by Vicki Hinze
“Quit confusing me.” She was dazed, damn it, and her senses were still rioting. “Are you saying lust isn’t enough for you, or I’m not worth the complications?” Just how important was important?
“I’m telling you I know how your mind works.” He lifted a hand. “Now, come here and let me hold you.”
“I don’t think I want you to,” she said, but then slid into his arms and snuggled to his side anyway.
“I know you don’t.” He closed the circle of his arms around her and let out a sigh, rich and deep and reeking of contentment. “I don’t want to hold you, either.”
They didn’t want the same thing: to care or matter to each other.
Somewhere in that revelation, she found solace—and she accepted that she’d become wickedly twisted.
How the hell had he gotten into this mess?
Sayelle stared across the Herald’s conference room table at Commander Conlee, folded his hands on the tabletop, and dropped his voice. “Let me get this straight. You want me to broadcast scripts you provide me, on the radio?”
“That’s correct.”
Sam’s mind reeled. “Why?”
“I’d rather not say, Mr. Sayelle.”
“I’m sure you would, but it’s people in my position who think they’re performing a service that end up doing a couple years in jail.”
“This isn’t like that.”
Sam was losing patience. “Listen, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that you want me to pass some kind of messages. If you want me involved, then you’re going to have to trust me and prove it. I want details, or you’ll find yourself another reporter. It’s that simple.”
Conlee covered a frown by swiping a fingertip down his blunt nose. “All right, but trust works both ways. I want your word that nothing said here leaves this room, and I’m telling you now, if it does, I’ll kill you. I’ll also kill everyone you tell.”
This wasn’t a threat, just a fact. Conlee was a no-nonsense kind of man who meant exactly what he said. “I protect my sources.”
“I know you spent three months in a Chicago lockup protecting a source. That’s one of the reasons I’m here.”
“There are others?”
“Yes. I think you’re misguided, Mr. Sayelle, but basically a straight shooter. That’s important to me. And you carry a personal referral I respect.”
“From whom?”
A ghost of a smile curled Conlee’s lip. “A mutual friend who wishes to remain anonymous.”
“So what is going on here?”
Conlee hesitated. “Don’t disappoint me in this, Sam. If you do, you’ll have a lot of blood on your hands.”
Sam wasn’t sure he wanted to do this. But his curiosity was up and there was no denying it. He couldn’t walk away now; not knowing the details would drive him crazy. And once he knew them, he wouldn’t be able to walk away. No skirting it. This was decision time. “I understand.”
“You will be broadcasting messages. No more, or less.”
“To whom?”
“Vice President Stone.”
“What?” Sayelle couldn’t contain his shock. “But PUSH assassinated her—”
“Half the terrorist groups in the world claim they assassinated her.”
“You think she’s alive.”
“Probably not. But we consider it prudent to deem it possible.”
That sounded like an understatement if ever Sam had heard one. “Commander, I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice—obviously you know a lot about me—but I don’t happen to be one of the vice president’s supporters.”
“I’m aware of that.”
“Then you’ll understand my asking why you came to me.”
“Because PUSH called you, and because a man I’ve respected and trusted for many years suggested you had the guts and integrity to do this job. He also said you were fair, which means you’ll come to know what I’ve already learned.”
Who would have put him in this position? And should he thank the man for it, or beat the hell out of him? “What have you learned, Commander?”
“That you’re wrong about Vice President Stone.”
Sam grunted. “Pardon me if I’m skeptical about that.”
“Skepticism is healthy” Conlee pressed his hands flat on the table. “So, are you in?”
Stone, alive maybe? Coded messages? Changing opinions? An anonymous referral? If Sybil Stone wasn’t dead, what exactly was she up to now? And if she was dead, what had she been into so deeply that it had gotten her killed and rattled Commander Conlee enough to reveal himself to a nobody like Sam Sayelle? “Hell, yes, I’m in.”
“Then come with me.”
