“Nothing was the same after that. We would meet, but he would always be nervous. In between time, I called old friends, Albert Banks and Steven Gutowski. We met for lunch at the White House and when I told them what I thought was going on, they said I should call the FBI.” She glanced at Irene.
“Did you?” Irene asked with a defensive edge to her voice.
“What would I say? Already, I am considered a liability to my husband. The press and the White House staff all think I am crazy. If I make an accusation like this, the best thing that would happen is that no one would listen. Worst thing . . . well, I don’t know. My friends tell me that I should tell my protection detail, but it’s the same problem there. No one would listen. I need proof.”
“Are you getting to the computer files soon?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes, exactly,” Yelena said. “Three nights ago, Douglas and I meet again. Different hotel, but we spend the night. I begin to think that maybe I am crazy. But that afternoon, as I walked into the hotel—remember I am in disguise—I saw a man I have not seen in many years. Dmitri Boykin was walking across the lobby from the elevator to the front door.”
“Let me guess,” Jonathan said. “Gray hair, same height as Douglas Winters and maybe a little heavier.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“I sense that we all should have gasped when you said that name,” Jonathan said. “But I don’t get it. Who is he?”
“Russian mafia,” Irene said. “Former GRU, bosom buddies to the old Soviet network. Deeply committed to anything that hurts the US. Great friend to Iran, great friend to Syria, and we suspect strong ties to Venezuela. Cuba goes without saying.”
Jonathan felt a chill. “You’re suggesting that this was the man Winters was meeting with?”
“Exactly,” Yelena said.
“It’d be a hell of a coincidence otherwise, wouldn’t it?” Boxers said.
Jonathan sat back in his chair. The potential enormity was just beginning to dawn on him.
Yelena continued, “So when I got up to the room that afternoon, something was very wrong with Douglas. He was pale. He looked shaken. I thought maybe he was having a heart attack. No, he said, he just had to think some things through. But his hands were shaking. I asked what I could do and he said nothing. He said that he was going to take a shower before dinner.”
Yelena stopped her narrative and looked to the ceiling, as if for support. “That’s when I went through his pockets and found the flash drive. I didn’t know if it was anything, but it was all I could find. It was in an inside, inside pocket of his suit coat, and I took it and put it in my purse. When he came out of the shower, I talked him into doing room service and eating in the hotel’s bathrobes. Just as a way to keep him from finding out what I’d done.
“The next morning, I left before he was awake. Back at the residence in the White House, I tried opening files, but I couldn’t. I just knew, though, that the evidence I needed was there. So I called Steve Gutowski and we agreed that we would meet at the Wild Times that night, where I would give the flash drive to him. He is a computer genius. He brought Albert Banks with him. And, of course, because of everything that was happening, I brought my Secret Service detail with me. But it was a very small detail.
“I gave the flash drive to Steve, who had brought a laptop with him, so he made a copy for Albert. Between the two of them, we were sure we would find out what was on the drives. When that was done, we partied for a while longer, and then my Secret Service detail insisted that it was time to leave.”
“What happened when the shooting started?” Jonathan asked.
Her eyes glazed with tears. “That was terrible. Those poor people. The shooting started when I was nearly to the car. It started with an explosion, and then I was pushed and shoved and I don’t know what all happened. I found myself back inside the bar, and then Steve had his arm around me, and we were on our way out the back door. We sneaked away in all the confusion.”
The room remained silent for the better part of a minute when someone knocked lightly on the door.
Boxers opened it to reveal Sam Franco standing on the other side.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said. “But two people downstairs say they have to see you right now.”
Jonathan cocked his head.
“Their names are David and Becky.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Dad! There’s—” Josef’s words were cut short by Dwhat sounded like a slap.
In the fog of the assault, Nicholas couldn’t react fast enough. He raised his hands to fight his attackers, but a kick to his testicles followed by a blow to his belly made his knees sag.
The men said nothing, but when they spoke, it was in Russian. Just a few words at a time. They worked with what seemed to be a practiced efficiency. They slipped a hood over his head, and cinched it in place. Even as that was happening, they planted a foot in his back and stretched his arms painfully behind him. He knew from the sound and the feel that the bindings on his wrists were handcuffs, but then it felt as if they’d wrapped another length of rope around his elbows.
In less than fifteen seconds, he’d been completely immobilized.
“Where is Josef?” Nicholas grunted. They kicked him again in the balls, but they wouldn’t let him fall. “Please don’t hurt my boy,” he said. “He’s only thirteen. He’s done nothing.” Nicholas had done nothing wrong, either, but he’d confess to the crucifixion of Jesus if would spare his boy this kind of treatment.
They’d hit Josef, for God’s sake. Men beating on a little boy. How could anyone—
Still without a word exchanged between them, the attackers pulled on the rope at his neck, leading him out of his bedroom and into the hallway.
“Josef!” Nicholas cried. “Joey! Are you—”
This time the punch landed in his right kidney, hard enough to make him think that something had maybe ruptured. It was a command to be silent.
