The Committee (24 page)

Gideon looked startled. “You mean a contract hit?”

“Yes, sir.”

Detective Guthrie continued speaking, but Gideon could only hear Hattie's warning from the night before.
“She's going to try to kill you today,”
Hattie had said after waking from the nightmare
. “It's a woman, and I think it might be Camille Hardaway. She's going to descend from the air. Listen to me, son. Your life may depend on it.”

“If what you said earlier about you being the actual target is correct,” Detective Guthrie continued, “then when they find out they shot the wrong person, I think it's reasonable to assume they will try again.”

As the detective spoke, a nurse approached. “Mr. Truman,” she said ignoring the officer, “Danny is in ICU now. You can see him, but only for a few minutes. Please follow me.”

Gideon was eager to see Danny, and also to end the interview with Detective Guthrie. “Do you have any more questions, detective?”

“I do, but it can wait. One last thing, though, it's clear that you are in danger. I suggest you either leave the city for a while, or if you're not able to, please consider hiring private security, at least for a while.”

“Thank you. I'll consider it. You know how to reach me. Please call if you have more questions.”

Gideon didn't wait for a response as he followed the nurse through the waiting room and down a long corridor.

The nurse paused in front of a set of double doors at the end of the hall. “Don't be alarmed when you see him, Mr. Truman. It looks worse than he actually is. Dr. Banks is one of the best neurosurgeons in the country. Danny was very fortunate he was available. Please limit your visit to a few minutes.” The nurse pushed open one of the doors and stepped aside.

Gideon was greeted with the familiar steady beep of the electrocardiogram attached to Danny's chest. The
beep . . . beep . . . beep
sliced to his core. It meant the love of his life was tittering precariously between life and death. The neon green line formed jagged peaks and valleys with each beat of his heart. Gideon's pulse fell in sync as he approached the bed.

A nurse and doctor stood at each side of the bed checking wires and IVs running from Danny's skull, arms, mouth, and chest to an orchestra of blinking, beeping, and purring machines. White gauze with remnants of blood formed a turban around his head.

The nurse and doctor gave Gideon a comforting smile and walked past him to the door. “It's very important that he not move, Mr. Truman,” the nurse said. “Please don't touch him. I'll be right outside the door if you need me.”

Gideon moved closer and placed his hand on the bed only a fraction of an inch away from Danny's. His breathing was labored and eyelids fluttered as if he were in the deepest state of REM sleep.

“Hello, baby,” Gideon said softly. “I'm here.”

Danny slowly opened his eyes when he heard the familiar voice.

“Don't move, honey. The nurse said you have to stay still.”

“What happened?” Danny asked weakly.

A tear dropped from Gideon's eye. “You were shot, baby. In our pool this morning.”

Danny looked puzzled. “Shot by who?”

Gideon leaned in to Danny's ear and whispered, “I don't know for sure yet, but I promise you, baby, when I find out who did this I'm going to destroy her.”

The funeral service for Sheridan Hardaway was held that morning at New Testament Cathedral. The 25,000-seat crystal cathedral was filled from the top row down to the front of the sanctuary. The structure was considered a jewel on the landscape of the city. Ten stories of jutting walls constructed of 500,000 rectangular panes of glass woven together by threads of steel formed a patchwork quilt of light and blue sky.

Camille sat on the front row dressed in black from the birdcage veil and waist-length Armani tortoise-button jacket and skirt to the lambskin gloves and Jimmy Choo pumps. Tony Christopoulos sat nervously to her left staring blankly ahead at the mahogany coffin. Camille asked him to sit with her. He was the only person she trusted to be at her side at a time like this.

“Sheridan liked you, Tony,” she told him on the telephone the night before. “He would want you to be on the front row with me.”

The voice of a baritone soloist filled the sanctuary.

Camille dabbed a tear at the corner of her eye. Yes, she killed him, but she did love him. She loved standing next to him at the podium on the steps of city hall. She relished the hundreds of times they appeared together on the covers of magazines and front pages of newspapers. Nevertheless, it didn't make up for the betrayal.

Her life changed in the time it took to strike the match and light the candle. She didn't shoot Sheridan or stab him in the heart, but the method was irrelevant. What mattered was she killed her husband, and, sitting somberly with the eyes of the world focused on her head, she felt a hint of remorse.

Do you or don't you want to be president?
Camille silently questioned. There was no point in waiting for a response. The answer was always yes.
Then this is the price that must be paid.