Conlee led him down to the Herald’s basement, through a dusty storage area no one used anymore and that Sam hadn’t known existed, to a small room. “What is this?”
Conlee unlocked the door and walked inside. The room was about eight by ten, and full of broadcasting equipment. Within five minutes, Conlee had shown him how to use it and handed him the key to the door. “Keep your mouth shut about this room being here. Broadcasts will be frequent for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. I’ll personally deliver the scripts.”
“Does anyone else know about this?”
“The broadcasts?”
“Yes.” Uneasiness had Sam sitting on a razor’s edge.
“Yes, someone does.”
“Who?”
Conlee hesitated long enough to pull an unlit cigar from his shirt pocket. “Someone depending on you, Sam. Someone who trusts you not to get Vice President Stone killed, if she’s still alive.”
He looked earnest, and Sam reacted from the gut, realizing exactly whom the commander was talking about. “President Lance.”
Conlee didn’t blink much less answer him, but Sayelle knew he had been right.
“Here’s the first script.” Conlee passed a ten-pager over, then turned for the door.
“Wait,” Sam said. “How many times do I broadcast this? When?”
“On receipt and only once. We’ll take care of the rest.”
The rest is what most concerned him. “Are you making tapes?”
Conlee nodded.
Sam didn’t like the sound or feel of that. “Conlee, this trust bit works both ways. You’d better not be dragging me into a Watergate.” Maybe he should cover his assets for insurance.
“You have my word.”
“What’s it worth? Remember, I haven’t gotten a personal referral on you.” In fact, until Conlee had walked into Sam’s office unannounced, he had heard of Commander Conlee only once, and frankly he’d thought Jean and Cap Marlowe had been sending him on a wild-goose chase.
“About as much as yours.” Conlee paused, his hand on the doorknob. “You’re playing a dangerous game with dangerous people, Sam. You need protection. But not from me or Vice President Stone.”
“From who then?”
“Mostly, from yourself.” Conlee frowned. “I appreciate your help on this. Even if things go badly, what you’re doing matters. Remember that. And remember that regardless of how well you perform, she could already be dead.”
He was preparing Sam, warning him of potential emotional fallout. “I understand. She could be dead. But she also could be alive.”
Chapter Eight
Thursday, August 8 First-Strike Launch: 51:00:27
Frustrated with her feet sucking down and sticking in the mud, Sybil struggled to keep up with Westford’s grueling pace. He was a huge man, about six-four and long-legged; his stride nearly double hers. Her sore feet were raw from sharp twigs, stones that penetrated though his muddy, soggy socks, and her spirit was in even worse shape. They’d kissed. And kissed. And, God help her, she’d loved it. Now, along with everything else, she hated loving it. She was totally confused about her feelings for him, and she was totally pissed off at Gabby for making her see him as a man in the first place.
It probably hadn’t meant a thing to him. He was grieving, and he knew she was grievin
g. Most people turn to physical affection when grieving—for affirmation that they’re alive. Maybe that’s all the connection had been. It had felt like more, but she had to keep her head here. Jonathan—no, Westford—Westford was more distant, less personal. Odds were Westford had kissed her not as an agent but as a man seeking affirmation of life. But had he kissed her, the woman, or his grieving veep who also had been seeking affirmation of life?
Had to be the veep. Years of interaction and not once had he ever appeared to see her as a woman. That truth felt heavy and bore down on her chest. He’d jumped out of the plane for the veep, comforted and kissed and held the grieving veep. He didn’t know the woman. No one knew the woman.
And the woman mourned that truth, too.
Envy stabbed her, hard and fast and deep. It shook her, because it was envy of the veep.
Neurotic, Sybil. Ridiculous. You’re envying yourself, for God’s sake. You are the veep.
Sidestepping a spiky-thorn leaf, she denied it. The two were distinctly separate, different entities. But until now she thought they’d been thoroughly integrated entities. Now she knew they were not, and that scared her. The veep was confident, secure in her skin. The woman was flawed—and, apparently, frightened of her own shadow.
