by Kim Baldwin
His phone buzzed. “Yes?”
“Shield’s on line one.”
He hit the button. “Pierce.”
“I have confirmed that some kind of conspiracy is going on in the White House,” Shield said. “Watchdog is certainly a part of it, but the real figurehead calling the shots is a woman—and it isn’t Lighthouse. Lighthouse is somehow being coerced into participating in this and she’s afraid.”
“Explain.”
She relayed the relevant parts of the bugged conversation she’d just overheard between Thomas and Moore, and asked whether Reno had been able to come up with anything new on the president’s special advisor.
“Nothing yet. Whoever made the big payments to Watchdog’s Grand Cayman account has taken extraordinary steps to avoid being traced. Reno has tracked the money through four dummy corporations on three different continents so far,” Monty replied. “It’s time to send someone in to bug Watchdog’s home.”
“Agreed,” Shield said. “Though I don’t expect we’ll hear anything from that. He seems to spend most all his time in the House, watching Lighthouse very closely. He’s at her side at every opportunity, often whispering in her ear. Not enough to really draw undue attention to himself, but definitely a lot more than his previous counterparts.”
“We’ll let you know if we turn up anything else. So far there’s no sign of Agency involvement. But from what you say, Watchdog is concerned about you, so stay sharp and let us know if you need backup.”
“Roger that.”
After Shield disconnected, Monty stared down at his dinner for a few seconds before pushing it aside, his appetite gone. Even if the CIA wasn’t involved, the confirmation that someone outside the White House was powerful enough to exert such control over the president was daunting news. What was the objective? And how many were in on it?
He feared for the country and for Shield. She was a top agent, but she was alone in there, among who knew how many conspirators.
*
Outside Houston, Texas
Jack woke up in the same cuffed-to-a-chair position, only this time in a cold, white, fluorescent-lit room, and she’d been stripped down to just her underwear and T-shirt.
She surveyed her surroundings. No windows, and apparently only one way in and out—through a steel door. Two cameras were mounted high on opposite sides of the ceiling. The temperature was moderate, but if she had to sit still much longer she’d start to feel cold. Her head was a bit fuzzy and her mouth dry.
“So, now what?” she said to the camera facing her. When no one answered, Jack continued. “I hope you kept your word about Cassady.”
“And what if we didn’t?” replied a low male voice. It was slightly distorted—coming through a speaker she couldn’t see.
“I kept my part of the deal.”
“Madam is very pleased you did.”
“She kept her word, right?”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“Answer me, goddamn it.”
“I did.”
Jack wriggled in her seat and realized for the first time that her ankles were cuffed to the chair and the chair was bolted to the floor. “Where is she?”
“Ms. Monroe?”
“No, you fuck. I mean TQ.”
“She has prior obligations this evening.”
“What…what the fuck? She had me brought to this isolation cell and she isn’t even here?” She struggled against her handcuffs, but they held fast.
“That’s correct.”
“Where the hell is she?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“What the fuck can you answer?”
“I can tell you that madam will be with you at her first convenience.”
“What am I supposed to do till her convenience?”
“Wait.”
“Like this?” Jack looked down at herself. “What if I need to use the toilet?”
“Your chair is equipped with a pan.”
Jack moved her ass and felt a hole beneath her. “This is insane.”
“Then I suggest you practice control or deal with the consequences.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding,” Jack yelled. She waited for a reply and, when it didn’t come, feared the man had left. “Food. How about food?”
“You can do without for a fairly long time.”
“Not without water, sadistic fuck.”
“We will supply you with water when we see fit,” the voice replied.
The lights were so bright they hurt her eyes. “Can you dim the damn lights?”
“No.”
Jack knew constant intense lighting was a popular method of torture; she had undergone that treatment in Israel. It had taken her years to put those weeks of torture and pain that had changed her forever behind her, and now, here she was, more than a decade later, reliving the same introduction to hell. This was just the beginning of what most probably was yet to come, and honestly, she didn’t know if she would survive it. This time she had Cassady in her life, but she wasn’t sure even her love for Cass would be enough to fight her way out of this.
She closed her eyes and let her head drop to her chest. “I can’t do this again,” she mumbled.
Chapter Eighteen
The White House
That evening
Kennedy left the wall behind Thomas and started toward the president the moment she got up from the dinner table and announced to her black-tie guests that it was time to adjourn to the East Room for entertainment provided by the White House Marine Orchestra.
In addition to the president of Argentina and his much-younger wife, the one hundred and thirty or so invited guests included diplomats, members of Congress, cabinet members, and a scattering of A-list Hollywood celebrities—all of whom had been lucrative fund-raisers for the Democratic Party. But Kennedy focused on Elizabeth Thomas, and not just because that was her job. She couldn’t take her eyes off the president for long, even if she’d wanted to.
