Betrayal (14 page)

“I’m afraid so, dear. But there’s no reason you can’t have another. You’re still healthy and young.”

Cassi was not so sure.

Where was Wiley? She wondered. More than anything, she needed him with her at that moment. There were flowers all over her room, and no doubt some were from him, but those were hardly consolation. She needed flesh and blood to cuddle and hold. She needed reassurance, support, and consolation. She understood that he could not possibly afford to sit watch at the foot of her bed, but she felt that he had slighted her all the same. Her and their baby.

“How do you feel?” Gretchen asked, nudging the discussion in a different direction.

Cassi decided that a change of subject probably was for the best. “Like I was hit by a truck.”

Gretchen nodded. “In a Newtonian sense, you were.”

Cassi wasn’t sure what that meant. It sounded like something Odi would say. “What time is it?” She asked.

“Six o’clock, Monday evening. You’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours. Are you hungry? I’ve got orange Jell-O and some tasty applesauce that will both go down nicely.”

Cassi was not in the mood to eat, but she knew she should build up her strength. “That would be nice. I would also appreciate whatever you can give me for my headache.”

Gretchen mumbled something in response as she walked out the door.

Cassi was anxious to learn about Masha and Zeke. She would watch the news during dinner. If she could not find coverage of the explosion, then she would find a phone and call over to the pediatric wing. Meanwhile, she tried to recall the details of what happened.
 

She remembered blackmailing Higgins into giving her the reigns of the daycare center negotiation. She remembered Sal’s explanation of the job and her conclusion that he had been set up. She remembered convincing Sal that a helicopter was waiting for him up on the roof. She remembered being certain that Sal would have to expose himself to HRT sniper fire as he climbed the fire escape to the roof. She had effectively saved the children. Then, for some unforeseeable reason, the explosives he had brought for the safe exploded. One of the kids or even Sal himself must have accidentally triggered the detonator.

Gretchen returned with a plastic tray and set it on the table beside her bed. Cassi looked over to see a mushy meal and a little paper cup with two Tylenol. Gretchen refilled her water from a plastic pitcher and handed Cassi the cup. Once Cassi swallowed the pills, Gretchen said, “Your boss is here.”

Cassi perked up. Jack was there. That was good news. He would tell her about the kids. She felt a wave of nervous tension run up her spine. What would she do if they were not okay? She had a sudden urge to look in the mirror, but realized that was silly. She had a thick cap of gauze wrapped around her head. Besides, how she looked was the least of her problems. “Has he been waiting long?”

“No. He called earlier and we told him when the medication was likely to wear off. He has been here about fifteen minutes. You don’t have to see him if you don’t want.”

Cassi got the impression that Gretchen enjoyed sending people away. “No, that’s okay. Please send him in.”

It was not Jack Higgins who walked through her door. It was Wiley. Wiley was there!

“It’s great to see you,” she said, accepting a mixed rose bouquet and a kiss on the cheek. The cheek. That was disappointing. Perhaps her lips looked like an old hen’s.

“I’m glad to see you too.”

“When the nurse said that my boss was here, I was expecting to see Jack Higgins.”

“Actually that’s part of what I needed to talk to you about,” Wiley said, pulling the chair up beside the bed.

“I owe him an apology. I know. But—”

“Jack’s not your boss anymore,” Wiley interrupted. “He had to resign. Ralph Unger is the new head of Hostage Negotiations.”

Cassi felt the blood draining from her face. “Is that ... Is that my fault?”

Wiley nodded. “Jack took your bullet. But as you know, he was about to retire anyway.”

“And thanks to me, after thirty years of distinguished service he went out under a cloud.” Cassi bowed her head as tears swelled in her eyes. That was a double blow, straight to the heart. She needed some good news. “What happened to the children, to Masha and Zeke?”

As Wiley shook his head, Cassi thought she would faint. She was already numb when he spoke the dreaded words. “They didn’t make it.”

She gripped the rails of her bed like lifelines as Wiley continued. “As you might guess, their deaths have been all over the news.”

Grasping for straws, Cassi asked, “Do we know what happened yet? Why the bomb went off?”

“We don’t. The forensics team thinks it was an accident—homemade plastique is notoriously unstable—but that’s almost irrelevant. This is a political football now, so it’s sensation not science that counts.

“Look, Cassi, I’m sorry to hit you with this first thing after waking up. I thought it was important that you understand what’s going on. The minute word gets out that you are awake, the press are going to be trying to get to you, and they can be pretty slippery. I wanted to make sure that you were forearmed.”

“Thank you,” Cassi mumbled. “So what is going to happen to me?”

“Ralph’s first act in his new role was to place you on thirty-days medical leave and suspend your negotiator status—indefinitely.”

Cassi felt the world closing in on her. The injustice of it all was overwhelming. It was not her fault that an unstable bomb had exploded. She had successfully negotiated Sal out of the room with the children unharmed. Ralph, on the other hand, had blown dozens of cases. This was so unfair. She had—

“Cassi, there’s more.”

“More?”

“I don’t know how to say this other than to come right out with it.” Wiley stood up and began to pace. “Vice President Dish has an inoperable aneurism. He can’t stand with Carver for reelection, and it’s looking like I have a serious shot at his slot.” Wiley bowed his head and spoke with a soft voice. “It’s an opportunity I can’t let sail past.”

Cassi felt the floor giving way, but she managed to hold on. She knew that this discussion, in fact this whole chapter of her life, would only last a few seconds more. Wiley was going to make a run for the White House—and she was now too heavy to carry along. Part of her wanted to scream at him and make him feel bad, but after a moment’s repose she realized that that was the smaller part. In her heart of hearts she hoped he would succeed. She decided to make it easier for him. She said, “I understand. Air Force Two is like the Concorde—you have to check your baggage at the door.”

