Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (34 page)

Washington Memorial Hospital

C
onnie twisted and jerked until Khalid pulled her tight against him. He felt a surge of crippling pain lash through him and he stumbled back, but he managed to grab Connie again and pull her in front of him. She kept struggling until she felt the cold gun press hard against her naked neck. “Stop it, woman! You, Agent, get back or she’s dead!”

Davis was nearly on him, but that pain-maddened voice stopped him dead in his tracks. He felt so frustrated he wanted to howl. He stared at William Charles—Khalid—and saw he was not only hanging on, he was regaining control over the pain in his side. He could kill Connie in an instant. Davis calmed himself, drew back.

Khalid was breathing hard through his teeth, his voice shuddering from the pain as he whispered against Connie’s temple, “Don’t do that again. My wife is a tiger like you, sharp teeth and fingernails, ready to rip out a man’s throat.”

Natalie’s calm voice rang out: “It’s me you want, Khalid, not her. Let her go.”

Khalid glanced over at Natalie and felt hate roil in his belly. She was here, at last, not more than eight feet from him, and she
looked as unruffled and controlled as the bloody Queen. His father had loved the faithless bitch to his very soul. It enraged him. His voice shook with pain as he screamed, “Ah, Madame Ambassador speaks! You murdered my father, you lying bitch! I watched you spin your tales to those credulous morons on the TV news stations last night, saw how they pandered to you, believed every self-serving lie that fell out of your mouth. I only wish I’d have been strong enough yesterday to kill you.”

Natalie kept her voice calm. “It was you who left your father and your family, Khalid. He loved you, wanted you so badly to come home. Why didn’t you?”

“Family? What a bunch of selfish little sods, with a couple of bona fide nutters thrown in. Do you think I’d join them at Ascot, or playing polo, or strut down the aisle at Saint Paul’s with a whey-faced English bride on my arm? They’re carrion, all of them. At least now they won’t have Lockenby Hall to feast on.”

“But not your father. You loved each other. Let me ask you, Khalid, why are you so certain I am responsible for his death?”

“Everyone with a brain knows it! Now you’re claiming someone hacked into your email account and sent that indecent email in your name? Really? Are you ready to tell any tale that can’t be disproved? And then my father was dead, dead and gone. You did that to him. Admit it!”

“You will listen to me, and this is the absolute truth. I loved your father. We would have stood together with you if you had come back to England, and we would have stood together by ourselves if you had not. Do you understand me? We loved each other. When your father died, it broke something deep inside both of us. You feel the same pain losing him as I do, I know that, but you’re blaming someone else for it, and there’s no one to blame, not even
yourself. Your father didn’t kill himself. They think now he had a problem with his heartbeat, and fell unconscious, and that’s why he went over the cliffs. I know he didn’t kill himself, Khalid, he cherished life. He would have never killed himself, never, even if I had broken our engagement in that ridiculous email, even if I’d announced it in Trafalgar Square. Don’t you know your father well enough to realize that?”

For an instant, Khalid looked uncertain, then his eyes filled with pain again, pain for his father and the physical pain that was bowing him into himself. “So now you call it a tragic accident rather than murder? You prefer that story now? Isn’t it a pity no one can prove it either way?” He had no more words. He sucked in a gasping breath, realized he was losing control of his mind and his body, and backed away from Connie. “You, get over there.”

Connie moved away from him.

Davis said, “Khalid, give us a chance to prove who sent the email. Don’t make another mistake before we all know the truth. Natalie was never the calculating monster you want to believe she is. Why can’t you see that?”

It was hard to breathe, the pain was pulsing hard, harder still, his body struggling, fighting, but in vain. So much pain, it was going to burst out, black and hot, and he would die as his father had died, his beloved father. He couldn’t stand the pain of it—he raised his gun, aimed it at Natalie. “I had to end my life because I had to avenge my father. I’ve lost every tie that meant anything to me, my wife, my children, my family. Killing you is all I have left.”

In a smooth, precise move so fast it was a blur, Connie swung her leg out and struck him in his wounded side.

Khalid screamed and fired.

Morganville, Virginia

A
mity Ransom shouted “No!” from the living room doorway, and fired the old revolver at Blessed. There was a clicking sound, but nothing else happened. She kept pulling the trigger as Savich dived for Blessed, grabbed him around the neck and jerked him backward against him. “All right you madman, tell the officers to drop their weapons or I’ll twist your neck off.”

“Shoot him!” Blessed screamed at Sherlock. Savich smashed his fist against Blessed’s temple and lurched toward Sherlock. He was on top of her before she could raise her gun, but she was strong, stronger than he’d ever imagined. Slowly, inexorably, he pulled her gun arm out from beneath his chest and pinned her arm to the ground. She lay there, staring up at him with empty eyes. He slapped her hard, once, twice.

It seemed an eternity before she blinked, stared up at him. “Dillon?” Her voice was a tiny thread of a sound. “Why’d you hit me?”

“I’m sorry, I had to. You’re yourself again?”

“Yes,” she said, her voice filled with surprise. “Of course. I’m fine.”

