In college, Cordelia always lost at strip poker since her face always gave her away.
Vikki tried to hide her grin. “You’re a smart lady. If I give you anything, they’d be after you, too. I’m sure you read about my ...,” she inserted air quotes, “... accident. It happened after I interviewed ... tried to interview ... Lindsey-Marie Moffatt, poor lady. She was scared to talk. Scared to death.”
“They say she overdosed.”
“But you don’t believe it.”
Cordelia inhaled a shuddering breath and shook her head.
“I don’t know where Jack is,” Kidd said. “If I did, I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Then you’ve been in contact with him.”
“Not recently.”
“But you’ve talked to him, struck a deal with him, received classified information from him.”
“Any information he might have shared with me wasn’t classified.”
“Closely held secrets then ....”
“You’ve hit the nail squarely on the head,” she said with a defeated sigh. “The less anyone officially knows about Spinnaker, the easier it becomes to dismiss it as a conspiracy theory.”
“But in a Senate hearing ...”
“Easier,” she said with a dead-pan expression.”
“Coyote must trust you.”
“I never slept with the man, if that’s what you’re getting at, though God knows I wouldn’t mind getting into his pants. But if you want to know what I think of him as a man, I can tell you this. He’s stubborn. And he’s running for his life. And that’s all I can tell you. His aunt might be able to give you more. I have her phone number.”
“We met. Had a long chat.”
“Here? In Washington?”
“Tucson.”
Vikki’s eyebrows lifted. “If I were Jack, I’d be watching my back right about now, looking for a polite but dangerous young lady dressed in suit too hot for the weather.”
“I only I were dangerous.”
“Ms. Burke, you don’t know just how dangerous you are.”
30
Great Barrier Reef, Queensland, Australia
Thursday, September 4
A WIDE STRETCH of pristine beach can afford an injured man the ideal place to heal both his physical and psychic wounds. Jack Coyote had found his paradise on earth, his respite from daily cares, and his spiritual reawakening, however short-lived.
Bliss came with a thatched seaside cottage, a walkway pontooned over a glassy-smooth inlet, a fully stocked kitchen, and ten days of virtual isolation. The honeymoon hut had been reserved six months in advance, but the groom left his bride standing at the altar, and the bride’s mother called in the cancellation minutes before John Harrier and Jules Gibbons arrived at the posh resort.
The beating Jack received from the Frenchman went deeper than flesh and bone. Jack Coyote was a stalked man and John Finlay was the recipient of unjust punishment, but Jules Gibbons was the cure. Employed as an office worker by day and a masseuse in her spare time, she plied her off-hours trade this week for one exclusive client. With extravagant zeal and punishing hands, she kneaded away his dull aches and sharp pangs, realigned his twisted spine, manipulated his aching neck, and banished his migraine headaches. In between, they frolicked in the salty waters of the Great Barrier Reef, swimming with the fishes and afterwards sprawling on a blanket in the afternoon sun until day fell into twilight. In the evenings, they dined by candlelight, toasted their seclusion, talked of trivial things, and mended their heartache. Night welcomed them into celestial passion, bringing out the best of their strong natures. Caresses and kisses and words of endearment abounded while just outside, the musical cadence of ocean waves rolling onto shore washed away their grief. Wounds healed day by day and touch by touch. Scars were bound to remain, a few visible and the rest buried deep inside.
One morning, he took a swim in the ocean while she drove into town to stock up on provisions. She was gone longer than usual. He began to worry. When she returned, it was with a broad smile and a cooler. She smacked it onto the veranda, used it as perch, tucked her fists beneath her chin, and grinned.
“I give,” he said, playing along. “What’s in the cooler?”
“Funny you should ask.” In a swift movement, she shot up and rummaged inside, bringing out two bottles of beer from a seemingly bottomless stash. She offered him one and provided a bottle opener as an extra prize. “Family recipe. Handed down from generation to generation like the family jewels. We come from a long line of apple islanders. Tasmanian to you. The recipe is a closely held secret, but it’s said to be kiwis, apples, and limes. Only my cousins know for sure. Mum and Da told them where I was holidaying. Arrived just this morning. It has a wicked punch, so go easy. Twenty-proof. Catches up to you. Go on. Try it. Costs less than a girlfriend and easier to piss off.”
After squiring themselves on the sand beneath a shading umbrella, they tipped back bottles, munched on shrimp and chips between guzzles, basked in the ocean breezes, and listened to waves pounding onto shore.
“Something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Jack said. “For a while now. Been looking for the right time. Turns out there’s no right time.”
