by Lisa Shearin
Terrified people poured out of the gallery doors, cutting me off from Berta. Unless he had already been taken down, Elias Halverson could have been allowing himself to be swept along with them.
Their fear was like an emotional riptide, dragging me under. I was bumped and pushed, each persons’ terror piling on top of the one before, adding to my disorientation.
Find a wall, Rory.
As the crowd surged toward the National Statuary Hall. I pushed my way across the current of bodies to the closest wall, pressing myself against it, getting my breathing and rising panic under control.
I couldn’t let Halverson get away, but I couldn’t find him if I didn’t clear my head. He knew I was here and would have gone silent, letting the noise of the panicked herd cover his escape. From the Statuary Hall, he would go down the stairs into the Rotunda, then outside and down the Capitol steps to freedom.
That was it. That was how he was going to do it.
He was silent. Elias Halverson would be the only person who wasn’t panicking.
That was how I would find him.
I stepped away from the wall, steeled myself against the contact and allowed myself to be swept along. He knew I was here, and he wanted me dead. If he couldn’t kill Catherine Archer, he’d make do with me. His ego wouldn’t allow him to leave without a trophy.
He knew I was coming for him. He’d wait for me.
By the faltering glow of the emergency lights, I saw a man go down beside the Rotunda railing.
David Barrington. His FBI bodyguard was nowhere to be seen.
I pushed my way out of the crowd and went to my knees beside him. His face was pale and he was struggling for breath—and his hand was clutching his chest.
Oh shit.
A hand locked itself around the back of my neck, lifting me to my feet. “This is too easy. I expected more from you.”
I didn’t struggle. My right hand was at my jacket pocket and the taser inside. I couldn’t help Barrington without first helping myself. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. “Don’t you want to look me in the eye when you kill me? You’ve seen my face. I’ve never seen yours.”
Chaos continued all around us. Hundreds of people stampeded down the stairs in the near dark, no one seeing or caring about what looked like two people standing by the Rotunda railing.
As Halverson spun me around to face him, he clamped his other hand around my throat.
And I shoved the taser into his side and pulled the trigger.
Nothing.
Halverson merely smiled and squeezed harder. My vision began to darken.
“You really expected me not to be wearing a vest? I’m disappointed in you.”
Then Halverson grunted in pain and I was jerked forward as his hand convulsed around my throat. Then it was gone, torn away, and I dropped to my knees, desperately pulling air into my burning throat. From nearby came the sounds of struggle, grunts and curses, punches thrown, and kicks landed.
I recognized one of those curses.
Gabriel Marshall.
I crawled over to David Barrington. He was barely conscious, his breath coming in pained rasps. I took his hand in mine. He was trying to speak.
“Don’t talk,” I told him. “We’ll get help.”
A wet gurgle rose in his throat. He squeezed my hand. “I trusted Julian…to do…the right thing.” Then his grip loosened and fell away, as his eyes became fixed and staring.
Someone slammed into me from behind.
Halverson.
I snarled and jammed the taser I still held straight up.
Elias Halverson was wearing a vest. He wasn’t wearing a cup.
That, combined with the meaty impact of Marshall’s fist to Halverson’s side, sent him over the Rotunda railing to the floor below.
Then Marshall was beside me, lifting me back to my feet.
“Not bad for in the dark.” I couldn’t take my eyes from Elias Halverson’s broken body sprawled on the marble floor below, illuminated in the red glow of the now-working emergency lights. I half expected him to get up and walk away.
“It wasn’t perfect,” Marshall said.
“It was good enough. Thank you.”
“You okay?”
I pulled my eyes away from the dead assassin and focused on the living one. No, not an assassin. A soldier perhaps or a righter of wrongs, but not an assassin. “Couldn’t be better.”
He gently straightened my crooked wig. “Liar.” He looked down at David Barrington. “Halverson’s dead, so David got what he wanted.”
“Not yet,” I said, remembering his last words. “But he will.”
CHAPTER 41
An unexplained power failure during President Catherine Archer’s first address to the joint session of Congress was in the news for only half a day before it was bumped from the top spot. The media said that it was remarkable there had only been two deaths. Renowned neurosurgeon Dr. David Barrington had died of a heart attack during the chaos of hundreds of people fleeing the House Chamber and Capitol Building in the darkness, and a guest had fallen to his death from the lower Rotunda balcony.
That was what the public was told.
The person responsible for the power failure was now the target of a massive FBI, Secret Service, and CIA manhunt—or woman hunt. The earpiece Elias Halverson had been wearing hadn’t yielded any clue as to who was on the other end. The theory was that when Halverson knew he’d been identified, he’d signaled his accomplice, who took out the lights so he could escape.
The morning after the presidential address, I was at the hospital to visit Grandad. I paused just outside the door to his room.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Donati,” a nurse was telling him. “You’re not allowed to have coffee yet.”
“Then why did you wake me up?”
“It’s time to—”
“To talk to me,” I said from the doorway.
Grandad’s eyes lit up.
