Garrett sat across from Burroughs.
“So, what is this all about, Grant?” Houk asked. The words were a demand, but their delivery conveyed a tone of uncertainty.
Garrett folded rough hands atop the polished table. Looked from one to the other as he spoke.
“You’ve seen my full report. Just the two of you. Right now, we are the only people at Langley that know who was really behind the terrorist attacks in Washington and the assassination attempt on Roger Helm. Thanks mostly to my stagecraft, everybody has now concluded that radical Islamists attacked the capital; that two guys visiting a mutual friend’s grave in a cemetery were shot to death in a random gang initiation rite; and that financier Avery Trammel, a secret SVR agent of political influence, moonlighted by developing a side racket with Russian drug cartels, and died in a feud between two warring factions. And we are still trying to figure out who shot Roger Helm. All horrible, yet completely unrelated acts of violence, so sadly typical of life in America today.”
He grunted. Then coughed.
“Those are now the official stories. For the most part, the press is buying them, and so are most people. And we want to keep things that way—right? Because gee, fellows, if the nation were ever to find out the Russians were behind everything in order to control our election outcome, why, that just might be considered an act of war. And we certainly do not want to go to war with Russia, now, do we?”
They frowned at each other, looking uncertain.
“Of course we have to keep a lid on the Russian angle,” Burroughs ventured.
“And of course it would be even worse for you two, if the country were to discover that there was a second Russian mole in the agency; that you tried to stop me from investigating him—”
“Now, wait a damned minute—”
“—and that Wesley here helped this traitor rise through the Agency ranks. And that Spitzer spied for the same Russian handler who also ran Avery Trammel. And that Trammel, in turn, helped Russia plot both the terrorism and the assassination attempt on an American presidential candidate.”
He stopped. Gave them a few seconds to exchange nervous looks again.
“Just where are you going with this?” Houk’s voice was low, his face pale.
Garrett laced his fingers across his stomach. Began to rock back and forth in his chair.
“You know, there are an awful lot of dead people because of what happened these past few weeks. Of course, you two are not responsible for all of that carnage. But you are certainly responsible for some of it. Maybe if you hadn’t interfered with my hunt for Spitzer—or if you had actively supported it—we might have unraveled the SVR network far sooner. Maybe flipping him would have led us to Sokolov. And without his handler, maybe Trammel would have been stopped, too. That means his involvement with Lasher, Shishani, the terrorism, Helm’s assassination—who knows what could have been prevented?
“But let us not speculate on what might have been prevented. Here is what I am in a unique position to prevent now: a lot of embarrassing questions sure to come back here, directed right at you two. Because a great many angry people correctly see this as a massive failure of our intelligence community. There will be investigations galore. However, I am in a position to guide the direction of those inquiries. I can point them away from you.” He stopped rocking and glared at each of them in turn. “You know I can.”
Burroughs’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “What do you want?”
Garrett reached into his gray suit jacket and withdrew an envelope, along with his steel-gray pen. He opened the envelope, extracting two sheets of paper. Then he separated them and slid them in front of the two men.
“In exchange for doing you this enormous personal favor, I think some resignations are in order.”
For a moment, they looked like mannequins, speechless and immobile.
“I have even spared you the bother of drafting your own letters of resignation. These say the usual bland, even noble-sounding bullshit about ‘assuming full responsibility for unacceptable intelligence failures,’ and ‘hoping to restore the full confidence of the American people,’ blah blah blah.”
“So that’s it, then,” Houk said, a bitter grimace twisting his lips. “You’re after my job.”
“Oh, God no. I am quite happy in Ops—at least the Ops we used to have before you came along. But I am confident the nation can find someone better qualified than you. Than either of you. Hell, they could do that by covering their eyes and pointing at random names in the phone book.”
Garrett was too sickened by them to take pleasure from their stricken looks. He laid his pen atop Burroughs’s letter. Nudged it around with his forefinger so the barrel was within his reach.
“You first, Wesley.”
The man stared at the pen as if it were a poisonous reptile.
“If you don’t—or if you attempt to retaliate against me, or Miss Woods—then I’ll dump to the media all the sordid details about Spitzer, Trammel, the Russians, and how you were their enablers.”
“Can’t I please—”
“No, you can’t, Wesley. Stop stalling and whining. I don’t have all day.” He glanced at the silver watch on his wrist. “I have an appointment in forty-five minutes with our next president.”
2
“I appreciate your volunteering to give me an early national security briefing, Mr. Garrett.”
“And I appreciate your willingness to meet me alone for this discussion, Senator Spencer.”
