She bobbed her head once in agreement.
“Besides, Blaylock is wealthy enough, good-looking enough, and charismatic enough to get his terror babettes to do his bidding without having to flash any bling.”
Lucy narrowed her eyes at him. “Did you just say ‘babettes’? And ‘bling’?” she asked slowly.
Fucking hell. It had been decades since he’d been even tempted to blush. “Yes. Get over it. Watson lived in a small condo in South Beach.”
“And she left that to stay with him in Overtown?” She shook her head. “Love must be blind and have no standards. Was his place wired?”
“No. We wired hers a few days after they met, but she didn’t spend much time there and he never set foot in the place. He tried very hard to stay well under the radar.”
“How long was he here?”
“Fourteen weeks. We tracked him coming in.”
Lucy glanced down to check the intact polish coating her fingernails. “Why didn’t we bug his place? That step is pretty much covered in Intelligence 101, isn’t it?”
“It’s refreshing to note that you haven’t lost your sense of humor, Madam Director.” Tom folded his arms and leaned against the windowsill. “We tried a few times to wire it but couldn’t pull it off. Too conspicuous. Besides, GAIA might have trouble with underwater detonation and with finding good help, but they know their electronics. If we’d been successful in bugging it, they’d have known about it pretty quickly, and then they would have moved.” He shrugged one shoulder. “We had surveillance cameras and parabolic mikes in place but we didn’t get much. She went into the apartment with him at eleven o’clock last night and left at seven-thirty this morning. He was in the doorway when she left. They didn’t converse either time when they were outdoors.”
“Did you pick up any pillow talk?”
“No. We had mikes trained at all the windows but there was enough white noise in the background to distort any conversation.” He paused. “For what it’s worth, we didn’t expect to get much. He’s no fool.”
She pursed her lips and looked down at her hands again, then back at him. “Where is he now?”
“He left the apartment shortly after she did. In a characteristic display of his concern for his fellow man, he did a hit-and-run, knocking a little girl off her bike as he swerved to avoid running over a rat. Then he took off in another one of Cavendish’s jets. We figure Wendy set that up for him. He was out of U.S. airspace five minutes before the plane blew up. According to the flight plan, Blaylock’s trip will terminate in Algiers.”
“How’s the kid he hit?”
“Out of surgery and in the ICU. Still unconscious.”
Lucy was silent for a few seconds. “Why did we let him leave?”
“To see where he’s going and what he’s going to do next.”
“He has plans?”
Tom smiled. “So it appears.”
“Alert the UK and the French—and for what it’s worth, the Algerians—that we’d like to speak with Mr. Blaylock when he resurfaces.” She paused, frowning slightly, and then leaned forward to rest both elbows on her desk, and cradle her chin on the backs of her interlaced fingers. “There’s something that doesn’t add up here. GAIA is concerned with the environment, and the things they do usually make a point and hurt people. Like trying to blow up a dam—it will reverse something humans have imposed on nature and kill a lot of innocent people in the process. So why would Blaylock go for Cavendish’s plane? I mean, I know the people on it represented a lot of major players in the business world, so news of their deaths will create tsunami-sized ripples in the financial markets, but that will be a blip. Taking out Cavendish’s underwater project would have been a more GAIA-like action.”
“The plane was an easier target. An airplane hangar is a place with a lot of moving parts, a lot of variables. There were probably at least sixty people in and out of the place in the last few days, between airport staff and private security staff, maintenance teams, and the flight and ground crews for the various planes. No doubt that among those sixty or so people, at least a few would have been willing to make some money by taking a break or just looking the other way at the right time.” Tom shrugged easily. “Of course, it could be that Blaylock doesn’t know about the underwater stuff.”
“He has to know something. Otherwise why target Cavendish at all? On the world stage, Cavendish is a small potato with a big mouth and a fat wallet. And he hasn’t turned that island into a fortress because he’s building an underwater theme park down there,” Lucy stated flatly.
“If Blaylock is intending to hit the underwater operation, then sending the world economic markets into a panic by killing senior executives of nine major conglomerates is a nice diversion. It’s a statement that won’t be ignored.”
“But it can’t further GAIA’s agenda.”
Tom paused, and smiled at her. “It can if GAIA’s agenda has changed.”
The thin line of Lucy’s lips became thinner. “Has it?”
“It appears to have. Since Blaylock’s reemergence, they’ve stopped ramming fishing factory ships and setting fire to pesticide-manufacturing plants. They haven’t chained themselves to anything, blockaded anyplace, spiked a tree, or let caged vermin loose in over a year, and they’ve stopped pissing and moaning to the press about the inferiority of humans to lower-order species. For the most part, other than that Turkish fiasco, they’ve been quiet for about twelve months. Too quiet. We’re pretty sure they’re regrouping in advance of going global. We’ll know more soon. We’ve got a few people getting close to the inner circle.”
As her gaze latched on to his, it went as cold and dark as a polar night. “Getting close?” she repeated. “Why aren’t we in there already?”
