He wondered if it included her.
She was married to him, but she wasn’t blood, and this organization seemed to be very precise, very cold, very calculating.
It made sense. The promise to his grandfather was to eliminate his entire bloodline.
He looked at Constance. “I think you and your family are safe.”
She looked at him, wide-eyed as she dabbed the corners of her eyes. “You are my family. Our children are, our grandchild. How can you say such a thing?”
He leaned over and took her hand in his, squeezing it gently. “You know what I mean. I think they mean the bloodline, so you will be safe. It’s everyone else we love we need to worry about.”
“If they kill you, they better kill me too. There’s no way I want to live if everyone I ever cared about is dead.”
He smiled slightly, trying to comfort her, not sure of what to say.
I have to get us out of this.
She drew in a deep breath then exhaled, slowly. “Okay, let’s think of this logically.”
“Logically.” He smiled, her analytical side starting to show. It was how she had fought her cancer, it was how she fought all her battles. And this apparently was going to be no different. It was a coping mechanism that was actually useful. “We’ll figure out a way through this, together.”
“We don’t know who these people are.”
“No.”
“But we know Pete Quaid was one of them.”
“An underling is my guess. Not one of their leaders.”
“These twelve shadows you saw on the screens.”
“Right. But he’s dead, remember, so no use to us.”
Word had just arrived about the assassination of the only two suspects in custody. There had been six men when the hotel was assaulted with two drivers apparently waiting at the underpass he had been told about. That meant eight men. Four had been killed by the security team sitting behind him, but the other four had obviously escaped.
And silenced the only possible leaks.
NOPD had no success in tracing those involved, and with him no longer in New Orleans, they were most likely out of the state by now too.
They’ll never find them.
And it wouldn’t matter if they did. They were foot soldiers. They would know even less than Saunders.
Saunders!
He still couldn’t believe the man was involved.
I wonder if his grandfather made a promise.
“If you don’t do what they ask, they’ll kill everyone.”
“That’s what they said.”
“And they want you to become President.”
Jones looked at his wife, sensing something. “Yes. Why? What do you mean?”
“What would happen if you didn’t?”
“Huh?”
“What would happen if you lost?”
Jones’ eyebrows climbed his forehead slightly as he leaned back in his seat, contemplating his wife’s words. If he were to lose the election, then he wouldn’t be betraying his country since they’d have no way of using him. And if he lost, without revealing their secrets, they’d have no reason to kill him.
It made sense.
He looked at his wife, smiling. “I think you may have just saved all our lives.”
Her eyes twinkled. “It’s what I do.”
He laughed, leaning over and giving her a peck on the cheek. “So how does the runaway front runner lose an election?”
“There’s only one way I can think of.”
“And that is?”
“We need a good scandal.”
Leif Morrison’s Office, CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
The next day
“How’s Sherrie?”
“She’s well, sir, at least as well as can be expected.” Leroux stifled a yawn. “Sorry, sir, I was up most of the night with her then had to drive back here.”
Morison’s eyes narrowed. “She’s having trouble sleeping?”
“No, not at all. The painkillers they’ve got her on are knocking her out pretty good. It’s the wheezing. They say it’ll go away soon, but I guess I’m just paranoid that she’ll stop breathing.”
Morrison rose from his desk and took a seat closer to Leroux. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “She’s going to be fine, Chris. You need to stop worrying.” He raised a hand, smiling. “I know, I know, it’s easier said than done, but this is the life you’ve signed up for.”
“I know, being the boyfriend of a CIA operative means I need to learn to expect these things.”
Morrison shook his head, his smile spreading. “No, that’s not what I meant. What I meant was you’ve signed up to love someone. And that means you’re going to spend the rest of your life worrying about that person when they’re not well, whether it’s cracked ribs from two shots to the chest, or the flu. It doesn’t matter what it is, or how routine it is, you’re going to worry.” He patted Leroux’s knee. “It means you love her. And as long as you worry, you know you still do.” Morrison rose and returned to his chair behind his desk. “Now, what’s the latest?”
Leroux gathered himself for a moment, Morrison always like a father figure to him, though rarely one to give fatherly advice. “Well, actually we’ve made a lot of progress in the past twenty-four hours. We were able to trace the hack in New Orleans to the same Dark Web jump-off point as several emails routed through Mr. Mashkov’s server.”
“So that confirms the New Orleans incident was committed by The Assembly.”
“Yes, sir, it appears so. Mr. Jones came clean to the Delta operative, telling him everything in an effort to solicit his help.”
“I read that in the briefing notes,” said Morrison, tapping a file on his desk. “Very interesting idea. It could work. When is the leak scheduled?”
“It will be hitting several news desks within the hour. We should be seeing it on the six o’clock news. Mr. Jones has a news conference scheduled at eight p.m. which should mean his speech will be on the eleven o’clock.”
