“Mr. Ambassador, the head of security is here to see you.”
“Please send him in.”
The door opened, and Tariq, Kamal’s very large, very intimidating head of embassy security, entered.
“Mr. Ambassador,” he said, stepping forward to shake Kamal’s hand.
“Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee or water?”
“No, thank you, sir,” the big man said, settling himself into one of the armchairs facing Kamal’s desk. Kamal sat as well and waited, arms resting on the well-polished surface of the antique desk.
“I have information about the shooting at the White House,” Tariq said in his deep, gravelly voice. Kamal nodded in assent before Tariq continued. “We have reason to believe that the Russian Bratva were involved.”
“What?” Kamal sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in confusion.
“Yes, sir, I know that the go-to on this is a terrorist group—Islam’s Army, the Paradise Jihad, someone like that. But it truly isn’t their style. They don’t commit assassinations, they kill dozens, maim many more, and rarely target individual officials. They’re much more interested in flexing their muscle, throwing an entire nation off-kilter.”
“And you think this didn’t set America on its ear? I’d say they’re plenty off-kilter.”
Tariq tented his big fingers in front of his chest as he talked, his bald head dipping and lifting with his words. “Yes, but not to the degree they would be if they were all afraid to enter public spaces or were searching the skies for airplanes crashing into buildings. Really, sir, when in the last thirty years can you remember a terrorist act that involved targeting one person, even if that person is the most powerful official on the planet?”
Kamal had to admit that Tariq had a point. “But why the Bratva? Please don’t tell me President Hampton is indebted to a foreign mafia.” The idea was so preposterous, Kamal nearly choked on the words.
“Of course not, sir, and that’s the part we can’t quite piece together. We know that the type of bullet used was one commonly used in Bratva hired killings. They favor this type of gun, and the bullets for those aren’t common.”
Kamal’s jaw set, and he ground his teeth together.
“The Bratva are also known for their ability to infiltrate secure spaces and get out intact. Add to that the sighting of a well-known Bratva assassin in and around DC twelve hours before the attempt on the president’s life, and we feel that it’s sufficient cause to investigate further.”
Kamal had to agree, as off base as the idea seemed.
“And have you shared this with the US agents investigating?”
“Of course not,” Tariq growled, incensed at the suggestion. “We share no information with anyone until you’ve given your approval, sir.”
“Yes, thank you,” Kamal murmured, thinking over the whole scenario. “And I don’t want you to share this yet. We need more information, more details, particularly a possible motive. This isn’t to be discussed with anyone but me, and I don’t want anyone but you to have all the pieces. Keep each agent assigned to only one portion, and don’t allow them to speak about it to each other.”
“As you wish, Mr. Ambassador. I’ll oversee this personally, put only my most discreet men on it, and update you as soon as we gather any useful intelligence.”
“Thank you.” Kamal stood and shook Tariq’s hand before the big man left, as light on his feet as a ballerina in spite of his weight tipping the scales at well over two hundred pounds.
After he left, Kamal sat staring at the notepad on his desk for several long minutes. He’d heard the rumors his entire life—the Masris had ties to the Bratva—but in his family, business wasn’t discussed at home, and while Mr. Masri had brought both of his sons into the family business as teens, Kamal, at least, had never been privy to much other than the most basic discussions of the business’s worth and major endeavors. He had been pushed into politics while his younger brother took a more active role in the corporations.
Now the coincidence of his father being so opposed to the accord and the assassination attempt on his partner in that same accord by the Bratva seemed too convenient. He felt the slow burning of anger welling up inside him. He’d long ago accepted the probability that his father was less than ethical in his business dealings. And in all fairness, Kamal himself wasn’t opposed to skirting the fringes of the law if it would gain him the advantage when it came to information or control. But this was entirely different. Kamal didn’t get his finances involved in dirty business, and he didn’t do anything that would put anyone’s life at risk—ever.
He wondered briefly if those bullets had really been meant for the president or had they really been aimed at him? But no, regardless of how deep his father might be into something with the Bratva, he would never countenance an attempt on his oldest son’s life. If for no other reason than that Kamal was his ticket to the presidency of Egypt, and the elder Masri wanted that ticket badly.
No, if those bullets had been aimed at him, his father didn’t know it. But he felt it in his bones that his father was mixed up in this somehow. And that made his gut churn with a toxic stir of emotions. He couldn’t possibly let the Americans know about it, but could he keep the information about the Bratva from them? He’d made a promise to Jessica that he would help her track down whoever had done this. And he intended to make good on that promise. But he’d keep his father’s name out of it however he could. Hopefully, the Americans would be slower to peel back the layers, and hopefully, Kamal was wrong and all this really was simply coincidence.
He sighed to himself, leaning back in his chair. Everything in him said it wasn’t, and so Kamal did what he’d always done: He trusted his guy, picked up his cell phone, and hit speed dial number two. “We need a meeting,” he instructed. “Tonight. I’ll be there at seven.”
Chapter 7
“You think it was linked to the Russians?” Jessica queried the director of Homeland Security.
“Yes, ma’am. The forensics included bullets that are famous for being used by Russian hitmen.”