“Our last team was discovered. One was killed in a hit-and-run two years ago during a WTO protest. The incident got a lot of press. They tried to make it look like we did it, got all the conspiracy nuts raving about it, but it wasn’t us doing it to one of their guys. They did it to one of ours.” He crossed the room and perched on the corner of her desk, ignoring her obvious annoyance. “Our other officer has been on and off life support for the last eleven months.”
In the brief pause that followed his words, Lucy’s expression didn’t change but Tom watched her bite the inside of her cheek. It was a subtle, unconscious movement, and, therefore, revealing.
“What happened?” she asked coolly.
“She went diving with some of the Gaians to reconnoiter the footings of the Golden Gate Bridge. They were thinking of blowing it up. Very original.”
Lucy didn’t respond.
Tom shrugged and continued, “From the best we can determine, they messed with her gas mixtures before the dive and took their time bringing her back up, giving her a severe case of the bends. She spent seventy-two hours in a decompression chamber while her blood went from foam back to liquid. The whole time she was screaming for the docs to kill her. At the end of it, her brain was ninety percent fried and her body one hundred percent useless.” He paused. “We learned that Garner Blaylock ordered it from the safety and comfort of his accommodations at Full Sutton. He thought it would send a bigger message than just cutting her hose and leaving her at the bottom.”
Lucy looked down at her hands again and he could see her throat move in a hard swallow. “How many people do we have in there now?”
“Three. Two have been able to get near Blaylock.”
“How long have they been in there?”
“One for a few years as a sleeper. He’s worked his way up. The other two for less than a year, but they’ve moved quickly.”
“Is there anything else?”
He nodded. “About ten minutes before Cavendish’s plane exploded, a large video file was uploaded to one of Taino’s satellites and immediately downloaded to the plane.”
“Did we get it?”
“Of course.”
“What is it?”
“We’re still working on dec
rypting it. Whatever it is, Cavendish wanted to keep it private. The encryption uses an algorithm we haven’t seen before. I’ve sent it to the NSA.”
“Let me know what they find. Do we have any update on what’s going on underwater?”
Tom shook his head. “They’re doing something but we’re not completely sure what. Our seismographs and sonar arrays were picking up some activity that was most likely drilling, but that stopped a few hours ago. Without getting closer, we can’t be sure what he’s actually up to.”
“For Christ’s sake, what are your people doing?” Lucy snapped with frigid incredulity. “Every answer you’ve given me starts with ‘I don’t know.’ What the hell do you know?”
“Less than we’d like to,” he replied easily. “Within minutes of the crash, Taino powered down all the transponders on its satellites except the most secure link.”
“How secure is it?”
“We can’t see into it yet.”
“Cavendish is one paranoid bastard,” she muttered.
Tom smiled. “Enviably so.”
Lucy let out a long breath, then reached for a folder on her desk. “Keep in touch,” she said dismissively, without looking up. “And let me know if you happen to come across any answers.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tom replied and left the room.
CHAPTER
7
2:30 P.M., Saturday, October 25, the White House, Washington, D.C.
“Are they all dead?” President Winslow Benson asked absently, not looking up from the documents he was signing.
“Undoubtedly.” Hands in his pockets, Ken Proust rocked back on his heels.
“Have they released the names yet?”
“No.”
“But we know who was on the plane.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s going to happen to the markets?” The president moved on to the next paper in the short stack in front of him.
“Chaos at Monday’s opening bell. Any slides will correct themselves by the end of the week.”
“How are we going to spin it?”
The president’s campaign manager hid a smile. “We’ll send representatives to the funerals. The tiger team, maybe the first lady. Ramp up the talk on terrorism, demand more money to fight it. Get some talking heads to rhapsodize about your foreign policy expertise and how your opponent has none.”
The president nodded. “Timing isn’t bad.”
“Less than two weeks to the election. I’d say the timing is just about perfect.”
The president raised his head. “Whoever wired that plane had to have done it here. The FBI said it was on the ground for three days in Miami before it took off this morning.”
Ken shrugged. “That’s the likeliest possibility.”
“Makes us look bad. What does TSA have to say about it?”
Shaking his head, Ken answered with another smile. “Not their problem. It was a private hangar. Cavendish’s people have complete control of security. But we’re launching an investigation anyway. And sending an investigative team to Canada.”
“What does Canada have to do with it?” the president demanded, sliding another paper off the shrinking pile.
“The plane was built there.”
“For Christ’s sake. That’s ridiculous. Do we think they had something to do with it?”
“Of course not, but it’s good press. Shows how serious we are about domestic terrorists, and how willing we are to help our neighbors.”
President Benson leveled a look at his campaign manager and didn’t bother to hide his disgust.
“It’s Cavendish’s problem. Let him send people there,” he said, returning his attention to the task at hand. “I think we should investigate him. Find out what he’s doing and make him look like an asshole in the process.” The president stopped again, and Ken felt the heat of those commanding eyes bore into his own for the second time in fifteen seconds. “Was Cavendish on that plane?”