Morrison pursed his lips. “It’s too bad, he was a good man. An honest man.”
“Too honest, it would seem.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if he had been after the power, he could have agreed to Quaid’s terms in the hotel room instead of forcing their hand. And it was his idea to do what he’s about to do. He could have done nothing, continued his campaign, and no one would have been the wiser. The New Orleans incident might have actually got him even more votes.”
“I see your point. And the Titanic thing?”
“Well, we know it’s definitely an Assembly thing as well. But here’s the thing. We’ve been combing through Echelon intercepts of the emails and think we may have identified at least two other Assembly members.”
“How?”
“The emails never use names, just numbers, but they don’t bother encoding things like locations or meetings. It’s almost as if the number system is to protect their identities from each other.”
“Makes sense. What did you discover?”
“Well, there’s been a lot of emails that reference different conferences or meetings that some of them will be attending. We’ve begun checking out guest lists for those conferences and looking for overlap where the same person shows up at multiple events, matching the emails.”
Morrison smiled, leaning forward. “And you found two that match?”
Leroux nodded, grinning. “Yes, sir. And once we knew who we were looking for, we were able to pull their files. They both inherited massive corporate empires and both do business not only with each other, but Mashkov as well.”
Morrison shook his head. “All because some idiot was lazy and wanted to be able to check his email at home.”
Leroux rapped his knuckles on the arms of his chair. “Yup. But I think we have an opportunity here.”
“What?”
“Well, I had a crazy idea on how we could use our newfound knowledge as leverage.”
Morrison’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Leverage? For what?”
“To protect the Professors’ lives, and the others.”
Morrison smiled slightly.
“And yourself.”
Leroux blushed slightly.
“And myself.”
Moscow, Russia
“Turn that up!”
Ilya Mashkov leaned forward, his butler Dimitri doing as requested, the CNN simulcast over his car’s satellite radio suddenly cranked up, leaving Mashkov’s heart pounding at the announcer’s words.
“In a stunning revelation earlier today, it’s been revealed that the widely perceived front runner for the presidency, Christopher Jones, has received extensive campaign financing from questionable Russian sources. Leaked campaign documents show multi-million dollar donations from several individuals and companies linked to Russian President Vladimir Putin. Campaign insiders, speaking on condition of anonymity, confirmed reports that Jones was kidnapped two days ago in New Orleans by possible members of the Russian mob, demanding he tone down his recent rhetoric regarding increased Russian sanctions. That kidnapping resulted in the deaths of at least six individuals including one of Jones’ largest financial contributors, Peter Quaid, CEO of Silidev, a large multi-national with significant operations in Russia. A spokesperson for the Jones campaign said he will be holding a press conference later this evening. We will bring that to you live when it happens. In other news—”
Mashkov waved his fingers in front of his throat and Dimitri muted the broadcast, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
It’s a disaster.
There was no other way to describe it. And it was bullshit. He had made certain that Jones’ backers were all American. Quaid himself was American. Most large businesses in the United States now had some ties with Russia. To claim that this meant the financing came from there was ridiculous.
Then again, the press today never seemed to be interested in the truth, just clickbait that would drive their ratings.
Presidential Hopeful Christopher Jones’ Financing all Above Board.
It was a headline that wouldn’t grab anyone’s attention. Claim the Russian mob was involved and all hell would break lose. He had no doubt the 24-hour news stations were talking about it fulltime, bringing in questionable experts to discuss the implications, Jones already guilty in their eyes as it made for the most sensational newscast. And if it were proven false, it would only get airplay if they could make a story out of Jones being the victim of someone. If they couldn’t, it would be a buried story, simply dropped by the press, leaving the majority of those who got their news in sound bites to wonder what had ever happened, ignorant to the man’s innocence.
The others aren’t going to be happy.
He was already on their radar for some reason.
Perhaps this was why!
It made sense. If someone was looking into the Jones campaign’s finances, they would definitely have found Quaid. Quaid did have business dealings with several of his companies here in Russia and abroad. The link would be easy to make. Chances were that anyone connected to Quaid was being looked into.
He breathed a sigh of relief.
It makes perfect sense!
He frowned.
Then why was it the CIA?
The West hated the Russian leadership, that much was obvious. Even he, a loyal Russian, hated the Russian leadership. It was a dictatorship run by a testosterone junkie with a Napoleon complex. Nobody wants to see their leader with his shirt off, whether he thinks he has abs or not.
It’s just not presidential.
That hatred for what Russia had unfortunately become meant the propaganda machines on both sides were in full gear, churning out their preferred message to the populace. It was unfortunate that here in Russia the message was quite often so absurd it reminded him of the Soviet Union. And in Mother Russia, where almost the entire press was controlled by the state, its citizens too often believed the rhetoric.
