“Like Justin Eliot, you mean.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll think through everything you said,” he replied.
“That’s all I’m asking, Will.”
A SECURE LOCATION
His call to the man was swift. “I pulled a few strings. Secured a bit of footage already.”
“And?” the man demanded.
“Should get the parties that need it moving in the right direction.”
NEW YORK CITY
Will sat silently in the dim light of his kitchen. He needed to let Drew know the potential latest developments as fast as possible.
Drew had once told Will, “Desperate people do desperate things.”
Once on the downward spiral, people would do anything to protect themselves. But hiring your own kid to do a hit? A hit that leads to his death?
Will shivered. Frank Stapleton was many things, and he’d betrayed Will. But he couldn’t believe Stapleton would or ever could stoop to those depths. Such actions would make his betrayal of Will—and the possibility that he, Sandstrom, and the president had all colluded to try to take the Worthington family down—a mere blip on the screen of depravity. Carson was amoral, an anything-goes-to-get-to-the-top person. Likely, all three powerful people had used Carson as a pawn to get exactly what they wanted—a clear road ahead, without any interference from the Worthingtons.
Will’s determination hardened. He’d given in once to protect his family. He wouldn’t do so again. There was no protection against people like that, other than revealing their evil acts in the light of day.
With Drew’s help, he would do exactly that.
28
WASHINGTON, D.C.
The next day Darcy phoned Sarah at her office. “The handwriting on all three notes looks like an 85 percent match—as close as we can probably get—with Stapleton’s signature on documents. And that’s not the only clincher,” she reported. “We took another look at the footage we had from the building. Came across some I don’t remember seeing before, at least not in the same light.”
“How so?” Sarah asked.
“Two cops entered the building a couple of hours before Justin was found at the bottom of it. The footage also reveals a man with a dark hood that matches Justin’s clothing, but no face was revealed. He entered the building about half an hour before the jump. The two cops exited the first floor of the building before NYPD arrived to set up a perimeter around the body.”
“So they weren’t NYPD. Just dressed in cop clothing,” Sarah reasoned.
“No one at NYPD could identify them. The partial views we have don’t match anything in our databases—US or otherwise.”
Sarah swiveled in her chair toward the window. “So somebody hired them to make sure Justin went over the edge of that building.”
“Yup. Found something else too.”
“So out with it.”
“Carson. He tried a good disguise with a hat and trench coat, but it was him. He entered after Justin and waited by the first-floor elevators.”
“He didn’t go up?”
“No, just hung around. Seemed nervous and kept checking his cell phone. Then the reflection of lights from NYPD flashed into the video. Carson fled out the back door an instant later.”
“So Carson didn’t kill the kid. But he may have been directing the two guys up top.”
“Or maybe he was supposed to pay off the kid, but Stapleton changed the game plan without telling him,” Darcy suggested.
“You know what that means.”
“We play the two little foxes against each other to see who’s all in the den.”
A SECURE LOCATION
“Surveillance is now all in on the building where Eliot died,” he reported to the man.
“And?”
“No Stapleton. Two cops in before Eliot, two cops out after the kid supposedly jumps and before NYPD arrives.”
“So they were dirty cops,” the man said.
“Not likely cops at all. My friends at NYPD say nobody recognizes them.”
“Then we dig a little deeper.”
“I’m on it.”
“The White House?”
“Still working on it.”
WASHINGTON, D.C.
That afternoon Darcy patched in Sarah confidentially via video loop on her just-concluded interrogation of Jason Carson.
Sarah watched the video with fascination as Darcy strode into the conference room and deposited a pen in front of Carson. “Do you recognize this pen?”
“Yes. I have one like it. Usually carry it around with me.”
“Do you have it with you now?”
He made a show of searching his pockets. “No. Must have left it at home or at my office.”
Darcy crossed her arms. “So, if we accompanied you to your home or office, you could lay hands on it immediately?”
Carson blanched. “Uh, no, I think I lost it.”
“When?”
He shrugged. “Maybe a week ago, or a few days. Don’t know.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere. It might interest you to know that this is your pen. It has your fingerprints all over it. Where did you get the pen, Mr. Carson?”
“How am I supposed to remember that?” he asked. “It’s a pen, not a Ferrari. And owning a pen isn’t a criminal action.”
“But a most unusual pen, Mr. Carson. That’s why we’re interested in it. Did you buy it? Or did someone give it to you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Let me tell you what I think. This is a pretty expensive pen, even for a guy on your salary, unless, of course, you’ve got some accounts stashed on the Cayman Islands or elsewhere.”
Sarah laughed to herself. Darcy was at her intimidating best in interrogation mode. She hadn’t seen any perpetrator yet who hadn’t backed down. Carson, though, was a tough case. Only his knuckles tightened. But that was enough to tell Sarah that the rumors and her gut instinct were true. The guy did have his ill-gotten gains stashed somewhere out of federal tax reach.