My eyes filled up. I couldn’t help it, and I didn’t even try to stop it. In the next instant, I’d crossed the room, wrapped my arms around my nonno, and had myself a good cry.
“I’m sorry,” I said, when I could finally speak.
“You keep your emotions inside, Aurora. That’s not healthy. Crying is good.” To show me just how good it was, his own eyes were filled with unshed tears.
“I called Mom and Dad this morning,” I told him.
Grandad winced, but not in pain. “I’ll bet that wasn’t pleasant.”
“No, it wasn’t. I stuck to the bare facts—Grandad and cardiac arrest. Naturally, I got raked across the coals for not calling sooner.”
“But, of course.”
“They’re catching the next flight from LAX. When I pick them up, I’ll tell them all the unbelievable details.” I lowered my voice. “Being psychic themselves, they’ll believe me. Probably. Anyway, they’ll be staying at the town house,” I continued, returning to normal volume, “so when you get home in a few days, you’ll have a houseful. I’ll even move over from the carriage house for a while.”
Grandad positively beamed.
I thought that’d cheer him up. There wasn’t an Italian grandfather who didn’t love having his entire famiglia around him. I knew Gerald would be just as happy. He lived for a houseful of guests to cook for.
Later, Berta and Rees came by. The past few days had been beyond intense, so they kept the conversation light. Grandad still tired easily.
“SAC Hudson wanted me to ask you again if you’re ready to officially work with us,” Rees said.
I laughed. “Oh, hell no.”
Rees smiled. “I told him as much, with a different choice of words.”
“The FBI doesn’t want me. I have authority issues.”
“I believe he realizes that.”
“And I’m allergic to cubicles and paperwork.”
“Then you definitely don’t want the FBI.”
“Told you.”
Grandad pulled himself up in bed and waved me off when I tried to help. “It was nearly impossible to get details from Aurora, but am I correct in concluding that she found this man among hundreds of people?”
Berta answered that one. “You bet she did.”
He smiled. “I would bet on that—and on her.”
“We bet on that, too,” Rees said. “Safest bet we ever made.”
“Though I couldn’t have finished the job without a certain secret agent man,” I told them all.
“Aurora shared just enough with me to make him intriguing.” Grandad gave me a sly wink. “I want to meet this young man.”
“We’ll see,” I told him.
A few minutes later, Grandad’s nurse politely shooed us all out, saying that Mr. Donati needed his rest. I walked Berta and Rees to the elevator. The nurse said Dr. Beck would be making rounds soon, and I wanted to stay and speak with her. As the elevator doors closed, I got a text from Gabriel Marshall.
Come to the chapel?
I walked down the hall to the small chapel. Marshall was waiting for me, only this time, he wasn’t dressed as a priest. He’d also dialed back his intensity to a simmer, and while I could still read him, I didn’t feel like I needed to. I almost felt comfortable around him.
He sat in a chair on the front row. I took the seat across from him.
“How is your grandfather?” he asked.
“Good. If he can behave himself, he’ll be coming home in a few days. Dr. Beck told me yesterday that Grandad’s made an amazing recovery. He’s a fighter and more than a little stubborn.”
Marshall smiled. “It must run in the family.”
“You only met me last week.”
“And I immediately knew you were stubborn.”
“So, what happens to the project now? Or can you not tell me?”
“Officially, the CIA has declared it a failure and has shut it down.”
“What about this Andrew Sloane and Richard Kinney you mentioned? You said they and Barton Renwick were three toads in the same swamp.”
“Barton Renwick has been declared a rogue element, and any coconspirators either inside or outside of the CIA will be found and disciplined at a level commensurate with their involvement. As to Sloane and Kinney, Director Patrick took issue with two of his people pushing to keep a project alive that nearly cut the head off the entire US government.” Marshall gave a grim and satisfied smile. “They are in custody now and are being questioned regarding just how close they were to Barton Renwick and Grigori Dementiev.”
“And if they were involved?” I asked.
Silence.
I held up a hand. “Enough said. I don’t need to know.”
“There is something that you do need to know. Sloane was responsible for the bugs in your apartment and the town house.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected he’d had them planted. When I needed to get into your office, I scanned the house and found them. I lucked out and was listening when your grandfather changed the security password.”
I just looked at him. “How did he get someone in the house?”
“That’s the part you need to know. He had someone on the inside at your security company. Their clients include a few people Sloane was interested in.”
“You said ‘had.’ This person isn’t there anymore?”
“Edward Simmons found him out. By any chance was your systems software updated two weeks ago?”
“I believe it was.”
“That was when Simmons had a patch installed to disable any bugs that had been planted.”
“It didn’t work.”
“Simmons knows that now. After my visit, I daresay that several of his high-profile clients received calls from him requesting to sweep their properties. He was persuasive in convincing Sloane’s man to be forthcoming as to his recent activities.” Marshall grinned. “I’m familiar with Mr. Simmons’s work before he left his agency for the private sector. He was impressively thorough and effective in obtaining information.”
