What Lies Behind (11 page)

Cavort followed the counterterrorism chief out of the conference room, stopping for a moment by the door to say, “Just hang out. I’ll be back in a moment.”

Great
, Sam thought.
Now we have even more questions than answers.

Fletcher stared after them. “What the hell are they up to?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said.

“Well, I’ll tell you something, Doc. I do believe we’re being played.”

“Are you going to play along?”

Fletcher shoved his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched. “I don’t know that I have a choice at this point. If there’s even a hint of the possibility of a terrorist attack, and we didn’t do everything we could to stop it? No. They’re up to something.”

Sam tapped her fingers on the table. “I think you’re absolutely right. They’re being way too up-front. There’s something else going on here, something they aren’t telling us.”

Fletcher grinned. “I knew I liked you, Owens. Always willing to see the dark side of things. I agree, they are setting us up. But for what?”

Sam got up and poured a second cup of coffee. “And why? Why us?”

“Because we don’t matter. We’re expendable. If this operation has been ongoing for over a year? If as much is at stake as they claim? They need someone to throw to the wolves when and if it all goes south. That’s the only reason I can fathom that we’re here, being given the white-glove treatment.”

She knew he was right. It would be easy to put blame on Fletcher’s head in the media if things went south. Hers, too. She was a nobody in this world, easily scapegoated if necessary. She wondered, though, what exactly Girabaldi had planned if John Baldwin had been in the room. Because if there was ever someone who couldn’t be compromised and shot down, it was him.

“These aren’t dumb people. Why in the world do you think they assume we’ll cooperate?” she asked.

“Because they can make my life very difficult if I don’t.”

“Then how are we going to pull this off? Can you run a dual investigation—closing the case on one hand but still investigating?”

“I can, yes. Do I want to? Hell, no. I just got this job, and I like it. I don’t want to get run out on a rail because I’m bending the rules to accommodate State.”

“Will you tell Hart what you’re up to?”

His face stilled. “They asked me not to tell anyone but Armstrong, and I aim to please.”

She saw the message in his eyes:
we’d best not talk here. We don’t know who’s listening.

She nodded once, brief and curt, to let him know she got it.

Outside the glass walls of the conference room, Sam saw heads begin to turn. Television was a fundamental part of every government office, where 24/7 news channels ran continuously. As she watched, several people in the offices across the hall started getting to their feet and staring at the television screens.

Fletcher caught the movement, as well. “Uh-oh. Something’s up.”

“Shall we go see? Are we even allowed? I don’t want to get shouted at for leaving the conference room without an escort.”

“I don’t know why not. What’s the worst that can happen? They ask us to cover up the fact that we left the conference room without authorization?”

She laughed, and they made their way to the nearest television. A huge red banner scrolled along the bottom of the television: Assassination Attempt Thwarted at Teterboro Airport.

Sam felt her heart race. She hurried back into the conference room and grabbed her cell, speed-dialed Xander as she returned to the television. His phone rang unchecked.

Fletcher shot her a glance. “What is it?”

She stared at the TV. “That.”

Xander was crossing the screen, looking exceptionally grim, arms behind his back, being walked toward a building.

“What the hell?” Fletcher asked, then turned to a worker bee standing near him. “What’s happening?”

“The dude in cuffs shot a man at Teterboro.”

“He’s a professional. He didn’t just shoot a man for the fun of it,” Sam snapped, voice hard, and the worker bee paled and nodded.

She tried Xander’s phone again. Nothing. It had been turned off. Not even the voice mail came on.

Oh, God, Xander. What have you gotten yourself into?

Chapter 21

Teterboro
Airport
New Jersey

XANDER FINISHED HIS
story and sat back, taking a long drink of water. Lawhon had taken copious notes; he now read through these, marking bits here and there. After a few minutes, he looked up, eyes bright with excitement.

“Great. This is all great. We’ll be able to craft a media story no one will question. The court of public opinion will be on your side by nightfall, I promise you that.”

“A media story? No. No way. I’m still not comfortable taking this to the media.”

“Xander, trust me. You aren’t going to have a choice. They were swarming the place when I drove up. Footage has leaked on Twitter. You’re already in this, my friend. And the court of public opinion can make or break you.”

The door opened, and Arlen Grant stuck his head in. He looked queasy, like the news he was about to impart had left a bad taste in his mouth. At Lawhon’s gesture, he came in and set Xander’s cell phone and gun on the table gently.

“You’re free to go, Mr. Whitfield.”

Lawhon hopped to his feet. “You aren’t pressing charges?”

Grant shook his head. “They’ve identified the shooter. He’s wanted in a dozen countries. Congratulations, Mr. Whitfield. Seems like you managed to kill a professional assassin who has a serious body count and is on every watch list out there.”

Xander didn’t know whether to be relieved or more worried. If the would-be assassin wasn’t a crazy, and he’d killed a pro, there would be more coming. He thought about the sniper rifle the man was carrying, which was standard issue for the US Army.

“What’s the man’s name? Who is he working for?”

“No idea,” Grant replied. “And who knows what his real name is. He was traveling under a Spanish passport with the name Hector Senza on it. Real picture, but that’s not his real name, or I’ll eat my hat. We’ve contacted the Spanish consulate. So far, they’re disavowing the man.”

Xander stood. “And you’re just letting me go. I can leave, head home, and all is forgotten?”

“Less paperwork that way. Mr. Denon wants a word first. Then yes, you’re free to go. I’m sure the feds will have some questions for you, but I’m done with you. Good luck out there. Try not to kill anyone else.”

And he turned and walked off.

Xander glanced at Sean Lawhon, who looked disappointed, to say the least.