She gave him a swift look from the corners of her eyes but said nothing.
“I came into possession of Maddie’s netbook. After she was gone. You know what that means, don’t you?”
Still saying nothing, she was very attentive, painfully so.
“I found proof.”
She hesitated asking but said, “Of what?”
“She was directly involved in the money laundering scheme I got caught up in. It’s the reason she was murdered. And why her company was leveled to the ground. To destroy the evidence.”
“You’re sure about this?”
“Your sister was an intelligent lady. Brilliant, actually.”
Jules thought about what he told her, her face first flushing with anger and then paling with profound sadness and grudging acceptance. “She was brilliant. The smartest one in the family.”
That Abuna gave the netbook to Jack wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. The killing of a beautiful woman was one thing. An illegitimate enterprise happening on their tiny island was another. Abuna didn’t want to leave any evidence behind that could impugn his government, and most notably the president of Nauru, who just happened to be his uncle. Neither would their Australian overloads appreciate the breach of trust, never mind murder and destruction. Money laundering was the subject that must not to be acknowledged. Any income derived from such schemes must be covered up. The firebombing of the shack erased all proof. Let the sins of the dead be buried as well.
“She was greedy for life,” he said.
“You saw that, too?” she said.
“But a bad judge of character,” he said.
“May her soul rest in peace,” she said.
The breezes kept blowing. The waves kept pounding. The clock kept ticking. And Jules reconciled the conflicted feelings she had for her sister.
“She knew exactly what she was doing,” Jack said. “Had to know.”
“Aware, yes,” Jules said. “But in denial. The gods always know. And wait for just the right moment to take what’s theirs.” She sniffed in a breath of courage. “Do me a favor?”
He already knew what it would be.
“Find the bastard who killed my sister and send him straight to hell.”
“I will.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. Cross my heart and hope to die.” He crossed his heart and held up his hand. His wasn’t a child’s promise. It was the promise of a man with vengeance on his mind.
“The only way evil men can succeed is when good men do nothing.” She swiveled her head and went eye to eye with him, her meaning unequivocal. “And you’re a good man.”
They spent the rest of the day picnicking on the beach, becoming mellow, and exchanging long, deep, wet kisses. The beer purified their kidneys, pick
led their livers, and delivered a cheery buzz they were eager to try and try again.
At the end of the week, they packed up for their trip back to Sydney. “If your government catches up to you,” Jules asked, “what will they do? Kill you?”
“Lock me away.”
“Better than dead.”
“Worse,” he said. “Much worse.”
She nodded with understanding, then shivered. “If ever you need a pair of hands made for loving, mate, remember Jules Gibbons.”
“I’ll remember.”
“And when you send that bastard to his grave, tell him the Gibbons sisters curse them to Hell.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and saluted.
When the van came to pick them up and take them to the airport, Jack took one last look at the Coral Sea and thought it a most pleasant place to die. Maybe one day, but not today.
He bid a deep blue farewell to the ocean and to the way things could have been were he a man with no duties to perform or revenge to exact.
31
Chevy Chase, Maryland
Thursday, September 11
THE DOOR BELL rang and rang and rang, some bastard punching the button with impatience. This alone put Vikki in a foul mood. It was eight in the morning and she still hadn’t finished her first cup of coffee.
When she swung the door open, ready to give the asshole a dressing down, a tall woman stood in the doorway, dressed as if she were on her way to an office job. Blue suit, white blouse, low pumps. “Victoria Antoinette Kidd?”
Whenever someone addressed Vikki by her full legal name, her hackles went up. Cautiously she answered, “That’s me. And you are ...?”
The woman handed her an envelope. “You’ve been served.” Off she went without another word.
Grace came bounding downstairs. “What was that all about?”
Vikki should have been angry. And scared. Instead she felt strong and dispassionate. “It begins.”
“What begins?” Grace asked. “Mom? What’s going on?”
“The witch hunt.”
Usually Congress summoned witnesses through request and negotiation, hardly ever resorting to legal authority. They were sending a clear message. They were telling her it was either put up or shut up, and if shutting up was her choice, risk being held in contempt. She could be jail. It had happened to other journalists, the friend of the people but the enemy of the government, particularly a government with something to hide. They considered her a hostile witness and were playing out their hand, a hand they were eager to play in the court of public opinion. Let them play. She held a full house, aces up, and if they were wanted to take the gamble, she would happily call their bluff.
“Witch hunt?”
She handed Grace the subpoena. “I’m to appear before the Select Committee on Intelligence of the United States Senate, headed by none other than Senator Wallace Reed.”