The president was stunning tonight in her floor-length Vera Wang gown. The pale-lavender dress was made of a material that shimmered slightly when it caught the light, and the cut, exposing just one of Thomas’s smooth, pale shoulders, was stylishly sexy yet maintained the right amount of decorum for the occasion. And for once, the White House stylist had given her a hairdo and makeup job that Shield approved of—the more natural coiffure and subtle cosmetics enhanced, rather than harshened, Thomas’s innate beauty.
Thomas’s smile, however, was forced. Not surprising, given the exchange she’d heard earlier between the president and Moore, and not to mention the stress of hosting such an important and protocol-ripe event. Most observers probably would not note any problem, but Shield had seen Thomas’s true, spontaneous smile and could spot the difference. None of the smiles tonight had been reflected in the president’s eyes.
Some guests took seats in the East Room and others remained standing while the orchestra opened with a medley of Latin tunes, including “Down Argentina Way.” The guest of honor, seated in the first row between Thomas and his wife, smiled and clapped approvingly.
Then it was time for the prearranged waltz between the two presidents. Thomas had chosen “Fascination,” one of the tunes they’d practiced with. Shield suspected the selection had revolved more around the length of the options—this was the shortest one—than the president’s personal preference, given Thomas’s remarks the day before.
When the conductor gave a slight nod in Juan Carlos’s direction, the Argentine president stood, bowed to Thomas, and offered his hand. She took it, rose from her chair, and allowed herself to be led to the middle of the dance floor amidst a smattering of applause. Once they were in position, the orchestra began to play.
Shield felt an unfamiliar pang of envy watching them glide across the floor, Carlos’s hand on Thomas’s waist, too tight for her liking. Thomas was doing a splendid job, though she appeared less relaxed than she had the day before once she’d allowed herself to surrender t
o being led. That forced smile was fixed on her face throughout the entire dance.
Though Shield stood against the wall with other bodyguards, in the darkened perimeter, Thomas was apparently well aware of her position. More than once, Thomas looked directly at her, albeit briefly, as she was spun around the floor.
Though it was rarely difficult for her while on the job to maintain the stoic, somber presence characteristic of bodyguards, she couldn’t keep from nodding encouragingly at Thomas during a couple of the longer glances her way.
Moore mingled with the crowd and he, too, would occasionally look Thomas’s way and smile. Shield realized her fists were clenched; how she wanted to punch that grin off his face, make him suffer for what he’d tried to do earlier. She was happy she’d only had audio and no video to the president’s bedroom, because she wasn’t sure she’d have been able to refrain from barging in and wiping the floor with him. No one would have been able to blame her either, because she would have been doing her job protecting Thomas.
What had he gotten Thomas involved in? And how long had he been harboring sexual feelings for the president? Was it before or after her husband’s death? At this point, Shield didn’t put the man’s demise past the creep’s abilities. They had announced that Thomas’s husband had suffered a sudden heart attack, but prompting one was child’s play for anyone who knew how.
The music finally stopped, and Shield exhaled when Carlos let go and the two presidents parted. Thomas smiled and nodded politely, to all appearances the picture-perfect, graceful leader of the country, but Shield could tell she felt uncomfortable. Her hands trembled slightly when she touched her neck, her eyes were too intense—dark and troubled—and she looked like she was suffocating. Shield wanted to sweep in and take her away to her home in Tuscany, show her what it was like to breathe again.
When Moore approached Thomas and led her toward one of the guests—an older woman—Shield repositioned herself closer to the president.
*
Ryden had kept counting the whole time she danced. Not because she needed to, but because it helped her cope with the Argentine president’s tight grip on her waist and Ratman’s beady eyes. When that ceased to work, she stole glances at Kennedy and tried to imagine she was dancing with her. Every time Kennedy smiled at her, she’d briefly close her eyes to retain the image of that beautiful smile.
“Where to now?” she whispered to Ratman as he led her off the floor and through the crowd.
“Someone wants to say hello.”
“I’ve met everyone on the list.”
“This one arrived late.”
“Who?”
Ratman stopped in front of a beautiful, middle-aged woman. Her white hair was pulled back tightly, and her dress looked very expensive and classically chic. She was of average height, but that was about the only average thing about her. Ryden had never seen a more elegantly ominous presence. Neither had she seen eyes so black, like they lacked a soul.
“Madam President,” Moore said, “I’d like you to meet Theodora Rothschild.”
According to Ryden’s briefing notes, Rothschild was one of the few guests the real president hadn’t already met in person. “Of course. Owner of the Rothschild Auction Houses. How wonderful to meet you in person.” Ryden extended her hand.
The woman took it and a chill ran through Ryden, as though her core body temperature had dropped from the cold hand. “The pleasure is all mine.”
Ryden gasped aloud. That icy voice was one she would never forget. “I…I know—”
“Stay in character, Madam President,” Rothschild warned her.
Ryden looked away. “Of course.”
“I came to see whether you’re indeed doing the wonderful job Moore is telling me you are.”
Ryden couldn’t bring herself to look at those terrifyingly dead eyes. “I hope everything is to your satisfaction.”