She hit a mud puddle. Brown water splashed up to her knee. With everything else going on, she couldn’t be bothered with mustering a groan, but she did shift her thoughts to safer, external topics. “Do we have a chance of making it?”
“Honestly?” Westford squinted back at her, the rain pelting his face.
Thunder rumbled through the trees, shook the ground. She crawled over a tree branch downed by the storm and steeled herself to hear the truth. “Honestly”
“I don’t know.” He grasped her waist, lifted her over the trunk of the fallen, gnarled oak, then set her back to the ground. “But we’ll give it all we’ve got.”
“Damn right we will.” Sybil straightened his coat on her shoulder, wishing he could be more positive, but knowing he’d have to lie to do it. What he suggested was all there was, except for hoping for the best—and praying hard that what they got proved to be good enough.
“I’m picking up a confusing transmission.” He ducked down, bracing his head under a heavy limb, and cupped a hand at his ear to block out the sounds of the storm. “It’s coded.”
Sybil stopped beside him, waited eagerly.
He frowned up at her. “PUSH and six other terrorist groups have claimed responsibility for blowing up your plane. Intel considers the PUSH claim most credible.”
Westford looked about as annoyed as she felt. “But Ballast did this, not PUSH.”
“I agree, Sybil, but Home Base doesn’t know everything we know.”
“Can’t we somehow tell them? Commander Conlee will be dividing resources to cover them both, and only God knows what Gregor Faust will do next if we don’t hem him in and keep Ballast under extreme pressure.”
“What do you suggest?” Westford shrugged in pure frustration. “Smoke signals?”
“Don’t get cute.”
“Sorry, ma’am. I was distracted.”
“By the transmission?”
“More or less.” He sent her a puzzled look. “You’re not going to like it, but this report isn’t coming in through a direct feed on the emergency channel.”
“We’re dead, remember?” Conlee couldn’t transmit direct now. “Where is it coming from?”
“Bleed-over.”
Sybil processed that. “But if the report is coded, why is Conlee using bleed-over from another channel?”
Westford grimaced. “He must really think we’re dead.”
“But you said they knew we were alive.”
“They deduced we were because of my tracker. Evidently Intel picked up something to alter their opinion.”
Gruesome deduction, but it made sense. Jonathan’s tone and look scared her, and she hated being scared. “You were right. I don’t like it.”
“You’re not going to like the rest any better.” He flattened his lips. “The broadcaster is Sam Sayelle.”
“Damn it.” She’d known David had authorized it, so why did hearing the commander had followed through turn her insides to jelly? She had hoped Conlee would come to his senses. Why hadn’t he? He knew Sayelle was in up to his neck with Cap and his rat pack. Not one of them would so much as spit on Sybil if she were on fire. But she also knew once Conlee made a decision, it took an act of Congress armed with hard evidence to change his mind.
“Definitely Sayelle. He just identified himself and gave his station’s call letters. Just like Marcus Gilbert used to do.”
Sybil refused to give in to despair, but this development seriously threatened her control. What did it mean? Why in the name of God had Conlee pulled in Sayelle? “What if he’s altered the message?”
“He wouldn’t dare. Not yet, anyway. If he intends to, he’ll do the first two or three broadcasts by the book—to get Conlee complacent—and then alter them.”
Westford stared down at her. “You doubt every word coming from Sayelle. Do I need to know why?”
Sybil wanted to look away but wouldn’t allow herself to do it. “He’s about as fond of me as Austin is trustworthy. We go downhill from there.”
“So the odds of him lying to us are—”
Humiliating to admit it, but she had to be honest. “Highly probable.”
Sybil could be dead.
A bubble of excitement exploded in Austin Stone’s chest. He paced between the sofa and wet bar in his posh co-op. Strains of Bach’s Fifth floated through the room, the tempo lifting and falling in tandem with Austin’s moods. Staring at the phone receiver, he knew he shouldn’t call; he was being watched. But he could use the cell phone. He had activated it after the divorce under his mother’s maiden name, Madeline Kane. David Lance and his intrusive FBI henchmen weren’t monitoring it.