Grace hesitated asking, her face pale as a cloud and dark as an approaching storm. “About ... what ... exactly?”
“What else?” She smiled. It really wasn’t a smile. It was a grim gesture of resignation. “About the Spinnaker Papers, how I received the information, who gave it to me, and anything else their little hearts desire.”
“Does this have anything to do with our visitor of the night?” Her face held an expression Vikki had never seen on her usually sweet-faced teenager. It was a knowing expression. A cool and collected expression. An expression of cunning. “Jack Coyote. The killer.”
“Not a killer.”
“They say―”
“Haven’t I taught you anything?” she said, feeling a restlessness in her soul.
“Never believe anything until you have all the facts,” Grace said, repeating her mother’s oft-repeated lesson. Though technically still a teenaged girl with teenaged angst, Grace was an old soul, seventeen going on seventy, and wise beyond her years, due in no small part of being her mother’s daughter. “What are you going do?”
“Fight them with everything I’ve got, guns blazing.”
32
Sydney, Australia
Thursday, September 11
JOHN HARRIER WAS waiting to board his flight at Sydney Airport, bound for the USA with a stopover in Dallas before continuing onto Miami, final destination Belize.
He passed through security without incident. A leisurely walk through the international terminal brought him to the departure gate. He checked in. Takeoff was scheduled in less than two hours. To pass the time, he drank a few beers at one of the restaurants, read newspapers, and scarfed down a juicy burger with plenty of fixings. It was around noontime. He had two days of travel ahead of him. He didn’t look forward to being trapped in an airtight cabin, knee to elbow with gabbing passengers, but unless he booked passage on a steamer, had little choice. Besides, a man on a mission doesn’t take the scenic route. He travels the fast road.
When his flight was announced for boarding, he took his time returning to the gate. Passengers were already snaking their way through final check-in. The airliner was a jumbo jet, the double-decker kind with room for up to five hundred passengers. The flight was fully booked. It would take a while for everyone to board. He took a seat in the waiting area. While he waited, he watched. Reconnoitering the immediate area. Picking out faces. Separating the innocent from the guilty, the laid-back from the agitated, the harmless from the suspicious. A man on the run quickly learns how to characterize strangers with the precision of a scalpel. He must. If he doesn’t, he won’t last long.
There were no men in black hats. Mostly tourists. Some business types. The line dwindled.
Fifteen minutes later, the din of whining kids and blathering adults and guffawing teens diminished. He gathered his backpack and approached the gate. A man came up on him and grabbed his elbow with a bone-breaking grip, the king that sends sparks down to the wrist and up to the shoulder joint.
Jack said something dumb like, “Hey!” Or something like it.
A second man grabbed his other arm, twisting it in a come-along grip.
After that, Jack uttered nothing.
The men stood slightly behind him, preventing him from getting a good look at either. He could tell this much ... one was black and the other white, one short and the other tall, one tatted and the other hairy. Each was thrusting the barrel of a gun into bone and muscle. His bone and his muscle. The black guy at the base of his spine. The white guy snug against his waist. They strong-armed him away without saying a word. Threats were unnecessary. Jack implicitly understood they could have killed him on the spot and escaped before anyone knew what had happened.
There’s an old polemic. When faced with danger, a man has two choices. Either he fights or he runs. If they have a gun and he has a gun, he fights. If they have a gun and he doesn’t, he surrenders.
They spirited him away. Past a security door. Down two steep flights. Along echoing corridors. And through an emergency exit manned by two additional men. These guys were good. Professionals. First-rate. They must have paid someone off. Someone who unlocked doors and looked the other way.
He was propelled bodily through the side panel of a van. He lost his balance. Crashed onto his knees. Both arms were throbbing. He couldn’t form a good fist with either hand. It wouldn’t have mattered. The men were indelicate when they crushed him flat on his belly. He was quickly manacled, hands yanked behind his back at a cruel angle. They gagged him, hooded him, dragged him up, tossed him into a passenger seat, and buckled him in tight.
Jack must have hooked his elbow into the mouth of one of the guys. He was whining like a baby, slobbering, complaining about a broken tooth, talking funny. He went for Jack and grabbed him on each side of his shirt, lifting him up with brute force. The other three guys pulled him off, told him to leave the valuable goods alone, and ordered him to get in the front seat, he was making a bloody mess back here.
Jack figured out one key fact about these thugs. They weren’t Australian.
The vehicle took o
ff at high speed, spiriting Jack toward a destination unknown.
THE END
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