Sabotage (16 page)

B
ritt sat in the back of the limo, listening to something sad and dreamy by Zero 7. He was on his second pass through Vegas. He was sure the chauffeur knew something was up. He could tell. Was he on their side?

Then he stopped himself. God, he was thinking so crazy. He felt several times that day like his faculties were leaving him. He had to make it through this and just hold on. He was drowning. He no longer felt like he was in control.

As he watched the familiar Vegas scenery pass again, he thought about where he had been for five years. He had wrapped his life around this plan, from his first illegal angle to being the biggest mass murderer in US history. He was thirty-two, the same age as Alexander the Great.

Alexander the Great was the pupil of none other than Aristotle, who was taught by Plato, who was taught by Socrates. It was hard to imagine a more impressive legacy. But Alexander, son of the great leader Philip of Macedon, took it much further. His domain was not academic. It was the entire fucking world. He fought Jews, Greeks, Turks, and even managed to subdue the greatest empire the world had ever known: Egypt. He conquered most of the known world. Alexander wept when he discovered there were no more worlds to conquer and then died. Was this Britt’s fate?

He didn’t know. His thinking was premature. He was not even out of the country yet. At this point, he no longer felt like Alexander. Now, after one short chain of events, he felt more like Nixon—at his most powerful and most paranoid—the man who had more second chances than any American politician. He needed to be back in charge. Earlier that day, he might have worried about how he would do without the adrenaline and the power, or what little remained of his adventure should he survive, or how would he survive success. Now, he hoped this latest setback would remind him he was far from done.

It was a tad surreal to see television screens lit up with his vision, his novel, his cinematic death score—majestic and electric and incredibly provocative. He wished Caitlin was here for more than one reason. Yes, for once he could use a woman, use an outlet for all of this power and desire he felt building in his body. And oh, she was talented at that. She also could appreciate his greatness, even if she couldn’t fully understand it. That’s what he hoped he had found in Caitlin. He knew she was Grant’s woman and that was why he had initially desired her, but he also recognized just how rare she was. Now that he couldn’t have her, he wanted her. Perhaps, she was the country remaining to be conquered.

It seemed strange that this entire endeavor might have been begun because of his sexual frustration. After all, it certainly wasn’t started because of money. Ever since Grant took his real power from the FBI, he somehow seemed to strip Britt of his sexual power as well. Britt created elaborate stories to tell anyone about his embarrassing little problem, but he knew what the reason was: he was a eunuch now. Grant Miller made him a eunuch. He needed to get his power back. It was within his grasp today but slipping back. It reminded him of those elusive feelings for Caitlin, the ones that most closely seemed to border on normalcy.

The reason he could sleep with Caitlin was easy for any armchair psychologist to understand: she belonged to Grant Miller. Britt caused their breakup, engineered the incident that drove them apart forever, and made Grant look like a fool. Grant wanted Caitlin, loved her dearly, and Britt took her away. He could be a sexual stallion with Caitlin. Now, he felt sure that the power he wielded today, over Miller, over the president, over the nation, would be enough to bring him back. He was going to prove it tonight—one way or the other. He could almost believe it.

Tomorrow, he would know about the index and which endgame he would play. He would devise a new exit. Right now, with his extra time, he would see about life after Caitlin. He’d see what he could do with some new playmates. Given all of his power and all of the drama today, surely his dry spell was over.

He called his contact at the MGM Grand and placed his order. He finally had a place to tell his driver to drive to.

G
rant picked up the phone and heard the familiar “Mr. Miller? Please hold for the president.”

He had gotten several calls like this, most in the good old days when for whatever reason he became almost a confidant of President Bush, and still had the White House switchboard number in his phone. President Morgan, very politically different from President Bush, had still been a friend, and the two of them definitely made his continued career with the FBI a reality.

Of course, the calls stopped. Grant was political Chernobyl. They were no more able to carry on a friendship with him as with Osama Bin Laden. He was to be forgotten—until today.

“Miller? What the hell is going on?”

Thank God for the spared pleasantries. Morgan liked to cut to the chase.

“Mr. President, I don’t know much more than you do. I’m just following the one lead that fell in my lap.”

“And just how did that happen?”

“He’s here with me if you want to ask him.”

“Fuck you, Miller. I’m not talking to him.”

“Okay then. I don’t know. I am finding that at least some of this seems to deal with me as one of many targets.”

“You know what some people think,” Morgan said, trying to get at Miller, see if he could get him to respond differently than the president expected.

“I’m sure. There are a lot of people reconsidering their decision to let me stay on. You may be one of them.”