The words Gillette said on the night she lit the candle echoed in her mind.
In order to get what you want, you have to give up something you love.
Sheridan, of all people, would understand this fundamental truth. After all, he had given up her trust and love in exchange for profit.

Camille was introduced to a world of power she, and the rest of the world, never knew existed. Lazarus Hearst controlled her destiny, and Gillette controlled her soul. She decided on the morning the call came from the police chief the right decision had been made. Her husband, her soul, and her destiny were fair exchange for the office of the president of the United States. Her initial feelings were confirmed while sitting in front of the coffin. Remorse was brushed aside, and only hope for a powerful and bright future remained.

I'm sorry, darling,
she said to Sheridan.
I had no other choice. If you were alive I'm sure you would understand.

The baritone sang only for Camille.

Tony's knee bobbed up and down nervously. Camille touched his arm reassuringly and whispered, “It's going to be all right, Tony. You and I are going to be fine. Let's just get through this.”

Tony found no comfort in the words. He could feel Lazarus's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.
I doubt he's here,
he thought,
but I know he's watching.
He could feel the weight of the ever-present cell phone in his pocket.
Please don't vibrate. Not here. Not now.

Tony couldn't help but acknowledge the very real possibility it could be him lying in a coffin next. Lazarus would no longer require his services. Camille would find out about his relationship with her dead husband or learn of his involvement with KeyCorp Development. It didn't matter which happened first. He was a dead man in all possible scenarios.

The organ chords bounced off the glass walls amplifying the already-palpable grief in the sanctuary.

 

 

The Learjet soared over the Grand Canyon. Karen rested in the plush leather seat. The Committee made her a millionaire ten times over, but her family lived on her husband's $348,000-a-year salary from the Department of Homeland Security.

Karen typed a message on a server accessed only by Lazarus Hearst and Gillette Lemaitre.
“Mission accomplished,” it said. “Will wait for next assignment.”

The cryptic response appeared immediately on the screen.
“Accomplished?”

Karen looked puzzled. She paused for a moment, then typed,
“Yes, accomplished. The target has been neutralized.”

Moments passed with no hint of a reply. Then the shocking words appeared.
“We are very disappointed in you.”

Disappointed?
Karen had never seen or heard the word used in connection to anything she touched in her life. The doting mother. The attentive wife. The elegant hostess. The perfect soldier and flawless killing machine.
Disappointed?

Karen was mystified.
“Please clarify,”
she tapped.

At that moment the cabin door slowly opened and Angel cautiously looked out.

“Do not disturb me!” Karen snapped before Angel could take the first step. “Turn around and close the door now if you value your life.”

The cabin door quickly closed. All that could be heard was the clicking of the lock and the purr of the plane engine.

There still was no reply on the screen.
“Again, please explain,”
she implored with a flash of fingers across the keyboard.

The notion of failure had still not entered her mind. The concept was too foreign for her to grasp.

Then the words appeared.

The green letters on the glowing screen hit her between the eyes as if they were fired from her own custom-made Glock at close range. She blinked to adjust her eyes.
It must be the lights in here,
she thought as she reread the words.

Karen's hands began to shake as she raised them over the keyboard. The only response she could form was,
“Not possible. The kill was confirmed.”

The reply came quickly.

“Report from LAPD source is Danny St. John was the victim, and he is still alive as well. Return to your cover immediately and await further instructions. Conversation is over.”
The screen went black at the moment her cell phone rang. She closed the laptop and picked up her phone from the table.

“Mommy?”

“Hello, honey,” she said barely containing her trembling vocal chords. “I'll be home a few—”

“The game is in three hours. Is Consuelo taking me?” Nelson interjected with a hint of irritation.

“No, I'll be home long before then.”

“Good. She doesn't understand the game very well.”

“How was school today?” she asked, teetering precariously between loving mother and cold-blooded killer. “I'm sorry I wasn't there to take you this morning.”

“That's okay. Consuela took us.”

“Where is Winnie?”

“She's in the solarium doing her homework.”

Karen loved the thrill of the hunt, the kill, the weight of the rifle on her shoulder, the smell of a recently fired weapon. But the rush was always tempered by the guilt of missing even a single moment of her children's lives. She ached at the thought of Winnie sitting alone in the solarium doing her homework and Nelson worrying Mommy wouldn't make his soccer match.