Chapter 22

Wilmington, Delaware

A
VAILING
HIMSELF
OF
the bridging cover provided by his chauffeur’s upheld umbrella, Defcon4 CEO Mark Drake stepped quickly from the portico of his Delaware mansion into the back of his custom Bentley limousine. He had a meeting with the Italian Ambassador that morning and did not want a single drop of October rain to blemish his dove-gray Versace suit.
 

As he settled into the buttery black leather, the chauffeur pulled the limousine around the circle and headed down the gravel drive. Mark listened to the bulletproof tires crunching out the sound of wealth on the tiny stones. It was music to his ears. The drive to work was often his favorite part of the day. It was forty-five minutes of refined luxury and productive peace.

He plucked the steaming latte from the heated cup-holder in his armrest and savored the day’s first sip. He loved the nutty warmth and the ensuing rush, the more so on dreary mornings like these. He smacked his tongue. Today’s brew left a funny aftertaste. Had William used his own off-the-shelf grounds, rather than the custom order Blue Mountain beans? Drake wondered. He was about to buzz William to lodge a complaint when his eye fell upon a headline on the front page of The Wall Street Journal: Pentagon Budget Woes. He unfolded the crisp paper, swallowed another sip of latte, and began to read.

Some twenty minutes later Mark heard a television monitor spring to life. He looked up to see the limo’s large central screen glowing blue. He reached for the remote control but found the holder empty. Vexed, he pressed a burlwood button and activated the intercom. “I say, William, the tele has just come on and I’m missing the remote.”

William did not reply. That was the problem with these high-technology cars, Mark thought. A twenty-five cent fuse could bring them to their knees. For three hundred thousand you expected better. That thought made him smile proudly. For that amount of money a government did get absolute reliability, in the form of one of his FreedomSeeker missiles.

Only when he glanced out the window to find an unfamiliar road did he get the feeling that something more serious than a technical glitch might be afoot. As if in answer to his unvoiced question, a video began to play. If he’d had any latte left, he would have choked. The screen showed a bulldog of a man hanging on to life at the end of a rope. His toes were barely touching the floor and his hands appeared to be bound behind his back. The man was looking at someone whom Mark guessed to be seated below the camera, although no part of him could be seen. The narrator could, however, be heard. “Aside from a slightly oily sheen, it looks like coffee creamer. Mix it in equal parts with Half-n-Half, add a little artificial flavoring, and it tastes that way too.”

Mark watched the hanging man’s face contort as he reacted to the words. Then Mark heard the narrator describe the chemistry of an explosive he called Creamer. When the description was over, the video paused. Mark wondered if this was some strange form of marketing video, a new explosive for Defcon4 to manufacture. Slipping it into his limo’s DVD was a bit aggressive, but then his was an aggressive business.
 

Engrossed as he was by the morbid show and tell, Mark had not noticed that his limo had parked. Looking out the window he was surprised to see the Delaware valley below. They were at one of those scenic pull-offs beside a hillside road. It was not very scenic now, however, on account of the rain.

Mark tried the door but it was locked. He pushed the unlock button and found that it had no effect.
 

Panic seized him.
 

He pushed the intercom button frantically but received no response. He began screaming William’s name. Nothing. The inescapable conclusion hit him like a punch in the gut. He was a captive, albeit in a burlwood and leather prison.

The video monitor came back to life and Mark refocused his attention on the pitiful wretch hanging by his neck. “Who asked you to do it,” the unseen narrator asked.

The wretch shook his head a few times as though coming to accept his fate. That action must have caused him considerable pain, though he seemed beyond the point of noticing anymore. His neck was already rubbed raw and blood had discolored the bottom of the coarse noose. Finally, the man grew a resigned grimace and looked directly into the lens.
 

The camera zoomed in.
 

Mark began to tremble.
 

The shaking started deep in his bones and worked its way out through his limbs in an uncontrollable spasm. He recognized the face.

The death mask before him belonged to the FBI Commander he had to hire as part of his contribution to Stuart Slider’s scheme. It was the man Wiley had given them to work the inside angle. Potchak.

“Who asked you to do it?” The narrator repeated.

Potchak spoke just two words, but they came out clear and strong. “Mark Drake.”

~ ~ ~

Odi stopped the video. He wished he could have seen Drake’s face at the moment Potchak pronounced his name, but his hidden camera only provided a profile view. He turned to face the rear of the car and lowered the partition half way. The pallid CEO of Defcon4 stared back at him, a look of absolute horror on his aquiline face.

“You’re not William.”

All things considered, Odi found that a ridiculous thing to say. “No, I’m not. Care to guess who I am?”

“No, I don’t care to guess. Now let me out of my car.”

“Let you out? Do you know how many lives were sacrificed to provide you with this opulent ride? The least you can do to respect their memory is to enjoy it.”

“God damn it, I said let me out! I insist that you let me out of here—right now.”

Odi said, “If you don’t adjust your attitude, Drake, you may never leave.” He raised the partition to cut off further protest.

Odi fast forwarded the DVD to the climactic scene and pushed play. The explosion happened so fast that you missed it if you blinked. One second Potchak was there, then you heard a sickening ka-woomf, and the next second you found yourself looking through a misted red lens at an empty pair of boots. After enough time passed for your mind to register what your eyes had not seen, a cloth wiped the lens, providing a clear view of the grisly remains and the blood-drenched, gore-splattered room. The video showed that medieval picture for a full thirty seconds before it stopped.

Odi gave Drake a minute of silence before flicking the intercom switch with his leather-gloved hand. “Potchak got testy too. He didn’t have your advantage though. He didn’t have the visual of what happens to people who don’t fully cooperate. Tell me, Drake, are your fingernails turning blue?”