“Very. Keep up the great work. A new…life is just around the corner.”
“I look forward to that.” Ryden tried to keep her voice steady.
Rothschild laughed coquettishly when the Speaker of the House passed by. “No need to keep you longer. You have guests to entertain, and I have a visitor of my own to see to.” Rothschild extended her hand and Ryden had to muster all her courage to take it. “Smile and say something trivial,” the bitch ordered.
Ryden plastered on a forced smile. “Have a nice—”
“Yes, yes. Run along now.” The cold creature shooed her away with her eyes.
Ryden needed to compose herself before she could resume her duties as hostess. Even finding Tim and his ex-wife dead and the prospect of a lethal injection hadn’t frightened her more than this lifeless being.
She was grateful that at least this affair was in the White House, so she could escape to her room for a few minutes. She headed up the grand stairs to the second floor. Shaken, she turned when she heard steps behind her.
“It’s only me.” Kennedy looked concerned. “Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” She crossed her arms. “Yes.”
“Can I help?”
“I need a few minutes to collect myself.”
She continued down the hall and heard Kennedy say from behind her, “Beacon is fine and in my sights.”
She opened the door to her room and was about to close it when Kennedy gently pushed the door to stop her. “If there’s anything at all I can do or get you—”
“I need to use the ladies’ room, that’s all.”
Kennedy reached for her transmitter and turned it off. “Then why are you shaking?”
She hid her hands behind her back. “I’m tired.”
“You look like you’re about to have a nervous breakdown.”
She looked down the hall. Two Uniformed Division guards had followed them and taken up positions nearby. “We’re drawing unnecessary attention.”
“Moore is in the East Room.” Kennedy said it like she wanted her to know it was safe to talk.
“Still, I…”
“Do you want me to come in?”
She opened the door farther and stood to the side.
“What’s going on?” Kennedy asked as soon as Ryden shut the door.
“Like I said, I’m tired.”
“With all due respect, you may be able to fool the rest, but not me. You haven’t been…well, since I arrived here.” Kennedy took a few steps toward her. “What’s going on behind the scenes may be none of my business, but your safety and well-being are.”
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re scared, Elizabeth.”
“No, I’m…”
“And my guess is Moore has a lot to do with it.”
Was it that obvious, or was Kennedy on to something? Ratman had told her Kennedy suspected something. Was she trying to get her to talk? Although she trusted Kennedy and wanted to tell her everything at this moment, somehow Moore would discover any wrong move, and she’d have to face not only him but that dreadfully cold woman. Even though Moore had been the one to continually threaten her, that lifeless, treacherous being was the real danger. Theodora Rothschild would be ruthless about terminating her and whoever else revealed their scheme without a second thought. “Kenneth Moore is a fine man. He cared a lot for my husband and stood beside me after his death.” She looked Kennedy straight in the eye. “He’s been very supportive.”
“I’ve seen the way he looks at you,” Kennedy replied. “It’s not support he’s offering.”
What had Kennedy seen? Ratman had shown nothing but a professional interest in her, and if it weren’t for what had happened earlier, even she would’ve never guessed. “I resent that.”
Kennedy raised her hands in surrender. “If whatever you two have going on suits you, then I’ll back off.”
“Then back off.” She was desperate for the conversation to stop.
“Elizabeth, you’re lying.”
Why was Kennedy pressing? She couldn’t handle any
more drama right now. “What if it does suit me?” She clenched her fists. “It’s none of your concern.”
“I don’t believe you, and it is my business if you’re in danger.”
“Are you jealous?”
“Of what?”
“Moore.”
Kennedy narrowed her eyes. “Why would I be?”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you look at me.”
Kennedy took a few steps nearer and stopped a foot away from her.
She would have normally backed away at such an intrusion into her personal space, but she couldn’t and she didn’t want to.
“And how is that?” Kennedy asked.
She couldn’t pull her gaze away from Kennedy. “Like…like…”
“The way you’re looking at me right now?”
It would be so easy to kiss her, Ryden thought. “I like you, Kennedy, but that’s it.” She looked away. “I’m not gay and—”
“And you’re the president,” Kennedy said. “And I’m your primary guard, and it would be highly unprofessional to…” She went silent and turned toward the door.
“To what?” Ryden asked.
“Nothing. I’m out of line. This whole conversation is out of line.” Kennedy gazed at her. “Just remember that should you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”
Kennedy had obviously said something because she saw her lips move, but Ryden had blocked it out. “It would be unprofessional to what?” Now Ryden pressed the issue.
Kennedy walked up to her and put her arm around her waist. Their lips were an inch apart and she was dizzy with excitement and expectation.
As her breathing quickened and her heart raced, she repeated, “To what?” in a whisper. She dropped her gaze from Kennedy’s eyes to her mouth.
When Kennedy brought her head closer, Ryden forgot to breathe. “To kiss you,” Kennedy said against her lips and then pulled away.