They were meeting in the candidate’s suite at a downtown hotel, where in two hours Spencer would give a luncheon speech to a major business group. They faced each other across a small dining table. At Garrett’s request, Spencer had banished his aides and security people to a closed, adjoining room.
Garrett opened his slim briefcase, withdrew a sealed envelope, removed a file folder from it, then slid it across the table.
“I believe you have seen the contents of this folder before.”
The candidate’s cheery, boyish look melted into a look of puzzlement. He opened the folder wide—then his eyes—then his mouth. He gasped and slammed the folder shut. Garrett watched the color drain from the man’s panicked face. He didn’t say a word.
Garrett reached across the table, retrieved the folder. Slid it back into the envelope.
“Senator,” he began, “my job is to protect the security of the United States. I take that responsibility more seriously than you can imagine. I believe these photos already have been used against you to compromise national security. But the good news is, I am reasonably confident I have managed to close that security breach. For the time being, at least.
“However, looking ahead to your likely presidency, I see other kinds of threats on the horizon. Threats not just to our country, but specific threats to certain individuals. To myself, for one. And to certain of my associates.”
He picked up the envelope. Bounced it in his hand.
“I want to promise you, Senator, that these photos will remain securely in my possession, out of the reach of anyone who might wish to harm you. And they will never see the light of day—as long as your presidency never threatens the safety of America, or the safety of those individuals I just referred to.”
He slid the envelope back into his briefcase, then stood.
Spencer remained seated, trembling and staring up at him.
“What individuals?” His voice was a soft rasp.
“Oh, I’ll be in touch about that,” Garrett said. He nodded. “Have a nice day, Senator.”
He turned and left.
3
“I can’t believe how big and strong this pup is getting,” he said.
Cyrano was tugging on the leash, his nose to the road, trying to accelerate the excursion to new aromas.
“Yes. Well, you would notice if you saw him every day. But instead, you dumped him with me.”
“Now, that’s not fair. I figured since you are confronting the bad guys so much, you needed a g
uard dog.”
“Sheepdog.”
“Same thing. Something to keep the wolves away. You do know I have a vested interest in keeping the wolves from your door.”
“Do I have a say in that?”
“No.”
“You have it easy with Luna.”
“True. She doesn’t require walks. But there’s the litter box. It’s all trade-offs, you know.”
“Oh, look who’s here. Cyrano is going to love this.”
Up ahead, Jim and Billie Rutherford, “Vic Rostand’s” next-door neighbors, were heading their way, walking their golden retriever, Happy. The second they spotted each other, both dogs began tugging at their leashes.
“Annie!” Billie said, giving up on the job of holding the two dogs apart. “It’s so nice to see you again!”
“Well, it’s nice to get out here. I can’t make the trek from D.C. as often as I’d like.”
“It sounds terribly inefficient,” Jim said, winking at Dylan. “You ought to consolidate households.”
Hunter looked at Annie. “A topic under ongoing review.”
“If you do, I hope it’s you coming out this way, Annie, not the other way around. We’d hate to lose Vic, and we’d love to have you as a neighbor.”
“How’s the fox situation doing?” Jim asked.
“I can live with all their dead animal carcasses in the yard,” Hunter said, “as long as they don’t burrow under my porch or inside my shed.”
“Oh, the shed,” Annie said, eyes twinkling. “Now that would be a disaster.”
“Looks like Happy and Cyrano are already pals,” Hunter said. “We should try to coordinate our walks.”
“We should coordinate our meals,” Billie said. “We keep saying we’ll get together and never do.”
“I’ll be here over the weekend. Why don’t we do it then?”
“Oh, Annie, that would be great.”
After conversing about food and wine preferences, they retreated to their respective houses.
At dusk, they were on the porch sipping wine when Annie noticed the mother fox trotting at the edge of the marsh. They got up to watch. Then, as the darkness deepened, the kits emerged from their den and began chasing each other in the yard, rehearsing their little power rituals of dominance and submission, heedless of their human audience.
“They don’t care that we’re here,” she said.
“But I care that we’re here. I like it here.”
“I’m glad. You belong here, Dylan, with your foxes. You remind me of that famous American Revolutionary War general, Francis Marion. He also hung out in marshes and used guerrilla warfare tactics against the enemy. They called him ‘the Swamp Fox.’”
He chuckled. “I like that symbolism. I do belong here.” He glanced over at her. “We belong here.”
She turned away to hide her smile. “So you changed your mind about selling this house?”
“I guess so.”
“Even though you have to live under a different name here, and wear a stupid disguise in public?”
“I’m used to living under different names, you know.”
They were quiet for a while, sipping the wine and watching glow ebb from the sunset sky. There was something left unsaid. She felt she had to say it.