Since the divorce, Austin had had precious little privacy. Lance and his advisors were terrified he would embarrass them or Sybil. He could embarrass some of them—he knew where the skeletons were buried—but exposing bones for others to pick clean in no way enhanced his interests. Not if he wanted the bitch to give him controlling interest in Secure Environet before her death. As he well knew, when it came to kids or anything that affected her career, Sybil Ashford Stone had no sense of humor.
She could be dead.
Maybe the challenge of getting her stock had been resolved. The battle of wills between them could be over. If the plans he had set in motion six months after the divorce—when they’d had the mother of all arguments and that jerk, Jonathan Westford, had threatened to kill him— were unfolding as advertised, she should be dead and out of Austin’s way forever.
She won’t be there to stop you anymore. You’ll finally be free of her. Free.
Tasting power—his own power, not Sybil’s—Austin paused at the oak wet bar and dared to hope. He snagged a crystal glass, poured in three fingers of scotch, and then topped it off with ice and water. Hope wasn’t enough. He had to know.
Downing a long, cold draw of scotch for courage, he picked up the cell and direct-dialed a secure-line number at the White House, bypassing the switchboard and monitors. This was one call he didn’t want recorded.
Richard Barber answered on the first ring, sounding irritated by the interruption. “Yes?”
Before Austin and Sybil had divorced and he had lost his direct link to inside information, he had forged this alliance with Barber. It had been productive and beneficial to them both. He let his question tumble out. “Is she really dead?”
“Not yet verified, but highly probable.”
Highly probable. Austin dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead, stared at his reflection in the mirror above the mantel, and let his hope grow. “Has our mutual friend been notified?”
“You’ll need to take care of that.” Barber dropped his voice. “Don’t call me on this again. It’s too dangerous.”
So Command
er Conlee was aware of the security breach, and he already suspected an infiltrator. He would be monitoring everyone from here on out. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on?” Austin grimaced at a tapestry hanging on the wall. There was no way that bastard Lance would tell him anything until he positively had to do it.
“I’ll call you.” Barber reassured him. “Have I ever let you down?”
He hadn’t, but… Austin put a biting edge in his tone. “Don’t start now.”
“I won’t.” The line clicked.
Silence droned in Austin’s ear. Barber shouldn’t let him down. Actually, he wouldn’t dare. If he did, his political aspirations and career would be over and he’d be doing time in a white-collar, minimum-security prison instead of holding a key position on David Lance’s staff. Yet he hadn’t warned Austin about any of this before the president had called. Annoyed by that, Austin tapped the button, then dialed the phone again.
Jean Holt answered. “Senator Marlowe’s office.”
“Put me through, Jean.”
“One moment, Dr. Stone.”
Cap came on the line. “Austin, what the hell is going on? The press is all over me.”
Sam Sayelle specifically, Austin speculated. “Sybil’s plane exploded.”
“Unfortunate,” Cap said, seemingly unfazed by the news. “It’s a damn shame she was tied up in peace-talk negotiations and not on it.”
Austin poured himself a second scotch and water. This time only two fingers; he needed to keep his mind sharp. “Apparently she left the talks and was on it.”
“Son of a bitch.” Cap let out a low whistling breath. “What happened?”
“No idea yet. Could be mechanical or a terrorist attack,” Austin hedged, deciding what he most needed was normalcy. He went into the kitchen and pulled out the fixings for a turkey sandwich, then slathered mayo on two slices of white bread. Sybil hated white bread. He pulled out two more slices. They had battled and he had won. Finally. She was not strongest or smartest, and she was not most powerful anymore. “Lance is being very closed-mouthed.”
So were Cap’s informers. “Did he mention PUSH or Ballast?” Just mentioning those two groups had the senator’s nerves sizzling and his gaze riveting to the south wall, pinning on his office safe.
