The Gemini Deception

by Kim Baldwin

  Elizabeth Thomas herself was another kind of peculiar. She didn’t seem happy about having around-the-clock protection and seemed to dislike Shield, but on the other hand had asked to be called by her first name. According to Joe, the president’s ex-bodyguard, Thomas never so much as acknowledged her Secret Service agents, let alone ask them to call her by her first name.

  What was going on? It was an irrational thought, but could Moore possibly have something on the president? What could Thomas have to fear from the aide who’d been with her for years? The two were clearly both involved in something, but what?

  And why were they doing such a miserable job at keeping to protocol? Shield had guarded presidents before, both national and international, and so far, the relationship between president and advisor had ranged from basic courtesy to close friendship. Under no circumstances was the president submissive to an advisor, not unless…

  Shield jumped up off the bed. Unless Thomas wasn’t interested in protection because she didn’t fear a repeat. And that would only be because there was no actual danger. The only threat she felt was from Moore. Because he knows what happened or didn’t happen the day of the attack. Could it be that, for some reason, Thomas had helped stage a fake attack? If so, then for what gain?

  The CIA was very capable of orchestrating anything, from an assassination attack, to suicide, to homicide. If any of her suspicions were true and the Agency had helped the president, then she was probably in danger as well. The CIA was one entity very few ever messed with.

  She went into the bathroom and shut the door. At this point, she didn’t put it past them to tap her room and every other room in the White House. Shield turned on the shower and pulled out her secured cell phone. “Shield 29041971.”

  “How can I help you?” the male voice replied.

  “Put me through to Pierce.”

  He came on the line a short time later, sounding very alert, though by her watch it was after two a.m. in Colorado. “Go ahead.”

  “I have reasons to believe Lighthouse and her special advisor know something about the attack.”

  “Explain.”

  Shield told him about the president’s behavior and Moore’s attitude toward her.

  “I see what you mean,” Pierce said, “but what would they have to gain?”

  “That’s what I haven’t figured out.”

  “I’ll have Reno look into their records, but you realize everything is highly classified.”

  “I’m sure that’s the case where Lighthouse is concerned, but if we can find anything on…Watchdog, we might be able to determine what they’re involved in.”

  “Watchdog it is,” Pierce said, agreeing to the communications name for Moore. “And he’s definitely easier to trace.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Roger that.” After a brief pause, Pierce said, “You do realize the Agency has toes we don’t necessarily want to step on.”

  “The same way we don’t want them stepping on ours. What happens if it turns out they’re involved?”

  “We follow the unwritten protocol.”

  “We walk away.”

  “Correct.”

  “Let me know ASAP.”

  “Keep me updated,” Pierce said. “And don’t act on anything unless I okay it.”

  “I know how they play,” Shield replied, referring to the CIA. “I’m not about to get myself accidentally killed.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Aboard Air Force One on approach to Ottawa International Airport

  Next evening, February 28

  Ryden glanced out the window at the Canadian capital coming into view below. Once the White House stylist had put a few finishing touches on her hair and makeup, she’d asked for a few moments alone before they landed to prepare for tonight’s dinner. Everyone had readily departed the private office area of the plane except Moore. Kennedy wanted to stay as well, but Ratman had insisted he needed to discuss confidential matters with the president, so she waited just outside the door.

  Mimicking Elizabeth Thomas presented one daunting challenge after another. Ryden wanted the moment alone to calm her nerves, and Moore was anything but helpful in that regard. Yet she was almost glad he’d stayed, because she was worried as hell about her first public appearance out of the country, even if it lasted only a few hours, and could benefit from any last-minute advice. He’d spent hours briefing her that morning, but she still wasn’t confident she could match Thomas’s off-the-cuff eloquence at a formal state event.

  The Canadian prime minister had invited her and a few key congressional leaders to a lavish reception and dinner to break the ice for future dealings with the new U.S. leadership. Nothing of real import would be discussed in detail, but the venue was perfect for the unexpected to happen. There was no way to brief her on every matter that might come up.

  Ratman kept his voice low. “Are you clear on who is sitting next to you and what topics to broach and which to avoid?”

  “Crystal. But what happens with any questions I’m not equipped to answer?” she asked.

  “Throw them a generality, insinuating you’re not willing to talk about the subject,” he replied. “They’re all very susceptible to that approach because they all practice it.”

  Ryden made it through the cocktail reception without encountering any missteps that might indicate she wasn’t the real U.S. chief executive. It helped that she kept circulating among the crowd, keeping largely to inane pleasantries, with Ratman at her side to whisper in her ear if needed.

  The state dinner that followed in the ballroom of Rideau Hall was more difficult because Moore was seated several tables away and she was trapped beside the prime minister, who wanted specifics, not small talk. The governor-general of Canada was on her other side, and he, too, didn’t seem content with generalities.

  “I was under the impression this was to be a get-acquainted dinner,” she told the two men with a wry smile, “not an inquisition about my future plans.” She hoped her joking but reproachful demeanor would forestall further questioning, but neither took the hint. They merely laughed and continued pressing her on this or that issue until she was counting the minutes until the evening ended. Her answers had been short and aligned with Thomas’s agenda.

