Guilt by Silence

by Taylor Smith

  “Under George Neville in Ops?”

  Tucker nodded. “It’s a small compartment. Only a few people are indoctrinated. And you,” he added, as she began to fidget, “are not going to be one of them. I don’t even know all the details myself, but we have to assume that your cover is blown, as far as this operation is concerned. Sticking your nose into it now is just going to send the bad guys to ground. You need to stay the hell away from this thing. Do you hear what I’m telling you?”

  Mariah could only nod. There was logic in what he was saying, but it wouldn’t stop her from looking at the CHAUCER file for herself if Stephen was able to get it. She rose and headed toward the door. Then she stopped and turned back to face him. “One more thing, Frank. What about Katarina Müller?”

  A look of shock passed over his face like a sudden thunderhead. “You know about her?”

  Mariah felt the blood draining from her own face. Why did she have to ask the question? She knew Frank too well not to realize what his reaction meant. How could she have been so stupid—so willfully blind to what was going on under her nose?

  “Oh, God,” she moaned. She leaned against the door and stared dumbly at him. “I think I knew about her in Vienna, but I just didn’t want to believe it could happen. David was having an affair with her, wasn’t he?”

  Tucker’s eyes dropped to his hands. “She was a swallow, specializing in seduction and blackmail.”

  “Why David? To get at me?”

  He looked up at her, his dark eyes angry. “I don’t know. Maybe to cause problems in your marriage, get you out of Vienna early. Or maybe they thought the same thing as Chaney—that David was the CIA operative.”

  “Was Chaney in on it?”

  “I don’t know—maybe. Probably not. If this was about CHAUCER, it’s possible he may have been targeted, too. Investigative reporters can be as dangerous as intelligence agents to an operation like this.”

  Mariah stood immobilized, remembering how Vienna had suddenly seemed to turn sour for David. How he’d pleaded, just two days before the accident, for them all to go home. How she had smelled someone’s perfume on his clothing, knowing subconsciously whose it was, but convincing herself that he had picked it up at the office from hanging his jacket too close to some overscented secretary. And as she stood there remembering, she felt on her face the first real tears she had allowed herself to cry since the day after the accident, when she had told herself sternly that she had to be the strong one and hold her family together.

  “Aw, Mariah, I’m sorry,” Frank said gruffly. He came from behind the desk and put his arms around her, holding her stiffly. “I didn’t want you to find out about this.”

  “He wanted to leave. He begged me to pack it in and go home. But I brushed it off. I told him we only had one more year—we should hang in, finish taking Lindsay to all the sights we had planned. Take a bicycle trip through France.” She clenched her fists against his chest and looked at Tucker. “Why did he do it? Why did he let that woman into our lives?”

  “I’ve asked myself that question a thousand times. David loved you, there’s no doubt about that. And he loved Lindsay. Why would he risk losing you both over a woman like Katarina Müller? It doesn’t make sense. The only thing I can think of is that he felt his family was somehow threatened and he did it to protect you. I promise, Mariah,” Tucker said quietly, “I’m going to find out who’s behind this. I won’t let you down.”

  “I know. You’ve always stood by me.”

  “You, too. And I don’t mean just professionally. You’re the best analyst I ever saw and I’m proud as hell that I was the one who recruited you.” Tucker hesitated. Sentimental words didn’t come easily to him. “I mean personally, too—everything you did when Joanne was dying. And taking in Stephen the way you used to do. I’ve never forgotten how you were there for me, and for my family.”

  There was a short knock and suddenly the door opened. Pat Bonelli breezed in, almost colliding with the two of them standing just inside the door. She froze, looking from Frank to Mariah and back to Frank again. They pulled apart quickly and Mariah took a deep breath as she wiped her face with the flat of her hands.

  “Hi, Patty. Don’t mind me. I’m having a rough morning and your guy here kindly allowed me to soak his shirt.”

  Pat nodded slowly. “Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, fine. I’m okay.”

  Frank glanced at Mariah one more time and then moved back to his desk. “What’s up?” he said, looking over at Pat.