There was no response from Carson, so Darcy went on. “I think someone gave it to you.”
“Could be. Maybe someone my old boss did business with. I get gifts all the time.”
“I bet you do. But which guy in particular gave you the pen?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Someone gave you a pen that’s worth $700,000, and you don’t remember who gave it to you? I find that hard to believe.”
He shrugged. “I deal with high rollers all the time.”
“But you remember it was some guy your old boss did business with? Just not any specifics.”
“That’s right.”
“And why would he give you a pen? Especially one this expensive?”
Carson’s cockiness returned. “Maybe he liked me. A lot of people do.”
Darcy zeroed in for the kill. “More like because you did a job for him under the table. Mr. Carson, we have a signed affidavit from a bartender that specifically states you paid him a thousand bucks to allow you to set up a video cam inside the bar. The only thing he had to do was move two men you had described to him within viewing distance, click the remote to start the cam, and then meet you outside in the alley late that night so you could pick up the cam. Those two men, Mr. Carson, match the description of Sean Worthington and Justin Eliot, aka the Polar Bear Bomber.”
Jason Carson blanched again.
“That was a mistake—setting up those photos,” Darcy said. “But you made an even bigger mistake by accepting that pen. It’s the one that wrote the suicide note for the bomber. And, Mr. Carson, it has your fingerprints all over it, which can easily lead to a murder charge that sticks. Now, I’m sure we’ll discover many more connections between you and the man who gave you this pen as we continue digging. Including the fact that you tried to bribe Will Worthington to leave the Senate race by showing him those falsified photos that you yourself had set up. What did you have to gain, Mr. Carson, other than mo
ney? Is that money really worth a prison sentence for murder? Or do you want to make our job easier and maybe your jail sentence a little shorter, and tell us about your employer?”
At that point, Darcy stopped the tape for Sarah.
“Wow, that was quite the song and dance, wasn’t it?” Sarah said.
“Very typical,” Darcy retorted. “Only this one carried his snobbery a bit further than usual. At that point he demanded to talk to his lawyer privately. But from the look on the lawyer’s face, he’s going to encourage Carson to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. I’ll let you know what floats up to the surface.”
A SECURE LOCATION
“Stapleton was there, at the White House,” he told the man.
“Private meeting with the president?”
“Indeed.”
29
WASHINGTON, D.C.
It didn’t take long before Sarah found out what had floated to the surface. Within minutes of entering her office the next day, she was summoned to the White House for a confidential meeting with one of President Rich’s closest advisors.
“Ms. Worthington.” He rose to shake her hand. “I hear good things about your work.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He cleared his throat. “I’ll get right to business. It has come to the president’s attention that you and some colleagues are continuing to dig into the Polar Bear bombing instead of concentrating solely on your attorney general responsibilities. As you know, President Rich has backed you fully in your nomination and the proceedings. But pursuing a line of questioning that could bring this matter back into the light could be, shall we say, not good for you, your colleagues, or this administration. We respectfully ask you to step away and consider the matter closed. Especially since you have publicly recused yourself from anything to do with the bombing.”
Sarah straightened. “And if I decide that this ‘line of questioning’ is in the best interests of the American people, then what?”
His eyes narrowed. Then he relaxed. “Ms. Worthington, we’re not threatening you. We’re simply asking you to consider the ramifications of what you are pursuing.”
“I am,” she replied with a determined lift of her chin. “You can be absolutely certain of that.”
NEW YORK CITY
“So you’re now directly in the president’s gun sights?” Will asked his sister. “Wow, you certainly know how to pick a fight.”
“Indeed. But it only proves that we’re on the right track,” she insisted.
“Watch out for any stray bullets,” he warned, “or targeted ones.”
“Nothing I haven’t faced before.”
“But this is on a whole new level.”
“And they are grossly underestimating me,” she fired back.
He knew his sister. Still, he worried about her.
A SECURE LOCATION
He knew what the man had promised long ago when he’d started working for him. But when that promise conflicted directly with something else he was deeply invested in, what then? Would the man still hold to his end of the deal?
The connections were coming together from all sides now. When they could be proved, the public would have something else to point fingers at in their claim that the US government had run amok and that crooks were at the helm. There would be a plain-as-day connection between Washington powers and American Frontier, the most powerful oil company in the world. Not only that, but . . .
No. He halted his thoughts. The full plan couldn’t be launched until it was more than conjecture and disparate pieces. They would need absolute proof that would stand up in court, because the vitriolic White House would go into attack mode, fearing the potential of impeachment proceedings.
There was no doubt what Sarah Worthington as the new AG would do. Her track record at the DOJ’s Criminal Division spoke for itself. She was like a freight train, never stopping. This time, though, her path would collide with the most powerful boss of all—the president of the United States. It was more power than she’d ever had to deal with. And clearly, President Spencer Rich would fight dirty to keep his own hands clean.