  She was so nervous she had to stop to think at one point which fork to use, though she’d mastered the art of table etiquette with Tonya. And the intense scrutiny made her mistakenly glance at the wrong wrist when she started to check the time, though she thought she covered the blunder well.

  Two hours into the event, she needed a break to breathe and calm her nerves, so she excused herself and headed toward the ladies’ room.

  *

  Shield wasn’t standing guard close enough to hear what was being said between the dignitaries at the state dinner, but she did have a clear view of everyone at the table. In addition to Thomas, a dozen key U.S. senators and members of Congress had made the trip, though the entire Canadian contingent—fifteen in all—seemed to be interested only in the new U.S. president. During the cocktail reception, each of the Canadian leaders had tried to extend their one-on-one time with Thomas, but Kenneth Moore, always at her side, kept her circulating through the crowd. Moore’s perpetual alertness was even more apparent than usual tonight, especially when one of the hosting dignitaries appeared to be pressing Thomas with questions.

  The president appeared to be calm, smiling now and then, but a bit less relaxed when the reception gave way to the formal dinner. Just like she had done when Shield had first seen her in Greece, Thomas would occasionally play with her wedding ring while she mulled the answer to a question. Shield guessed the president had lost a bit of weight, since the ring seemed loose on her finger.

  Most of the Canadian bodyguards and U.S. Secret Service present were assigned to specific posts. As the president’s primary, however, Shield was free to walk around as she saw fit, so now and then she would change position. She went from standing against the wall behind Thomas t
o another discreet location where she faced the president. Here, she had a very clear view of Thomas’s gestures and reactions and, after a few minutes’ observation, was now more concerned with those rather than any danger. Shield couldn’t discount the possibility of another assassination attempt, or that she might be wrong concerning the previous attack, but the more time she spent around Thomas and Moore, the more convinced she was that they were involved in something nefarious.

  Though she kept her attention primarily on her subject, Shield also remained attuned to everyone else in the room, alert to anything unusual. She noticed that one of the waitresses, a very cute young blonde, kept glancing in her direction. At first, Shield thought it was the girl’s fascination with all the security, but when the woman smiled shyly at her, and her stare became more intense, as if trying to get her attention, Shield realized she was being flirted with. She ignored the girl but kept an eye on her in her peripheral vision, so she was surprised when Thomas pointedly looked from the waitress to her. Shield stared right back, unflinching, until the president looked away.

  After an uneventful hour and a half had gone by, the president discreetly looked down at her bare left wrist. She let half a minute pass before she looked down at her right hand, where her watch was. Strange, Shield thought, but then again, so was everything about this mission.

  Half an hour later, Thomas got up, and her massive Secret Service contingent followed. Shield approached the president and followed her out to the foyer while the other ten bodyguards cleared the way.

  Thomas paused for a moment and looked around.

  “Can I help?” Shield asked.

  “No, I found what I was looking for,” the president replied as she headed toward the ladies’ room. “I won’t be a minute.”

  Shield didn’t say anything but followed her.

  “That’s really not necessary,” Thomas said when she intercepted her at the door.

  “I’m sure you’re right.” Shield tried not to sound sarcastic. “But it’s my job.” She checked the outer lounge / powder room and interior stalls while Thomas stood at the door. Although security had already checked everything far in advance and again during the evening’s festivities, she secured the rooms once more and motioned for the president to enter.

  Thomas took a seat in the lounge before one of the mirrors and opened her purse. “I’m certain you have better things to be doing than check bathrooms,” she said before touching up her lipstick.

  “You’re right, I do.” Shield stood a few feet behind her, studying the president’s face in the mirror. “But like I said, it’s my job.”

  “And yet, for someone so concerned about protecting me, you seem to find time to enjoy yourself in the process.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Thomas looked at her in the mirror. “Please refrain from unprofessional behavior in my presence, and save it for the bars.”

  “Unpro…” Shield lowered her voice. “I don’t understand.”

  “I said you could call me by my first name in private,” the president said. “I didn’t say you were free to pick up women on the job.”

  Where the hell had that come from? Shield was a professional at all times while working; she’d barely even glanced at the waitress. She was about to fire back with something caustic but stopped. The Secret Service contingent was just outside and she was wearing a communications device, so the other agents might already have heard the whole conversation. Shield had a name in her field and wasn’t about to mar it because Thomas was looking for reasons to fire her.

  None of this was making sense. One moment, the president wanted them on a first-name basis, and the next she was trying to pick a fight. Did Thomas have regrets about how open she’d been with Shield the other night? Was she afraid she might have insinuated something incriminating, or did she regret having shown how afraid she was of Moore?

  Shield looked at the president and smiled. “My apologies, Madam President.” She went back out into the foyer and shut the door behind her.

  *

  Ryden stared at the mirror. She looked as infuriated as she felt, more with herself than anyone. She had no idea where all that had come from, especially since her bodyguard hadn’t done anything wrong. Though Kennedy might be Ratman’s guard dog, so far she had been polite and discreet. She’d even lied for her to Moore.

