, agents were making notes, taking Polaroids, talking on cell phones, and examining the pockets. The dead man lay on his side, his face turned up as if he were surprised. Bobby Kelsey's characteristic gray-red hair was in a shadow, but his face and body were spotlighted by the sun. His right hand lay close to his side, open as if he were waiting for someone to return his gun.
"Here he is," Jeff said.
Beth knelt beside the dead man and probed around his face. The skin felt rubbery and a little stiff, not quite normal. She ran her fingers under the chin and around the throat. There was something there . . . this time she was certain she was touching a layer of thin rubber. She pried at it.
"Hey! What's she doing!" an FBI agent demanded above her. "Get her out of here!"
Concentrating, she said nothing. Starting with the chin, she peeled the rubber mask up over the mouth. Above her, she heard a gasp. She used both hands, still rolling up the mask until, at last, a smooth oval face with Northern European features appeared.
"What in hell?" Hughes wondered.
"Who is he?" one of his agents wanted to know.
Jeff said grimly, "It's Alexei Berianov. General Alexei Berianov, formerly of the KGB. I'll be damned. He was right in front of us the whole time. Close enough to the two presidents to have whispered in their ears."
In life, Berianov had been a handsome chameleon. In death, deep-seated fury had twisted his lower lip back in an ugly grimace, and his body looked small, almost shrunken. Whatever power had fueled his maniacal drive had also been the source of his larger size, his attractiveness, and his charismatic charm. Death had taken with it the indefinable qualities that had brought him close to being a giant.
As the agents talked and took more photographs, Jeff pulled Beth away from the crowd. He stopped on the steps, took her shoulders in his hands, and looked down into her face. The horrors and betrayals of the last few days were a heavy weight between them. "How did you know it was Berianov?"
"A combination of things. Maybe even cellular memory." She told him about the nightmare in which Berianov had put the motorcycle helmet on his head, and then about the old caretaker catching the moth at the Pennsylvania dairy farm. She described how Berianov's movements when he had caught the butterfly had alerted her. "I'm just relieved I was right." She sighed and rested her cheek against his shoulder. "When they took you away, I worried the next time we met you'd be behind bars or on a slab at the morgue. That was awful. How did you get them to release you?"
"Thank Eli here."
Beth looked around and saw a bloody, bandaged Eli Kirkhart approaching, smiling down at her. His right arm was in a sling, and heavy white gauze dressed the right side of his face. Behind him was a small, slender woman in a ponytail, wearing a tailored knit suit.
"Pleasant to see you again, Ms. Convey," Eli said. "Especially under these improved circumstances." He introduced Millicent Taurino. "My boss . . . actually my former boss, now that I'm out of the mole-hunting business. Glad I could help Jeff out."
"We're both glad." Millicent heaved a sigh. "We almost screwed up bigtime. Would've been one big pile of shit to clean up later. Not to mention a presidential corpse and one hellish international incident."
Eli turned his bulldog face to look at Millicent. As he considered her, he seemed to fight back a smile. "You know something, Ms. Taurino. You've got a foul mouth. I've been meaning to mention that."
Millicent blinked, surprised. "Get out the popcorn. Thank you, Special Agent Kirkhart. You're a smart fellow, although a bit sexist. We can discuss that later." She cocked her head to study him a moment.
Beth looked from one to the other and then back at Jeff. He raised his eyebrows and grinned. She turned to Eli and asked, "Where's Evans? Did he ever get sobered up?"
Eli shook his head. "Sorry. Bobby Kelsey killed poor Olsen, but his death saved me. Everyone outside the cottage finally had started shooting, and Olsen panicked, ran out, and tried to surrender. I'd given him an M-16, but he was so scared he forgot he was still carrying it, so of course the Bureau gunned him down." He sighed. "But in the melee, I managed to escape out the back, bloody but unbowed. I crawled into some thick bushes, and they missed me. They searched for hours. As soon as I could, I hitched a ride here."
"Lucky for me," Jeff said.
Kirkhart gave a grim smile. "My pleasure."
Millicent said, "You might be intereste
d in what Mr. Kirkhart and I just learned. Our people found the real Bobby Kelsey in his car in the east parking lot. You could see him only if you walked directly up and stared down. He was lying on the front seat, a wound the size of the Treasury Building in his cranium, and a scribbled suicide note on the floor."
"A note?" Beth was beginning to understand.
Eli nodded. "It said the Keepers were right—if Putin were allowed to sleep in the Lincoln Bedroom, it'd be not only a sacrilege but conclusive evidence that our country had permanently lost its way. As a good American citizen, Kelsey had to make some kind of grand gesture to stop the decline, but he was torn. After all, he was a member of the FBI. So in the end, he knew it'd been necessary to assassinate Putin, but the only honorable resolution was to sacrifice himself as well."
"What nonsense," Jeff snorted. "Who would believe that?"
"I'm afraid a lot of people would. Worst of all, some would've empathized." Beth frowned. "Berianov must've had a damn good escape route planned."
"Right you are," Millicent Taurino said. "The fake Kelsey had ordered his team of agents stationed between the West Wing and the east parking lot. He'd told them he couldn't stay on in the Rose Garden too long because he had an important meeting to attend. Their job was to get him away smoothly, without putting the Russian delegation's noses out of joint. We think he planned then to send them away as soon as he reached the car. Once they were out of sight, he would've propped Kelsey up behind the wheel, put the assassination weapon in his hand, and slipped away, heading back to Moscow."
"It had to be something like that." Beth shook her head. "Now it all makes sense. With the Keepers wiped out, he needed another American to blame for the assassination. Kelsey was perfect. I can see the headlines around the world: FBI ASSISTANT DIRECTOR ASSASSINATES RUSSIAN LEADER AT WHITE HOUSE."