“Tell Winnie I'll be home soon and we'll bake her cupcakes for school after your game. I love you. Make sure you're ready when I get there. And remember, nana and pawpaw are coming to visit tonight, so please make sure your room is clean.”

“I will,” Nelson grumbled.

“I love you, honey,” Karen said.

“I love you too, Mommy.”

The song caused tears to flow from almost everyone in the auditorium during the funeral service. No one was immune to the sorrow of the grieving, beautiful widow.

Lazarus sat quietly in an office on the second floor of Headquarters. A cigarette burned in an ashtray on the desk. He watched the mahogany coffin on an eighty-inch monitor mounted across the room.

“Camille looks lovely,” came the voice of Isadore Montgomery from sources unknown. “Love the birdcage veil. Nice touch.”

“Always the fashion critique,” Lazarus said with a smile.

“Is this the work of The Surgeon?” asked Robert Irvin, the second disembodied voice in the room.

“No. Looks like it, but it wasn't.”

“Then who? Have you hired another assassin?” Isadore asked.

“No. Gillette and Camille handled this one.”

“Camille?” Robert responded with surprise. “How?”

“The candle.”

“Excellent,” Isadore said. “She belongs to us.”

“There is no doubt she'll be president,” Robert interjected.

“No, boys. There is no doubt now,” was Lazarus's definitive reply.

Camille gracefully dabbed another tear she managed to squeeze free.

 

 

Hattie fell to her knees on the kitchen floor, the wind sucked from her lungs. A bolt of pain shot up her leg on impact.

“No!” she cried out. “No, Lord, not again.”

She saw the dark angel in the window above her sink. Its wings clapped in victory as it burst into the air from the depths of a turbulent sea. It soared high over the city and disappeared from Hattie's sight into the clouds.

“It's her,” Hattie gasped. “I know it's her.”

Hattie struggled to her feet and made her way to the telephone hanging on the wall. She furiously dialed Gideon's number. The phone rang three times before greeting her with, “This is Gideon Truman. Please leave a message.”

Hattie pressed the button hard and dialed again.

“This is Gideon Truman. Please leave a message.”

“Gideon, this is Hattie,” she said still breathless. “Call me, baby. I need to hear your voice.”

Hattie walked slowly to the kitchen table and collapsed into the plastic upholstered chair. She placed a hand on the Bible and opened it. The thin, translucent pages flapped open and fell randomly to Revelation 13.

She read in horror.
“And I stood upon the sand of the sea, and saw a beast rise up out of the sea, having seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns, and upon his heads the name of blasphemy.”

Hattie clasped her mouth with a trembling hand and prayed out loud, “Give me strength, Lord, to stop this evil.”

 

 

It was a postcard-perfect Southern California day. The sun reflected off the glassy surface of the Pacific Ocean and covered Dober Stadium in a warm embrace. Snowy white seagulls pirouetted and danced in uniform as if their synchronized maneuvers were choreographed especially for the momentous occasion.

It was opening day at the new Dober Stadium, and every one of the 175,000 seats were filled with citizens who had waited anxiously for a year and a half to be the first to see the Dobers play in their new home. A tangible hum of chatter, laughter, and sporadic bursts of applause and cheers filled the air. Concessionaires shoveled hot dogs, salted pretzels, peanuts, and goo-covered nachos by the ton over counters to the ravenous hordes.

The arena was built in record time. It was exactly twelve months to the day since Camille plunged a gold shovel into the ground with her black Christian Louboutin pumps and declared to the world, “Doberman Stadium is officially under construction.”

She now stood triumphantly in front of the feverish crowd. “This is a great day for the city of Los Angeles,” her amplified voice echoed off the surrounding hills. “Thanks to all of you, our beloved Dobermans have a home that will be theirs for generations to come.”

The fans leaped to their feet and burst into hoots, applause, whistles, and fist pumps in the air. Camille stood firmly behind home base. Her red Giuseppe Zanotti sneakers were the first ever to leave prints in the freshly smoothed clay. Locks of coiffed hair spilled from beneath the Doberman baseball cap she wore proudly. The only things separating her from the adoring mass were the 100,000 square feet of Bermuda grass, a cordless microphone, and the brim of the cap.

“They said it couldn't be done!” she shouted. “And we said . . .” Camille held the microphone up and pointed it to the audience who chanted in unison, “Yes, we can!”