“Joey!”
The next punch had to have broken a rib. The pain from the kidney shot lit up his entire torso, from his hip to his shoulder.
“Dad!” It came more as a shriek than a word, and it sounded muffled. The boy yelped in pain after that and fell silent.
But at least he was alive.
And Nicholas was powerless to protect him.
He fought the urge to beg for mercy. Not only would it be useless, but it would give even more of an upper hand to these brutes who already held all the cards. Whatever was going on, Nicholas would be even less a protector—no, he’d become a burden—if he were crippled by these people.
They led him from the front, pulling on the rope as if he were a recalcitrant dog on a leash. Because he’d walked this path countless times over the years, he knew to expect the stairs, but they still arrived before he was ready. A captor in the rear grabbed the triangle formed by his bound arms to keep him falling face-first, but the pace never slowed.
He reflexively counted the thirteen steps to the tile foyer. It all felt so cold on his bare chest and bare feet. He wondered if they’d left the door open.
Then he was outside, surrounded by cold. Combined with the fear, it triggered convulsive shivers. He wanted to ask where they were taking him, and whether they were taking Josef to the same place, but he realized the futility.
Nicholas told himself that there was no reason to kill Josef. Whatever this was about, it had to be Nicholas that they were angry with. Josef was merely—what? In the way, perhaps.
He hadn’t realized that it had snowed until they marched him through it. It didn’t feel more than ankle deep, but after only a few frigid steps, his feet started to cramp from the cold.
Good God, was Josef enduring this same treatment? This same fear and this same pain? He knew they had struck him, but how hard? Was he still conscious?
Was he still—
No. Don’t go there.
It made no sense to consider the worst outcome until he had some idea of what was going on.
The thought brought sadness, and the sadness displaced much of his fear. If Nicholas had been a better father, they would still be a family. And if they were still a family, then none of this would have happened. If he were a stronger man, he would be fighting back and his son would be safe.
His kidnappers pulled him to a stop, and then he was airborne, lying faceup in the air with hands firmly around his torso and his legs. They were lifting him.
Seconds later, air barked out of his lungs as they dropped him roughly onto a hard surface. He landed on his side, and as his handcuffs hit the floor, he heard a metallic clank. Metal on metal. And the surface felt corrugated. It felt as if he were on the floor of a van. Or a workingman’s truck.
Panic seized his gut as he thought through the possibilities. They could take him anywhere. Or they could push the vehicle over a cliff, or they could set it on fire with him inside.
Whatever it was, he would be powerless—
He felt something sharp hit his thigh, and then he felt the spreading coldness that could only come from an injection.
Then he felt nothing at all.
Yelena looked confused. “Who are David and Becky?” Jonathan explained. “According to the man who tried to kill them, they were collateral damage.” He gave a brief recap of his interview with the two assassins, leaving out the gory details.
“Do I want to know how you got them to give all of that up?” Irene asked when he was done.
“You know where your people took them, right?” Jonathan asked.
Irene looked at the floor.
“Then you know how we got them to talk. If it makes a difference, I had nothing to do with the methods chosen.”
He shifted his attention back to the First Lady. “So, Mrs. Darmond. Where have you been and what have you been doing since the time of the shooting at the Wild Times?”
“I’ve been trying to get my bearings,” she said. “Trying to make sense of the world. In the confusion after the shootings, Steve and Albert rushed me out a back door. I gave them each a copy of the files I couldn’t decode, and they dropped me off out in the suburbs, in a Hampton Inn.”
This time it was Venice. “Oh, come on. You mean you checked into a hotel and no one recognized you?”
“I already told you,” Yelena said. “I’m very good at disguises.” She paused and took a deep breath. “Then, the next morning, when I was watching the news, I heard that DeShawn Lincoln had been killed and I started to panic.”
Jonathan kept his poker face. “Who’s DeShawn Lincoln?” he baited.
“He’s a DC cop,” she said. “Was. Such a shame. He was friends with Steve, who probably told him more than he should have. We were just so desperate to find out what our options were. Steve told him what we suspected was going on, and he, DeShawn, promised to keep an eye out. Then, what happened happened, and DeShawn ended up killed.
“I tried calling Steve when I heard the news, and when I couldn’t get through, I knew something terrible had happened to him, too. I called Albert Banks, and he had already heard about Steve and he was in a panic. The White House knew what we were trying to do, and they’d put the Secret Service up to cleaning us all out. I was terrified.”
Irene said, “We’re all here, right now, because I got a call from General Grand, chief of staff of the Army. He told me that he had heard from Mrs. Darmond that there was trouble. In fact, he called it a dire threat to the nation.”
“So why are you in Fisherman’s Cove instead of in some situation room somewhere?” Jonathan asked. “Why haven’t you activated some counterterrorism task force to expose the plot and bring the bad guys to justice?”
Irene said, “Accusations are not evidence. If we were to come forward with what we have, the administration would merely deny everything, cancel whatever they had in motion, and make us a laughingstock. And as a flag officer in the United States Army, General Grand would be guilty of high treason.”