Jessica stood and walked from the sofa to her desk in the Oval Office. “So is this not a terrorist act?” She slumped into her chair, needing the desk between her and the director for just a few minutes. She was so tired of the problems, the never-ending complications. Even this assassination attempt couldn’t be typical—at this point, she’d have welcomed the news that it was a jihadist group. If only one thing could be simple.
“It’s possible, certainly. We haven’t ruled out a scenario where the Russian mafia has been contracted by a terrorist organization to do some dirty work for them. But that scenario isn’t highly probable.”
“Then tell me, Eric, what is highly probable?”
The director looked decidedly uncomfortable.
“Out with it,” she insisted.
“Well, ma’am, we think that the Russian mafia, the Bratva, has taken a disliking to you for some reason.”
She stared at him for a moment. “You’re joking, of course.”
“No, ma’am. And in light of that, is there anything you need to tell us?”
Her gaze shot to his, and her voice was cold and hot all at the same time. “You don’t seriously think that I’ve ever had any sort of dealings with the Russian Bratva, do you? Let me put your mind at ease. To the best of my knowledge, I’ve never met anyone in that organization. I don’t gamble, I don’t have any debts to anyone—Russian or otherwise—I can’t for the life of me think of one single reason why the Russian mafia would want to assassinate me.”
Her indignation sent Eric into a flurry of apologies and assurances that no, Homeland Security didn’t think the president was engaged in anything that would have put her on Bratva’s radar.
With a promise to come to her with more information the following day, the director left, and Jessica leaned her head back in her chair and closed her eyes.
“God, John,” she muttered to herself. “What the hel
l did you get me into this time?”
Talking to John was a habit she’d formed when the party had first come to her a mere two hours after his plane went down, asking her to take over his Senate seat. She’d wondered for six years now what prompted them to tap her in the first place, but she’d been so struck down with grief, so numb and helpless, that she’d been willing to agree to anything.
Really, what she’d been thinking most of all was that she would take the seat so that she could hold it for him. It was eight long days before they dragged his lifeless body from the depths of the Atlantic, and until that happened, she’d been convinced they’d find him alive. Because at the age of thirty-one and six weeks pregnant, Jessica hadn’t been able to fathom that her beautiful young husband was actually dead.
Her hand went automatically to her belly, remembering the way John had dipped his head and kissed the tender skin there so softly when they’d lain in bed the night she’d found out she was carrying their child.
“I hope it’s a girl,” he’d told her in the darkness of their bedroom.
“You’re supposed to say you don’t care as long as it’s healthy,” she chided, smiling at him.
“I know, and of course that’s true, but I do want to have a little girl I can teach to debate and fence, and raise to be the first woman president of the United States.”
She’d laughed then at her ambitious husband. He always had to up the ante. Simply raising a future president wouldn’t be enough for John; he had to raise the first woman president.
“Madam President?” The secretary’s voice over the intercom jolted her out of the reverie. Jessica put a hand to her face, discovering dampness there.
“Yes?” she answered as she frantically wiped away the evidence of her sorrow.
“You have a one-hour gap in your schedule, but your mother-in-law is here.”
Jessica sighed. Monday was shaping up to be a hell of a day.
“Okay, please ask her to wait five minutes, then show her in, and order up some coffee, and I need—”
“Doughnuts. Yes, ma’am, I’ve already requested them.”
“Thank you.”
“You look wan, Jess,” her mother-in-law said as she gave air kisses to each of Jessica’s cheeks.
“It’s nice to see you, Marjorie. What brings you into DC today?” Jessica had learned early on that it was easier to ignore John’s mother’s jabs than to address them. Marjorie meant well, she was just steeped in old-time Southern mothering, and that meant you were always too thin.
“I’m doing my annual fall shopping and decided I’d come to Julia Farr and Saks Jandel this year. I’ve tired of the relentless black and gray that they have in New York. I want to wear some damn color.”
Jessica tried to hide her smile as they sat on the love seats in the Oval Office.
“Well, I’ve heard the new fall pieces at Julia Farr are beautiful. I’m sure you’ll find something perfect.”
Marjorie poured herself a cup of coffee and smiled at the doughnuts. “Oh good, eat two of these. You’ll perk right up.” She plated two chocolate glazed and thrust them at Jessica, who was only too happy to oblige and eat them both.
“Now, as much as I love you, you know I didn’t come by simply to say hello.”
Jessica smiled politely around a mouthful of doughnut.
“I’m sure you know that John’s fortieth birthday is coming up,” Marjorie continued, setting down her cup of coffee untouched.
Jessica swallowed a mouthful of doughnut, suddenly doubting that her usual sugar therapy was going to get her through this conversation.
“John senior and I have been talking, and we thought that it would be a wonderful tribute if we could plan something here at the White House. A day of remembrance, maybe have some speakers on the South Lawn, some of his colleagues from the Senate who served with him. It would be wonderful if his former chief of staff could describe what’s happened with some of John’s favorite initiatives. I think it would be a lovely way to remind the country of the hope that John gave them, don’t you?”