“Ouch.”
“No doubt.”
“So where’s Sloane’s inside guy now?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“I don’t need to.” I thought for a moment. “What about the Senate Intelligence Committee? Won’t they question the project being closed?”
“A minor CIA research project they voted to fund nearly two years ago?” Marshall shook his head. “Renwick only gave one report to the committee, back when Barrington was still developing the chip. Only Senators Pierce and Dalton ever knew how far it’d actually gone, and that it’d been bought and paid for by a Russian oligarch. They’re dead. Presumably without telling anyone what they knew. That they died within days of each other will be deemed a tragic coincidence. When it comes to dispelling or diminishing any conspiracy theories, the CIA has learned that the best action is no action.”
“Ignore it and it’ll go away.”
“Address it and it gains credibility.”
“By the way, Grandad wants to meet you, though he’s sleeping now.”
“And I would very much like to meet him. How about after I get back?”
“You’re going after Barton Renwick and those chips, aren’t you?”
“I am. I’m flying out within the hour, but I wanted to see you before I left.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that, so I went with another question. “Do you know where he is?”
“I know where he’s going. When he arrives, I’ll be waiting.”
“Do you think he still has them?”
“Oh yeah. With Halverson and Barrington dead, those chips are all he has left to bargain with.”
“What will you do with them?”
“What Barrington should have done when he realized the project had been corrupted. Destroy them.”
“What are you going to do with Renwick?”
“I have orders, and I agree with them. Though Director Patrick wants him brought back for questioning.”
“What about David Barrington’s notes?”
“If he didn’t destroy them, they don’t need to be found. People are weak, and those who aren’t are fallible. There are no good hands for this technology to fall into. Anyone can be coerced, manipulated, threatened, bought, or blackmailed.”
“Not everyone.”
“Even if it was to save the life of someone they loved?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t have an answer for that. Not now.
CHAPTER 42
Two days later, Arlington National Cemetery gleamed in the early afternoon sun for the interment of Senator Julian Pierce. The sea of white marble headstones was blanketed by just enough fresh snow to cover the ground.
The funeral had been held that morning in the National Cathedral. President Archer had attended, as had many of Julian’s colleagues past and present. The pallbearers were a mix of his personal friends and Senate colleagues. Julian had left detailed instructions. His memorial service was an artful balance of his public and private lives.
Elaine Pierce had invited me to attend both the funeral and the interment, which was limited to family and close friends. She told me she considered us family and promised to visit Grandad in the next day or two. Grandad had asked me to extend his regrets to Elaine and to tell her he’d be there in spirit.
Dr. David Barrington would be buried here the day after tomorrow. I wondered who would attend. He had two ex-wives on the West Coast, but there hadn’t been any children from either marriage. Theodore Chisholm had invited me along with Rees, Berta, and Roger Hudson.
I had already extended my regrets.
I knew Gabriel Marshall wouldn’t be there. He was doing what David Barrington would want him to be doing. Tracking down the man he’d trusted like a brother.
Elaine had moved into her grandfather’s home in McLean while she looked for a smaller place close
r to Capitol Hill. Her older brother and his wife had a one-year-old daughter, with another baby on the way. They would be moving into the McLean house once the transfer from his firm’s Chicago office to DC was finalized. Elaine wanted the home to again be filled with family, love, and laughter. The Pierce family was gathering at the house after the internment. Their church had prepared a light dinner. Elaine asked that I join them.
After dessert and coffee, I wandered into Julian’s study.
The presence of the man was as strong as it had been the day I’d found his burner phone. I closed my eyes and breathed in the scents of the freshly polished wood paneling, the leather upholstery, and the paper in the hundreds of books.
I wasn’t looking for what Julian might have recently touched. The sense of him filled the room and always would. It was his center, where he had been truly himself, at home, secure, and happy.
I’d come here for David Barrington.
Going to his graveside service wouldn’t do anything for him, and it might endanger me. Elias Halverson had known about me, so did Barton Renwick. Now Andrew Sloane and probably Richard Kinney had been added to the list. Who knew who else they’d told?
Right here, in Julian’s office, was where I could do the most good for David Barrington—by doing what I believed he wanted. I already had my suspicions, and David had confirmed them just before his death.
He’d been here. I knew it now, especially after holding his hand as he died. I could sense him in this room. He’d been here recently, and when he’d visited, he’d left part of himself behind. Something he’d treasured.
His greatest work.
His abject failure.
Left in the care of a friend, a brother in arms he’d unwittingly endangered, that risk ending in that friend’s murder by his creation.
David Barrington had trusted Julian Pierce more than anyone in the world.
He’d told me so with his last words.
I scanned the books that had been so lovingly and meticulously arranged by subject or genre and then by author.
The book I was looking for wasn’t difficult to find. It was right where it was supposed to be.
The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin.
There was no dust on the spine. It had been recently handled. Not by Julian Pierce, or I would have sensed it when I’d found the burner phone.