Whatever burden Jonathan was feeling before quadrupled. “So, again. Why are you here?”
A long pause.
Irene broke the silence. “You’re a patriot’s patriot,” she said. “We knew you could provide a safe haven.”
“And then what?” Venice asked.
“That’s where it starts to get sketchy,” Irene said with a smile that was clearly designed to disarm.
A double-tap knock on the door prompted Boxers to rise and open it.
David and Becky stood on the other side, and they both looked like hammered shit.
“Welcome back,” Jonathan said. “Did you have a nice escape?”
David led the way into the library. “Oh, man,” he said. “You wouldn’t believe—” He caught his first glimpse of the First Lady and stopped so abruptly that Becky collided into him.
“Oh. My. God,” he said.
It took only a few more seconds for the color to drain from Becky’s face. “Mrs. Darmond?” she said.
Yelena flashed the smile that the tabloids knew so well. “The one and only.” She extended her hand.
Becky took it in both of hers. “It’s an honor to meet you,” she said. “But I’m so sorry about your family.”
Yelena’s face turned to stone as everyone in the room froze. “What about my family?”
“Oh, shit,” David said. “You don’t know.”
Yelena stood. For the first time, Jonathan saw real emotion in her eyes. And the emotion was fear. “What about my family?”
David seemed shocked to be delivering the news. “Your son,” he said. “Nicholas. He’s been kidnapped.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“Who?” Yelena asked. Her tone was just this side of Wpanic. “Who kidnapped him?”
“A Russian,” David said. “That’s all I know.”
“And how do you know that?” Irene asked.
For the first time, David took in the faces he saw in the room. His shoulders and jaw both sagged in unison. “Holy God,” he said. “Are you Director Rivers? Of the FBI?”
“I was this morning.” She shot a look to Jonathan. Can I trust him?
Jonathan shrugged. We’ll find out together.
“I believe you have the advantage,” Irene said as she shook hands.
“Huh? Oh. My name is David. David Kirk. I work for the Washington Enquirer.”
“Oh, shit.” That came out before Irene could stop it.
Jonathan tried to defuse the moment. “And this is Becky Beckeman,” he said. “Also with the Enquirer. For what it’s worth, they have both pledged not to report anything of what they see.”
Yelena connected the dots in her head. “You’re the boy Mr. Grave was telling me about. You knew Officer Lincoln.”
David brightened. “You knew Deeshy?”
She demurred. “In a manner of speaking. Please tell me about my family.”
Davis fished a reporter’s notebook out of his back pocket. “I’m really sorry to have been so blunt,” he said as he fished through for the right page. “We’re talking about Nicholas Mishin, right?”
Yelena paled and sat heavily in her chair.
“Okay,” David said. “Well, my source told me—”
“Stop there,” Jonathan commanded.
David’s head snapped up.
“Names,” Jonathan said. “At this stage, we need names. Who is your source?”
David looked to Becky, who looked at a spot on the ceiling. It took the better part of a half-minute for him to search his conscience. Jonathan got that he was conflicted, but he also got that there were too many secrets on the table now to start holding back selectively.
“It’s a guy in the White House press office,” he said, finally. “His name is Billy.”
“Billy Zanger?”
Yelena said. She seemed startled.
“Yes, ma’am,” David said. “He told me that they’d just gotten word. Apparently, you were—” He stopped himself.
“Candor, Mr. Kirk,” Irene said. “That’s really all we’ve got at this point.”
He nodded. “Okay. Apparently, you were supposed to be killed last night,” he said to the First Lady. “That, or you were supposed to be brought back to the White House. That was Douglas Winters’s preference, so you know. Being brought back, I mean.”
“How does this Bobby what’s-his-name know this?” Jonathan asked.
“Billy Zanger,” David said. “And I don’t know how he knows. I forgot to ask him.”
“But he’s telling the truth,” Becky added. “I could tell. He was like totally relieved to get this off his chest. I think he’s really scared.”
“Billy Zanger is Douglas’s press liaison,” Yelena explained. “They work very closely with each other. The two of them thought each other’s thoughts.”
“All well and good,” Jonathan said. “But what does this kidnapping have to do with anything?”
Becky said, “It was some kind of quid pro quo. Billy said he didn’t understand the details, but apparently the kidnapping was in retaliation for something Mrs. Darmond had done. Billy didn’t know what that was.”
But Jonathan did. Except for the latecomers, the entire population of the room knew. The kidnapping had been triggered by the First Lady’s decision to spirit the flash drive out of the White House.
Jonathan looked to Wolverine. “This sounds like a job for your shop,” he said.
“Do you have any idea where they took them?” Irene asked.
David shook his head. “No. But Billy seemed to think that it would be out of the country.”
“Shit,” Jonathan said. “Any idea where? Even which country?”
David looked down at his feet. “No,” he said. “I’m sorry I don’t.”
Yelena scanned the group with her gaze. “We have to get him back,” she said. “He has my grandson with him this week.”
High Treason Page 21