  “Sorry to barge in, but your daughter’s on the phone, Frank. She wants to know what time you want her to come over and help set up for the Christmas party.”

  “Whenever she gets there is okay—anytime in the afternoon,” Frank said.

  “And Mariah,” Pat added, “Carol also wants to confirm that Lindsay’s still okay to baby-sit tomorrow afternoon while she’s at Frank’s.”

  “I’ll run her over after we visit David. Just tell me what time Carol wants her.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell her.” Pat hesitated, looking at the two of them once more before heading out the door.

  “Hang on.” Mariah grabbed the handle as it was about to close again. “I’m leaving, too. I’ll get that report cleaned up and out, Frank,” she added, glancing back at him. Their eyes locked for a moment, and then he nodded and looked away. Mariah closed the door quietly behind her.

  Tucker sat down in his chair and rocked slowly back and forth. Then he picked up the phone and punched in a number.

  “Mr. Neville’s office,” a chirpy voice replied.

  “Frank Tucker. Is he in?”

  “Just a moment, please.”

  A couple of minutes later, George Neville came on the line. “Frank! What’s up?”

  “Paul Chaney—he’s been back to see her. He’s going after the story and he’s beginning to put the pieces together.”

  “I see. Not good.”

  “Not good. And he’s got Mariah upset. She knows about Katarina Müller.”

  “Damn! How’s she taking it?”

  “How do you think?” Tucker snapped. “Look, George, this is no good. Chaney’s got to be reined in.”

  “I agree. I’ll see what I can do.” He hesitated. “Frank?”

  “What?”

  “What about her? Is she going to leave it alone?”

  “Yeah, she’s going to leave it alone.” A moment later, Tucker hung up the phone and stared at the wall. “Please, Mariah, please leave it alone, for God’s sake.”

  9

  It had snowed overnight—just a light dusting, the kind that would disappear by noon. When Mariah stepped from the kitchen into the garage on Saturday morning and touched the door opener, it was like a curtain rising on a set for The Nutcracker. Evergreen tree branches were frosted and sparkling in the morning sun, while her driveway lay gleaming white and spotless, an empty stage just waiting for the dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy.

  But it wasn’t enough to chase away the dark spirits that had dogged her steps since the previous day, when Frank had confirmed what she had subconsciously known but refused to ponder—that David had had an affair in Vienna with another woman. And not just any other woman, but Elsa. No, Mariah reminded herself, not Elsa—Katarina Müller. She moved now through a fog of anger and pain and confusion, struggling to understand how such a thing had come about.

  “Lins?” she called. “Are you coming? We haven’t got all day.”

  There was a muffled response from somewhere inside the house that she couldn’t make out, and then came the ring of the telephone. Damn, she thought, Lindsay’s friends again. Let the machine take it. “Leave it, Lindsay! We’re running late. I’ve got things to do back here after I drop you at Carol’s.”

  Lindsay’s head appeared at the kitchen door. “It’s for you.”

  “Can I call back?” Her daughter shrugged. “All right,” Mariah said wearily. “Put your stuff in the car. Have you got your dress for Uncle Frank’s part
y? Shoes? Okay, get in, please. I’ll be right back.”

  She slipped past Lindsay and into the kitchen, grabbing the receiver from the counter. “Hello?”

  “Mariah? It’s Stephen. I’ve got that game you wanted.”

  Game? Mariah was taken aback for a moment. Then she remembered—the CHAUCER file, of course. “Already? Great. Did you have any trouble finding it?”

  “No, not really.”

  “When can I take a look at it?”

  “I’ve got it right here, at home. Do you want to pick it up, or should I bring it for you tonight?”

  How on earth did he get it home? Mariah wondered. She’d expected him to fix it so she could access the file on her office terminal. All the Company’s data files were stored in the banks of its mainframes and couldn’t be copied onto floppy computer disks. Printed copies of on-screen documents could be ordered up only by those with the clearances and authorization to do so. But even if Stephen had managed to circumvent those security precautions, surely he wouldn’t have printed off the whole file—it had to be pretty hefty by now. Never mind. She’d know soon enough.