Bibber and Pilson stood quiescent, waiting to be told what to
do. Blessed stirred and sat up. Savich walked over and pressed his Glock against his ear. “You say one word and you’re a dead man.”

Sherlock shook her head as she slowly got to her feet. She knew what had happened, but she had no memory of it. She didn’t look at Blessed. She pulled off her jacket and ripped the sleeve off her blouse, handed it to Dillon. He wound it around Blessed’s eyes, knotting it in the back. “Watch him, Sherlock.” He walked to the two policemen, sent his fist into each of their jaws. They grunted in surprise, and then they were back. They straightened, looked at each other, and almost in unison said, “What happened?”

“Are you all right?” The old woman was lightly touching her fingertips to the blood on Sherlock’s temple.

“Yes, ma’am, I think so.”

Amity Ransom looked around her entrance hall. “Goodness, what a to-do. I think all of us need a nice cup of tea.”

Blessed hurled himself up and grabbed Sherlock as he ripped the sleeve off his eyes, stared at her, and shouted, “Kill him! Kill him!”

Savich shot Blessed in the forehead as Sherlock raised her gun. Amity Ransom hit her on the temple with her heavy old revolver. Sherlock sank to the floor on her knees, holding her head and moaning. The old woman leaned down and lightly touched her shoulder. “I don’t understand this, but you should be all right now. Are you back here again?”

“I think so,” Sherlock said.

“I’m sorry. Your poor bruised head. Isn’t that strange how this man can hypnotize you so fast? I simply looked at him and I wasn’t there anymore until you hit me. Are you all right now, child?”

Sherlock’s head was swimming, pain pulsing through her, she wanted to vomit, but somehow she found a smile. “Yes, ma’am, thanks to you I am. Thank you.”

Washington Memorial Hospital

T
he shot hit the pitcher beside Hooley, not a foot from Natalie. Khalid wasn’t screaming now, he was on his back, clutching his side, moaning, nearly unconscious with the pain, as Davis pulled the gun from his hand. Connie was beside him, applying pressure to his bleeding side.

Davis said over his shoulder, “Perry, get a doctor in here. Connie, I think you’d make a fine FBI agent.”

She never raised her hands, now red with Khalid’s blood. “You think?”

Natalie walked slowly over to where William Charles lay gasping for breath on his back, his eyes glazed with pain. She saw the spreading blood through the white lab coat from his wound, saw the blood covering Connie’s hand. She went down on her knees next to him, lightly touched her fingers to his face. “Billy,” she said, leaning close, “I’m so sorry your father died. I’m so sorry you believed the press that I was the one who brought it about. I didn’t, Billy. I loved him as much as you said.” She paused for a moment,
dashed the tears out of her eyes. “Medical help is on the way for you. You’ll get well and I’ll see what I can do for you.”

Perry said, “Mom, he didn’t try to kill me.”

“No, he said he didn’t.” Natalie looked up at her daughter. “So who did?” She rose and moved back as a doctor and two orderlies pushed in to take care of his lordship, Viscount Lockenby.

Secretary of State’s office

Tuesday noon

T
heodore Reynolds, chief staffer to the secretary of state and guardian of the inner sanctum, watched the six people march up to his desk. He recognized all of them, but it was the sight of a grave-looking Eric Hainny, the president’s chief of staff, that brought it all together for him. He looked over at Ambassador Black’s face for confirmation, but her expression was set, giving no clue to her thoughts. Still, Theo knew this had to do with that photo of her fiancé’s son, the one sent up through State from the NSA that had ended up on Mrs. Abbott’s desk, and then front and center in the English papers. He knew something bad was going to happen. He tried to lick his lips, but his mouth was too dry.

Special Agent Savich stopped in front of his desk and showed him his creds. “Agent Savich, FBI.”

Theo said, “Yes, sir, I know who you are.” His eyes flickered to Hainny, who looked grim. Still, he had to try. He cleared his throat, hoped his voice stayed smooth. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said to Hainny, “but the secretary of state is with her son at the moment. This has thrown off her schedule, and—”

Eric Hainny said, “Listen, you shite, we’re here at the request of the president. Hold her calls. No, don’t buzz her, I know the way in.”

Theodore Reynolds shut up. He watched Hainny lead Ambassador Black; her daughter, Perry; and the three FBI agents toward his boss’s office. The ambassador wore a sad expression now, and her daughter was obviously angry. Mrs. Abbott should have buried that photo, she should have alerted Mrs. Black and the president about the diplomatic problem it posed if it ever got out. He’d advised her so himself. Now the silly thing was blowing up on her. He wondered if it would mean the end of her career, and his with it. There was little he could do for her, but he had to have time to confer with Mrs. Abbott before he was questioned, evaluate their options, come up with a strategy. He pulled his recent files out of his drawers and put the contents and his laptop into his briefcase. He was waiting for an elevator to the lobby of the Truman Building, then he felt a hand on his sleeve and turned to see a serious-faced young man holding out an FBI shield. “You need to come with me to the Hoover Building, Mr. Reynolds. We have some questions for you about a criminal matter.”