“You know . . . we could keep things just as they are.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m saying that we make a good team . . . just as we are, Dylan Hunter.”
“Yes, I’d say we do, Annie Woods.”
“We don’t have to think about the future. We have the present. We have now.”
“It is a pretty good now.”
“So, going forward, I don’t see any irreconcilable conflict between our relationship and our respective . . . missions and priorities, after all.”
“What about those dreams you talked about?”
She lowered her eyes, hesitating. Felt him watching her closely.
“Frankly, after everything I’ve been doing at work, I don’t think I’m cut out for a white picket fence, raising two-point-three children.”
“No?”
“Not really . . . So I guess we could just stay ‘permanently engaged,’ then.”
Her breathing stopped and she stared at the ring, waiting long seconds for his answer. She heard his slow intake of breath. Heard its slow release.
“Possibly.” There was amusement in his voice.
Something danced inside her. She looked up and grinned.
“It will be a ‘win-win’ relationship, right?”
A crooked little smile played at the corner of his mouth.
“Oh, I’m not so sure. I think I am the winner here.”
She held his hazel-green eyes. “And ‘winner takes all,’ huh?”
The eyes narrowed. “Pretty much.”
“Well, in that case . . .”
She began to unbutton her blouse.
A few seconds later, he approached her.
Wearing nothing but the crooked little grin.
4
Sunday morning was sunny and cool. They stayed in bed till ten, then got up and made breakfast.
“Well, Dylan, what’s on our agenda?”
“It’s such a beautiful day. Why don’t we go for a ride?”
They drove across the Bay Bridge, past Annapolis, toward Washington. The hum of the car and the warmth of the sun made her feel sleepy.
“Anyplace in particular you have in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.”
“Aren’t you going to tell me?”
“As a matter of fact, no.”
“So it’s a surprise, then.” She yawned.
“Only if I don’t tell you. Look, I didn’t allow you much sleep last night. Why don’t you take a short nap. I’ll wake you when we get there.”
“Okay.”
Sometime later, she felt the car slow. Her eyes fluttered open.
Before she could figure out where she was, he turned into a driveway.
“Dylan! What are you doing? Why are we here?”
He turned off the car and the radio. Then turned to her.
Took her left hand.
“Annie Woods, you said we could just stay ‘permanently engaged.’ Well, I decided I don’t like that idea. This ring means something. A promise.”
Holding her eyes, he raised her hand, leaned over, and kissed the ring. As he had once before.
He said, “It’s time he knew.”
She couldn’t speak. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Here,” he said, offering his handkerchief. “You don’t want to make him think I’ve been abusing his daughter, do you?”
She laughed. Then stared at him in wonder. Then laughed some more.
“You are really something, mister.”
“Oh. Well, then—if you’re not sure you want to go through with this . . . Ow! Damn it, that hurt!”
“The next punch will be on that big nose of yours.”
“So, Annie Woods,” he said, smiling, “I gather you are ready, then?”
Not smiling, she looked deep into his hazel eyes.
“I’ve been ready since the first day I met you, Dylan Hunter.”
She would always remember and treasure what was in his eyes at that moment.
Lying at his feet, Gracie, his old Irish Setter, suddenly perked up her ears and barked. Seconds later the doorbell rang. The dog clambered awkwardly to her feet.
“Easy girl. Stay.”
Ken MacLean put down the entertainment section of the Post and his reading glasses. Rising on stiff knees, he went to the front door, wondering who it could possibly be on a Sunday afternoon.
Opening it, he was startled to see his daughter with a man.
“Annie! What a nice—”
Then he recognized the man.
“You,” he said, his voice tight.
Annie reached out to take his hand.
“Dad . . . I need to speak to you.”
“We need to
speak to you, sir,” Dylan Hunter said. “We have a great deal to talk about.” Hunter then looked at his daughter. “And I have something to ask you. May we please come inside?”
Ken MacLean looked at them for a long moment. Felt his daughter’s hand tighten on his forearm.
Looked down at the hand.
Saw the diamond ring.
Everything stopped inside him.
He looked at each of them, in turn, for long seconds.
Then sighed and closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he realized he was smiling. And he knew that his answer to them expressed a sudden realization of the inevitable.
“Of course.”
***
READ THE BESTSELLING THRILLER THAT INTRODUCED DYLAN HUNTER — THE NEW FACE OF JUSTICE
HUNTER
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Two people, passionately in love.
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She is tracking this unknown assassin, sworn to stop him.
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WINNER TAKES ALL: A Dylan Hunter Justice Thriller (Dylan Hunter Thrillers Book 3) Page 53