Will Worthington still had a big fight on his hands with the White House media, who continued their attempt to separate the president’s actions and AF’s regarding the oil fiasco. Yet each time, among combative questioners and the throngs of reporters, Will came out on top—the good guy who had walked away when he couldn’t sway the old CEO into doing what was right for the planet, but then had walked back in when the company needed saving.
Nobody seemed to care anymore that Will had aborted his Senate race. The rumors as to why had faded in the light of more pressing national issues. To the rest of the world, Will truly was the knight in shining armor who would literally save the planet from ecological disaster. The media highlighted his research into new methods of cleaning up the oil along the shore and in the waters, and also in pioneering safer ways of extracting oil. Will had halted all of AF’s oil efforts in the Arctic.
Yet the biggest fight for the Worthingtons was still to come. He was convinced of that.
What the end result would be, though, was anyone’s guess.
The players all had to play to win. With the high stakes, there was no other option.
30
WASHINGTON, D.C.
“Jon!” Sarah happily flung open her door at the Ritz Carlton upon seeing her unexpected visitor. “Didn’t know you were going to be in D.C.”
“I didn’t either,” he said. “It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment decision.”
She tilted her head. “Oh? Come on in. I just ordered some coffee. Want some?”
Once they’d settled across from each other at the small table with coffee mugs in hand, he eyed her. “Actually, I’m here because there’s something I need to tell you. I’m about to break a story. One that concerns you. I wanted you to know about it first.”
She lifted a brow.
“The $25 million supplied by AF and its affiliates for the quid pro quo came from foreign funds, Sarah.”
She set her coffee cup down. “Using foreign funds to contribute to a presidential campaign and to be spent in America is treason.”
“See why President Rich is desperate not to have that known?” Jon asked.
“So you’re saying the president of the United States knowingly used foreign funds for his campaign? Jon, that’s—”
“That’s what I’m saying. I have reputable sources that told me he knows exactly where it came from.”
“Most of the money came solely from American Frontier,” she argued. “So you’re saying AF knowingly donated foreign funds to influence an American election?”
He nodded.
She stared at him. “If you break this story, you know how tough the media is going to be on my brother? And on me, just becoming attorney general? You know what the press is going to say—that the Worthington family has been manipulating things behind the scenes for a presidential election.”
Jon looked her straight in the eyes. “Yes, I know. But it gets worse.”
She threw her hands up in the air. “How could it get worse?”
“I’ve now identified the origin of the majority of the funds coming from AF.”
“And?” she pressed.
“They’re from ISIS.”
Dread swept over Sarah, sickening her.
“That’s why I wanted you to know first. And why I wanted to give you the heads-up so you could also warn Will.”
“But you still feel you have to break the story, knowing how it will affect me. How it will affect Will.”
Jon sighed. “Sarah, I’m an investigative journalist. It’s my job. Beyond that, it’s about integrity. I have to do what’s right for the Times. For America. People deserve to know the truth, especially since this is an election year and Spencer Rich will be on the campaign trail.”
She raised her chin. “Then do what you need to do.” There was an uncomfortable pause. Then she added, “I’ve got
other plans.”
“Like what?” Jon asked.
“I’m not certain it would be wise to tell a journalist.”
“Sarah—”
“I think it would be best if we didn’t communicate for a while.”
“Sarah—” he tried again.
“I need you to leave.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay,” he finally said. “But this isn’t what I want. It isn’t the way it has to be.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s the way it has to be for now.”
There was a brittle silence between them, and then he turned toward the door.
Without another word, he stepped out and shut the door behind him.
NANNING, CHINA
Sean was standing in a rice paddy in southeastern China when the back of his neck started to prickle. He rubbed his neck and surveyed the locals standing around him.
Suddenly his sister and brother came to mind. He frowned. Was something up with Sarah or Will? The only times his neck prickled were when one of his family members was in trouble. It was an uncanny, disturbing feeling, but he’d learned to trust it.
He scanned the area for a cell tower. No such luck. As soon as he had cell coverage back at the hotel in Nanning, he’d have to call Sarah. In the meanwhile, he needed to focus on the potential NGO he’d come to visit. He looked around at the group. Eyes were on him. The expressions of trust and hope—and yes, worry too—seemed to ask him, “Can you help us? Will you help us?”
An ox bellowed from where it pulled a wooden cart on a nearby dirt road. Bamboo shot up tall and vivid green on the left of him. It was a good year for the villagers, after two years of too much rain had nearly destroyed their rice and bamboo crops.
Sean realized again the huge responsibility he had in choosing the right NGOs for Worthington to back. Some he knew would make money—both for the locals and for Worthington Shares. Not a lot, but some. Others he knew would simply sustain the area and be flatlined on a financial graph. A select few would fly and pay for all of the other efforts, making the Worthington shareholders happy.
A Primary Decision Page 11