Morons.
The greatest gift they had was access to information, yet too many of them believed their government when that information contradicted the official message.
Lies from the corrupt Russian-hating West!
But that same propaganda machine was working on the other side of the Atlantic as well, and it made sense that the CIA, masters at psychological warfare, would be involved.
Which would be why it was them that were looking into me.
He smiled.
Surely my associates will come to the same conclusion.
These things always blew over, and so would this in time, especially with the short attention spans of the populace.
He frowned.
But what about New Orleans? What about Jones?
He might be clear, but his operation with respect to Jones appeared to be a disaster. Even with the stories not true, it could be enough to destroy the Jones campaign, especially with the anti-Russian sentiment sweeping America.
What will Jones say?
He had been listening to the conversation between Quaid and Jones in New Orleans after they had kidnapped the man. Brett Jones’ past had been revealed and the threat made, Jones capitulating in the end.
He agreed to cooperate under threat of death to his entire family.
There was no way he was behind the leak. The question now was what Jones would say at his press conference. Would he deny the allegations? He would have to, wouldn’t he? After all, they weren’t true.
Then Mashkov had a thought, his jaw dropping.
“He wouldn’t!”
Walter E. Washington Convention Center, Washington, DC
“Ready?”
Jones looked at Kitty Carmichael in the mirror, her head poking through the door. “Give me a moment.”
“Okay.”
She disappeared and his wife clucked at him, pushing herself up from the couch and walking over. She gently turned him and adjusted his tie, giving him a pat on the chest when she was done. “There you go.”
He looked down at her, smiling. “What would I do without you?”
“I don’t know, but I do know you’d never be presentable in public.”
He laughed then sighed, all happiness draining from him. “After tonight, I don’t think it will matter.”
“You don’t know that.”
He took her by the shoulders and leaned in, giving her a gentle peck. “Oh, I think we do.”
He sucked in a slow breath, took a final look in the mirror, then held out his hand. “Shall we?”
She smiled, taking his hand and squeezing it. “We’ll get through this together.”
He nodded, the urge to cry barely held at bay, his lifelong dreams about to be shattered, his entire way of life about to be completely upset, all because of something his grandfather did a century ago.
It’s not fair.
They had struggled over the past two days with their decision, though it was the right one, Agent “White” helping them with the covert side of things. It was essential that no one know he himself had been the source of the leak. It had been handled expertly. And with the latest revelation from the CIA that they had identified at least three Assembly members, he had rewritten his planned speech, it now much more final than what he had planned. It was something he had wanted to do from the beginning, but until what he had heard only two hours earlier, he hadn’t felt safe enough to do so.
But that had all changed.
Tonight he would go out with a bang, not the planned whimper.
Then leave the public eye.
Permanently.
He opened the door, White and his three partners in the hall.
“Sir.”
Jones nodded. “Agent. How about we get this over with?”
“Sounds good to me, sir.”
Agent White and his Asian partner, Agent Green, led the way, security heavy with local police and Secret Service providing security. There was no way there was going to be a repeat of what happened in New Orle
ans.
Nobody would be kidnapped tonight.
Assassinated maybe.
He could live with that, if it meant his family was left untouched. His wife probably wasn’t long for this world—it was his children and grandchildren he worried about. They deserved long, happy lives. And if that meant sacrificing his, then so be it.
Somebody announced him and the partisan crowd roared, none aware of the bombshell he was about to drop. He cleared the side curtains and raised his hand in the air, his wife doing the same. He glanced at her, her smile mixed with sadness, something the cameras would catch later as the talking heads picked apart the entire evening.
The stage was filled with his senior staff, none of whom knew what was about to happen. It felt lonely. Normally when back on his home turf his children would be on stage with him, but he had told them to stay home.
He feared what might happen.
As he reached the podium, he let go of Constance’s hand and she stepped slightly back to give him the spotlight. He glanced over to see Agent White and his men manning either side of the stage, hundreds of camera flashes blinding him, all the major networks with their own crews recording this historic event.
It will be forgotten within a week.
He gripped the side of the dais, squeezing hard, trying to draw strength from the pain of the wood eating into his palms.
Pain is weakness leaving the body.
His high school football coach had used that line on them. It was about the only useful thing the man had ever said. Or at least the only thing Jones could remember him ever saying.
Why are the painful memories always the ones you remember?
He had so many distinct memories from his early childhood, but they all involved pain. Getting bit by the neighbors terrier, skinning his knees on the neighbor’s driveway, stepping on a nail in the neighbor’s yard.
Kids should be avoiding their neighbors.
As he looked out at the cheering crowd he thought of today’s helicopter parents. They’d never let their kid near the neighbor’s dog, let them run for their Big Wheel or go near a yard where a fence was being built.
Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) Page 24