“Did you have any involvement in this, Grant?”

Miller spoke emphatically. He knew this man, and he believed he could appeal to him. “Sir, I had no direct or indirect involvement in this. My only desire is to help my country and my agency in any way possible.”

There was silence on the line. Miller knew he said what he needed to. He knew that the next person who spoke would be capitulating.

“I’m gonna direct that you get whatever support you need. God help me if I’m wrong.”

“Sir, I have always appreciated your friendship and help. I won’t let you down.”

Miller looked down and saw his knuckle bleeding from his involvement with Naseem. He’d do a whole lot more than that if he had to.

C
aitlin called in her one solid. Six months earlier, she had come upon a girl weeping miserably out in front of the Wynn and instead of passing her by—her default mode since breaking up with Grant—she sat down next to the girl. She had no idea why she did this. She asked what the matter was, and, upon hearing the girl’s tale of being turned out as a trick by a boyfriend who deserted her, Caitlin let down her hard-as-nails guise and helped the girl. Tonya was of reasonable intelligence and very even-keeled, despite how Caitlin first met her. She soon found a job working in housekeeping at Harrah’s, and she texted Caitlin just a few weeks ago to tell her she moved to floor supervisor. Caitlin came by and congratulated her. Now she returned, no texts and no calls. She left the phone given to her wedged into the seat of the cab and headed for the service entrance. She hoped the cabby’s next ride took him to the other side of the strip. She was sure Britt would have some way of tracking it.

Caitlin asked for and found Tonya, who gave her a big hug.

She didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “I’m in some big trouble,” she said gravely.

Tonya looked surprised and then steady. “What do you need?”

“Is there a room I can have for a few hours until this all shakes out? One that nobody knows.”

Tonya winked. “Follow me. That’s easy.”

They ran upstairs to the fifth floor—the one for the low rollers—and went to the end of the hall until coming to room 564. Tonya opened it with her master key.

“I’ll say it’s got a maintenance problem.”

“Then won’t the maintenance people come?”

“Don’t worry, girl. I got this. You just get your head straight. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Well, I do.” She waited to see Tonya’s look. It didn’t change.

“Can you have someone get me a cheap phone from Wal-Mart?”

Tonya laughed. “Honey, after what you did for me, I’d do anything for you.” She reached in the pocket of her smock. “Here. It’s fully charged and ready to go. I’ll get the charger from my car and bring it up too.”

Caitlin looked at her. “But you …”

Tonya laughed. “The only people that try to reach me are bill collectors and booty calls. Long as you are okay with that, then you good. I’ll get it later.”

Caitlin shook her head. “Thank you.”

“I still owe you, darling. You saved my life.”

Caitlin watched her go and wondered if maybe she should have reached out to more people. This one had sure been worth it. After Grant, she just shut down. She had no friends, just strictly business. Now, when she couldn’t get to her bank accounts, and all the money she made mattered very little, this was an excellent reminder of how important friends could be.

She texted Grant with the number and a simple “C.” She was nervous and aggravated, and she grew quite surprised Grant hadn’t called her back. She saw all of the times he tried to call her over the last two years. She ignored them all, amazed he was still trying. She assumed, at a time like this, he would jump to be her savior. But he acted almost bewildered. She wondered what she didn’t know. She tried to calm down by reminding herself he was probably on a government plane by now if he was coming out here. Maybe that explained his silence. She hoped that was all.

But she wouldn’t count on it. She trusted him once and look where it got her. She would wait, but she would plan as well.

She figured Britt had spies all over. How much he could contact them right now, she didn’t know, but it was enough to make her want to get the hell out of the city. She had no idea how she was going to do that.

M
andy’s look spoke of annoyance and disapproval. She texted Grant and told him to meet her at the Ritz in Clayton, a few miles from downtown. She then called her contact in Washington and did discover that the president happened to be calling her employee. She hadn’t expected this. She knew Grant somehow stored up an amazing amount of goodwill during his years as an unofficial FBI ambassador from those who didn’t actually have to work with him. She knew it saved his job. She didn’t know it was enough to get a straight line to the leader of the free world. She would have to be more careful in how she played all of this. After all, that was how she leapfrogged him in the FBI hierarchy.

She sat near the door at the Ritz on an uncomfortable-looking leather couch at the edge of the lounge area. The room would normally be filled with a happy hour crowd at this time. However, this wasn’t your ordinary day. There were a couple of older men wearing golfing outfits at the bar and a lonely lady waiting for someone to talk to her and sitting near the piano, which would normally have had someone playing old songs softly.