  “I’ll pick it up,” she said. “Around eleven-thirty, noon, if that’s okay. Give me your address.” She wrote down the address of his apartment building in Alexandria, then hung up and headed back to the garage, folding the piece of paper and stuffing it into her jacket pocket.

  Lindsay was hunkered down in the car, arranging her schoolbag around her feet in the front seat. She would be spending the afternoon baby-sitting Frank’s grandson while Carol and her husband helped Tucker set up for the Christmas party. Mariah was gratified to note that she was obviously planning to do her homework while the baby napped.

  She turned the ignition and glanced into the rearview mirror before shifting the Volvo into reverse. If she saw the new footprints that had suddenly appeared on the pristine, snow-frosted driveway, her brain didn’t register them. She backed out, then put the car in forward before remembering to reach for the remote control to close the garage door. Before taking off down the road, she glanced in the rearview mirror just long enough to see it start to drop.

  Rollie Burton watched the Volvo pull away, then slipped out of the bushes next to the garage and scooted under the door in the last seconds before it closed. A short time later, he was standing in her kitchen, feeling the still-warm coffeepot, wondering how long it would be until she came back from wherever it was she had said she was dropping her daughter.

  Opening cupboards one by one until he found the dishes, he withdrew a cup and poured himself some coffee, sipping thoughtfully as he moved to the front door. He reached up and slid off the dead bolt—a precaution, just in case he had to beat a hasty retreat. Then, turning around, he took another sip of coffee and decided to tour the house. Let’s start with the bedroom, he thought, running his tongue over his lips.

  Ever since the night he had missed her at the pool, he had been thinking about her—about her body in the curve-skimming nylon swimsuit, about how she had evaded his grasp. She probably thought she was smart, getting away from him like that. Women always thought they were so superior. How many of them had dismissed him with a glance, their eyes sliding past him like he was garbage? They always wanted the pretty boys. Even the streetwalkers hesitated when he approached them, probably hoping something better would come along. Burton fingered the blade in his pocket. But he knew how to get their attention in the end.

  He stepped into the hall and opened the closet. His eyes landed on a silk scarf, which he withdrew and held to his face, inhaling her scent, smiling in the knowledge that he’d soon have her begging like the rest of them. The voice on the phone wouldn’t care—she’d be just as dead when he was done with her.

  Dieter Pflanz had sent the Learjet back to California to pick up Gus McCord’s sons. Their mother’s condition was uncertain, and Gus wanted them nearby in case the worst happened. The boys were due in by noon.

  McCord himself hadn’t left the cardiac unit of the hospital since the previous afternoon, when he had returned to the Madison Hotel from the White House to discover his wife collapsed in their suite. Pflanz had the bodyguards doing shifts outside Nancy’s hospital room until the sons arrived, at which point both he and Jerry Siddon were hoping to convince Gus to go to the hotel to rest. The two of them were hanging out in the lounge of the cardiac unit, standing by in case anything changed.

  “You should have heard the President,” Jerry Siddon said wistfully. “He practically guaranteed that he’d back Gus if he decided to enter the race next year. Damn! This could ruin everything.”

  Pflanz glanced over at McCord’s exec assistant. “That’s real sympathetic of you,” he said, eyebrow arched.

  Siddon grimaced. “You know what I mean. This is awful about Mrs. McCord, of course. I hope she’s going to be okay—she’s a great lady. But if anything happens to her, Gus will be devastated. And even if she pulls through, he might decide not to put her through the stress of a campaign.”

  “So he doesn’t run. It’s not the end of the world. Anyway, I thought the President was committed to supporting the Vice President when his own term is up.”

  “That’s just what he says publicly.” Siddon rolled his eyes. “The Vice President is an idiot. The man’s not bright enough to run a candy store, let alone the country. The President knows that. We need a man like Gus McCord to clean up the mess that politicians have made of this country.”