  Kennedy, however, unnerved and unsettled her; the way her bodyguard scrutinized her every move made her feel transparent. That scared her in a way even Ratman didn’t. Kennedy’s steel-blue stare seemed to see inside the real her—Ryden the florist and candle maker, the insecure, repressed, and distant orphan who’d come to fear affection, not the blackmailed and threatened look-alike liar she was now. That possibility frightened her more than the dangerous web of deception she was trapped in.

  She had spent the last forty years surviving, not living. Too afraid to get close to anyone, she’d known foster kids couldn’t afford the luxury of love or attachment, so she’d learned to make herself invisible in order to be accepted or at least tolerated. That way, one of the foster families would let her stay and include her in their life, and maybe someone, someday, would care enough to even love her. That day never came.

  When she’d turned eighteen, she was free to be where and with whomever she chose. But freedom meant nothing because she’d become too afraid to fully live.

  Ryden looked up at the mirror. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t realized she’d been crying until she saw the smudged mascara. Maybe this time when she was freed from this new hell and received a new identity and fresh start, she’d find the strength to live.

  She wiped her eyes and straightened her skirt and blazer before opening the door. Kennedy, standing just outside, turned to look at her, but Ryden stared straight ahead. She just didn’t have the strength to face those soul-searching eyes. Without a further word to her bodyguard, she returned to the dinner.

  Soon the evening finally came to a close, and the White House retinue returned to Air Force One. Ratman once again secluded himself alone with her in the office of the plane, leaving the bodyguard outside.

  “You did well tonight, as far as I could tell,” he said. “Any complications during dinner?”

  “No,” she said hastily. “My dinner companions kept pressing for more specifics about future trade and the European economic crisis, but I stuck to what you told me.”

  He withdrew a piece of paper from his pocket as he nodded approvingly. “I have a slight addition to your schedule tomorrow.” Handing the typed sheet to her, he said, “I need you to make a phone call in the morning precisely at nine a.m. Your schedule is free then. I’ll have a special cell phone for you to use, and I’ll be listening in to feed you anything further you need to say.”

  Ryden glanced down and read the lines. At least one of the reasons for all the intrigue involved in putting her in the White House became suddenly clearer.

  Chapter Twelve

  Arlington, Virginia

  Next morning, March 1

  Senate Majority Leader Andrew Schuster smiled as he peered out the window of his tri-level Tudor mansion, watching his son Matthew chat excitedly with two of his neighborhood friends. Matt was no doubt regaling them with descriptions of their visit to Disneyland to celebrate his eighth birthday, one that neither of his parents had thought he’d see.

  Three months ago, Matt had been near death, but the liver transplant had transformed him into an active, healthy kid with a bright future. Andrew still had moments of regret that he’d had to arrange a black-market deal to get his son moved up the waiting list and procure a matching organ, but only because an innocent man’s life had been cut short to make it happen. He still asked himself repeatedly, would he have taken the deal with the Broker if he’d known the young donor would be killed to make it happen?

  At least the truth had never come to light, which would have crippled his rising political career. As the Senate majority leader, he was one of the most powerf
ul men in Washington and well positioned to make his own run for the presidency in eight years—four, if Elizabeth Thomas decided not to run for reelection.

  Andrew sincerely liked Thomas and personally agreed with most of her announced legislative agenda, especially her controversial plan to combat the illegal-arms trade. The president wanted to create a whole new department within the ATF—Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives—to deal exclusively with the problem. The plan would provide the new department not only with ample resources and funding to do the job but also with legislative muscle to strengthen penalties for those who continued to deal in black-market weapons. Despite major opposition from the National Rifle Association and other pro-gun groups, the Democrats had regained narrow control of both houses of Congress, so the proposed plan should sail through without major obstacles.

  The jangling of his office telephone interrupted his musings. The private line was unlisted—only key political figures had the number. “This is Andrew.”

  “Good morning, Senator Schuster. It’s the president.” Elizabeth Thomas’s familiar Maine-tinged accent was immediately recognizable. “I hope I’m not interrupting something important.”

  “Of course I am always at your disposal, Madam President,” Andrew replied warmly. “How may I be of service?”

  “You’ll be getting a phone call at this number in one hour from a mutual friend, regarding an upcoming change in my proposed congressional agenda regarding the illegal-arms trade,” Thomas said cryptically. “I will continue to push the plan publicly, but I want you to take a leadership role in opposing it. In other words, I need you to reverse your position and ensure that the deal is killed in the Senate.”

  Andrew wasn’t certain he was hearing right. What possible reason could the president have for asking her key congressional ally to oppose one of her primary objectives? “But, Madam President, you know how strongly I endorse this bill. We’ve spent months garnering the necessary support in both Houses to pass this important legislation.” Not to mention, he thought, that he’d be committing political suicide. The Democratic National Committee would be all over his ass to support the president, and without them he had no chance of gaining higher office. Everyone would think the gun lobbies had bribed him.