“No, sir. The Taino embassy hasn’t released any information about the passenger list but we know he wasn’t on the plane. He was supposed to be, according to our information, but he left several hours earlier, on a previously unscheduled flight.”
The president smiled coldly. “Make sure that gets out. Send it to FOX. They’ll know what to do with it. If Cavendish’s people break that first, he’ll have left early for some urgent reason. I’d rather have people start to wonder if he knew something and left those people to die, like the chicken shit he is.” The president paused. “How many of them were Americans?”
“Six out of the nine passengers, two of the six crew. The pilot and copilot. The pilot was a vet. A woman, and she had a lot of ribbons.”
“Kids?”
“No.”
President Benson put down the pen in his hand and glanced out the window, then looked back at Ken. “Eight Americans dead, including six leaders of industry and one highly decorated veteran. Make sure that gets worked into the discussion. I want to own part of this story.”
Ken chuckled and slid his BlackBerry out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
3:15 P.M., Saturday, October 25, Taino
“I really think you should be the one doing this.” Micki’s usually pleasant voice held a note of petulance.
“I think so, too, however, I’ve decided that you’re going to do it,” Victoria replied evenly.
“Come out from behind the curtain, Victoria. By the time this is over, your name and face will be all over the media. It’s impossible to hide these days. I’m not even sure it’s possible to run.”
“You’re entirely right, but I’m still going to try. By the way, you’ve got a little smear of lipstick on your front tooth. No, the other one.”
Victoria watched as Micki adjusted her earpiece and checked that the microphone was clipped securely to the lapel of her suit. The lavender linen was still crisp, and with luck it would remain so until the end of the hastily convened press conference that would be broadcast live via satellite. The black armband—Victoria’s best Hermès scarf folded and tied to hide the rest of its colors—had been a stroke of genius.
“You’re on in three, two, one—” The cameraman pointed and Micki stared grimly into the camera.
“Good afternoon,” she began quietly, her Alabama-inflected accent even more pronounced than usual as she struggled to maintain an even tone and pace. “I am Michelle Crenshaw, undersecretary of national security for The Paradise of Taino and deputy chief operations officer for the Climate Research Institute. I will issue a statement first, and then take your questions.” She paused briefly.
“As you know, a Bombardier Global Express jet operating in the service of the government of The Paradise of Taino suffered a midair explosion approximately five hours ago. The flight took off from Miami International Airport at 10:17 this morning and was due to arrive in Taino at 10:42 A.M.
“The explosion occurred as the aircraft was on its final approach at an altitude of one thousand feet. There were fifteen people on board: six crew members and nine passengers. All names are being withheld until the families can be notified. The explosion occurred within the boundaries of the territorial waters of The Paradise of Taino. At this time, search-and-rescue operations are being conducted by Taino security forces, who are fully trained in such procedures.” She paused again. “That is all the information we have available for release at this time, but I will answer your questions as best I’m able.”
Perhaps because Micki had to keep calm in front of the camera, Victoria felt as though she were tied into knots for both of them. She watched on a small monitor as the jostling, frenzied pack of reporters lined up in front of the microphone hastily set up for them. For at least the tenth time in half as many minutes, she was glad that the journalists were a thousand miles away in Washington, D.C., in the press room of the Taino embassy.
The first to speak was one of the reigning kings of the airwaves who was known for his love of the spotlight. “Secretary Cre
nshaw, is it true that the passenger list included the CEOs of some of the world’s largest companies?”
“We are not releasing any information about the passengers or the crew until their families have been informed of the accident,” Micki replied smoothly.
The reporter didn’t relinquish his place despite the urging of one of the press secretaries on hand to manage the egos and the information. “Was Dennis Cavendish among those on board?”
“We are not releasing any information about the passengers or the crew. Let’s move on.”
Victoria felt her eyebrows lift as she watched the reporter actually elbow the embassy staffer aside and grab the microphone stem to prevent anyone from moving him away from it. “There’s a rumor that President Cavendish was supposed to be on the plane but left Miami earlier on an unscheduled flight. Is that true?”
“Next question,” Micki snapped.
The first reporter’s chief rival snatched the microphone as the other man let go of it.
“Secretary Crenshaw, about ten minutes ago, the White House issued a statement saying that it offered to send navy and coast guard search-and-rescue teams to Taino and that you rejected the offer. Can you confirm that?”
“Yes, I’ll confirm that the United States did indeed offer assistance, as have the governments of the Bahamas, Cuba, and the United Kingdom. While grateful for the offers of help from all of our larger neighbors and allies, such assistance is not needed at this time. We did thank Presidents Benson and Castro, Prime Ministers Brown and Ingraham, and Governor General Hanna for their offers, and will not hesitate to ask for assistance should we believe it to be necessary. But our own security personnel are well able to handle a situation such as this, and are doing so admirably.”
“A follow-up, Secretary Crenshaw, if you’ll allow it. Why would you refuse any help? This is hardly the time for secretive—”
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