  “I don’t know. It seems to me that Gus can do a lot more acting on his own than tied down to some desk job.”

  Siddon looked doubtful, but Pflanz’s CIA contact had said as much yesterday. He and George Neville had had a private meeting in an anteroom of the White House while McCord, accompanied by Jerry Siddon, was making his call on the Oval Office.

  “You realize, of course,” Neville had said, “that the President will never acknowledge that he knows what your boss is up to. ‘Plausible deniability,’ and all. If this ever gets out, there’ll never be any hint that he was in the loop. But he really appreciates what McCord is doing for this country. Our hands are tied by the congressional intelligence oversight committees—we’re just lucky that there’s someone like McCord around who’s prepared to take on the dirty work that the puritans on the Hill can’t stomach.”

  “Well, that’s all well and good,” Pflanz grumbled. “But you’d better keep sensitive eyes turned away while we do what we have to do.”

  Neville nodded soberly. “It’s tricky, though. I’m about the only one who knows all the pieces to the puzzle—safer that way. Thing is, it’s hard to tell our people on the inside that they can’t look at something without tipping our hand.” He bit his lip. “And we’ve got a small press problem.”

  “Press? Who?”

  “Paul Chaney from CBN.”

  “It’s always the press—whining, scandal-hungry, bloody reporters!” Pflanz stood and went to the window. Down on the White House lawn, two of the President’s grandchildren were tossing a Frisbee, losing it periodically to the First Lady’s cocker spaniel. “Leave it to me,” he said finally, turning back to Neville. “I know how to take care of Chaney.”

  The visitors’ lounge in the nursing home had a piano. After taking David out for a walk in the crisp sunlight, Mariah and Lindsay had brought him back in out of the frosty air. He was wheezing a little and Mariah worried that he might be coming down with a cold. Lindsay was at the piano now, playing Chopin, one of the Études that he had always loved and that she had learned especially for him. David’s eyes were fixed on their daughter, a smile hovering on one corner of his lips as the music filled the room.

  Mariah watched him, feeling the anger rise in her with every bar. She tried to fight it down, telling herself that he had paid a terrible price for his betrayal. Whatever the link between Elsa and CHAUCER and the attack in front of the American School, the fates had seen fit to punish him for his duplicity.

  But they didn’t punish only you, David, she said silently. They
punished me, too. And worst of all, they had wounded Lindsay, leaving physical and emotional scars on their child that she knew would never fully heal.

  I don’t give a damn about how bad you felt about what you were doing with Elsa, Mariah thought, watching him with bitter eyes. You had no right. I loved you. I trusted you absolutely, in a way I never trusted anyone in my life. But in the end, you abandoned me and Lindsay, just as surely as my father abandoned Mom and Katie and me. And I think I hate you for that.

  Lindsay finished playing and looked over at him. David’s eyes returned his daughter’s smile. Suddenly, Lindsay’s took on a mischievous twinkle. “Da-ad,” she crooned, glancing at Mariah with a giggle and then again at David. “I think I feel a choc attack coming on!”

  He grinned lopsidedly. It was an old joke between them, rabid chocoholics both. One of them would begin to moan and faint, the other would run to take a pulse, then soberly prescribe chocolate for the ailment, which was otherwise sure to prove fatal. Next thing Mariah knew, they would take off, cackling wildly, for the nearest source of chocolate. It could be an hour before dinner or ten minutes before bedtime. It used to drive her wild, and it didn’t help that Mariah had an allergic reaction to chocolate that made it impossible for her to even pretend to share their enthusiasm.

  She rolled her eyes now. “You two are incorrigible. All right. Here, Lins,” she said, reaching into her wallet. “Run down to the cafeteria and see what you can find, and I’ll take Daddy back. We need to get going soon. Carol will be waiting for us.”

  She wheeled him down the hall and into his room while Lindsay went in search of chocolate. Parking him next to the computer, she busied herself dusting the keyboard, finding no words she could trust herself to say in the midst of her black mood.