Jessica’s heart plummeted. As much as she missed him every day, as much as she had loved him, she didn’t want to spend yet another one of his birthdays wallowing in the memories. She’d been okay with it in the past. The Hamptons had an event at their farm in South Carolina every year on John’s birthday, a low-key evening of music, dinner, and some impromptu speeches about John and his life. His sister Lisanne and her family always came, along with some old college friends of John’s, and a couple of law school classmates that he and Jessica had spent time with.
But this, this was something entirely different. It was also the same month as Jessica’s own birthday, and she realized in that moment that she didn’t want to share it with her dead husband.
She cleared her throat, trying to think of how to disappoint a woman who had lost her child and wouldn’t ever get past it. Jessica could only imagine the kind of pain Marjorie felt when she woke every morning to remember her firstborn was no longer on the earth with her. Jessica knew how much it hurt to lose a child before you’d even met her. She couldn’t imagine what it must feel like to lose one you’d known for thirty-four years.
“Marjorie,” she said softly, “I think it’s a lovely idea, but I don’t know that it’s entirely appropriate.”
Her mother-in-law looked at her, somewhat startled.
“There were several other people who died in that plane, and they aren’t getting special events at the White House.”
“Well then, we’ll include them—it will be somewhat odd since it won’t be their birthdays, but we can certainly speak about them too, invite their families. John would have liked that.”
John would have hated this whole idea, Jessica thought. Because John knew that once you were gone, you were gone, and all those you left behind could do was scratch and claw their way through each day, trying not to miss you so much that it made their stomachs ache.
“Even, then. I don’t think it’s wise for me to use the White House for something that’s so personal.”
“It isn’t personal.” Marjorie’s voice rose an octave. “He was a public servant. And he was on that damn plane on government business.” Her eyes filled. “The entire nation lost one of its young heroes that day. They owe him a day of recognition for everything he gave to them—for everything they took from us.”
Marjorie’s Southern manners wouldn’t allow her to let those tears fall, but Jessica could see it was taking everything the woman had to maintain control.
“Maybe we can do something in private here at the White House? I could ask the gardening staff to put a memorial together. A plaque in the Rose Garden maybe? John always loved your gardens.” She reached out and squeezed the older woman’s hand, waiting for Marjorie to regain control of her emotions.
As her mother-in-law nodded rapidly, gaze on her cup of coffee, Jessica remembered every time they’d been in this same position. Marjorie’s grief was so powerful that it overwhelmed nearly every wish and desire Jessica had. It had been like this since he died. Just as Jessica thought she might be ready to move on, Marjorie would appear and pull her under again. With the grief, with the guilt, with the obligations.
Marjorie finally looked up at Jessica. “I know you’re right,” she said, her voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. “And I’m sorry I came charging in here with the whole thing—it’s John senior.” She paused, clearing her throat. “Jess, he was diagnosed with prostate cancer last week.”
Jessica’s heart plunged like an anchor in a lake. She moved around the coffee table to sit next to her mother-in-law, putting an arm around the other woman’s shoulders. “I’m so sorry. What’s the prognosis?”
Marjorie took a shuddering breath, exhaling and relaxing into Jessica’s hold. “They’re going to operate, and then they’ll know better if it’s metastasized. From what they can tell from the scans, it seems to be contained, but they can’t know for sure until they get inside.”
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Jessica forced the cup of coffee into Marjorie’s hand and continued to rub her back as she took sips of the warm liquid. “Then that’s a very good prognosis. They’ve made amazing advances in treatments for that form of cancer. He’s going to come through this. And you. Are going to come through this.”
“How do you do it?” Marjorie asked, looking into Jessica’s eyes now. “How do you manage it? Getting up every day and facing life without your husband? The idea of life without John senior is more than I can handle.”
“It isn’t, because you’re an amazingly strong woman, but you won’t need to be, because he’s going to be fine.” She gave the older woman a kiss on the forehead before standing. “I’ll have the scheduling staff see when I can come to the farm for a couple of days to visit. Let them know when the surgery is, and I’ll try to come right afterwards. I’ll also let the Surgeon General’s office know John senior’s doctor will be calling to make sure he has access to the most up-to-date information and procedures for the treatment plan. If there are any trials going on, the Surgeon General can get that information to him.”
Marjorie stood, looking back to her tough-as-nails self already. “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Jess.” She grabbed the president and hugged her tight. “We were so blessed the day John brought you into our lives.”
Jessica swallowed down the regret that worked its way up her throat. Regret that she so often resented her in-laws, regret that in the end she couldn’t give them the one thing they wanted most in the world—their son, alive and well—and regret that every time she tried to make their lives better she seemed to make her own harder.
“As was I,” she said, disentangling herself from Marjorie and leading her to the door. “Make sure to stop and give the scheduling staff that information.”
Marjorie gave her more air kisses and left the office in a whirl of hair spray and Chanel, but before Jessica could make it back to her desk, the intercom was buzzing to announce the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was another day in the life of America’s president, and if she could live through losing her husband, she could live through this.
POTUS: A Powerplay Novel Page 8