“Good for you, bad for me,” he said with a shrug. “It would have been a great case. I’m not kidding about the media, though. We should make a plan, decide who you’ll talk to, who you’ll do interviews with.”

“That would be no one. There’s no way. I can’t go out there and drum up publicity, not with what I do. And I certainly don’t want to put a bigger target on myself than is already there.”

“Target?”

“If Grant is right, and this Senza character is an established pro, I killed someone’s pet. I doubt that will go over well. These are the type of people who hold a grudge, and won’t stop until they get their revenge. Chances are, whoever took the contract out on Mr. Denon will try again. And then they’ll come for me, too.”

“You don’t think you’re exaggerating a bit?”

Xander shook his head. “No, I don’t. I’ve lived in this world for a very long time. I’ve carried a gun by my side day and night for the past eighteen years. I know how they think, and I know how serious they are. Denon has enemies. And now, so do I.”

Lawhon paled a bit. “You keep my card in case anything else goes down. You may still need some media training. You’re going to be approached by all the networks. I’d be happy—”

“Sean, no offense, but I won’t be giving any interviews. All I want is to get back to D.C. I can handle the media from there.”

Lawhon shook Xander’s hand. “Luck to you, then. If you need a proxy, you give me a call. It was good to meet you, Xander Moon.” He grinned, lifted his bag and grandfather’s pen and left, as well.

Xander took a deep breath, picked up his phone. It had been turned off. God knew what they’d done to it. He didn’t want to be paranoid, but it was possible there was tracking software newly installed, allowing the New Jersey Staties to watch his every move. For the moment, he didn’t care. The call would be expected; if he didn’t make it, they’d know he was onto them. He dialed Sam, and she answered on the first ring.

“Xander. Thank God. Are you okay? You’re all over television.”

Great. So it had already begun.

“Hi, babe. I’m all right. It’s all a big misunderstanding. They’ve just released me. I’m going to get back down to D.C. before anyone changes their mind.”

“What happened?”

“Not on the phone, okay? It hasn’t been with me the whole time.”

“Ah.”

He heard her intake of breath, sent up a prayer of thanks that he’d found himself an extremely intelligent woman who understood his world so completely.

“Give me two hours,” he said. “Meet me at the house?”

“I’ll do my best. Baldwin called me in on a case. I can’t talk about
it
, either,” she said wryly.

“All right. Keep in touch, should anything change. I love you. See you soon.”

He hung up, feeling much calmer. Her voice did that to him. Level-headed, strong, smart. God, he wished she’d agree to marry him already. He made up his mind to pursue this line of thought the moment he was home and she was home and this whole mess was over. Took his cell phone apart, removed the battery and sim card. He tossed the battery in the trash can, pocketed the remaining pieces and stepped out into the corridor.

Grant was standing anxiously by the door, a grimace on his lean face. Xander realized this was the man’s standard look, like the world was coming to an end.

“Mr. Denon’s waiting.”

I bet he is
, Xander thought. “Thank you. Is he...?”

“There’s a plane on the tarmac.”

“Ah. I see. Well.” He strode past Grant without further comment. There was a small Gulfstream outside the glass doors, stairs lowered. Chalk was at the base of them. His face lit up when he saw Xander. Slapped him on the back and said, low, “Get the fuck on the plane already, before they change their minds.”

Xander climbed the stairs two at a time, Chalk on his heels. He pulled up the stairs and the door closed with a
thunk
.

James Denon was inside the plane, sitting midcabin. His three-person team, looking startled, were scattered through the back of the plane. They eyed Xander with everything from fear to awe. He nodded at them, then took a seat. Chalk sat opposite him, and they were wheels up in another two minutes. Xander began breathing again, not realizing he’d been holding his breath.

What a morning.

Denon pulled a decanter out of the wall, and three glasses. Poured, handed them out. It was a fine single-malt; Xander recognized it as one of Sam’s favorites—Lagavulin.

Xander tipped his glass toward the two men and threw the whiskey against the back of his throat. Set the glass down. “Thanks. Now. Someone want to tell me who the hell Hector Senza is, and where we’re going?”

Denon smiled. “Relax. I’m flying you back to D.C. I’ve arranged for another plane to take us back tomorrow. In light of what happened, Mr. Worthington felt it best I alter my plans. It will give my people in the UK time to make contingency arrangements.”

“It might give the people who are trying to kill you time to set up another attack, too,” Chalk said. “But it’s worth the risk, I think.”

“Perhaps.” He toyed idly with a napkin. Denon was distinctly less cheerful now than he was this morning. It was all sinking in. Almost dying did that to a man. “But now that we know someone wants me dead, I can approach my security a little differently.”

He waved his hand at the small contingent with him. Xander ran their names through his head. Louis Bebbington, chief financial officer of Denon Industries; George Everson, the IT guru; and Maureen Heedles, Denon’s head of research. Bebbington was a numbers geek through and through, down to the thin tie and too-tight pants, a particularly British style choice. He and Heedles were middle-aged; Everson was younger, African-American,
a dapper lad
, as Denon had called him when they first met. Heedles was the more interesting of the three to look at—she had smartly styled ash-brown hair, which framed her face well, and one brown eye and one blue, a remarkably distinct heterochromia. All three were quiet and subdued, talking softly among themselves while their boss sat with his new bodyguards. The idea that he might have been killed, and that someone had orchestrated it, had clearly frightened them all.

Xander wondered what process Denon used to decide who would be by his side when he traveled, and made a note to look into the backgrounds of the three people sitting behind him. They were all trusted members of the company. Denon prized privacy above all things, strictly controlling his interviews and appearances, and Xander knew you had to be the best at what you did to score a spot on his team. Denon expected, and received, the top efforts from everyone around him, at all times. And he had to be on his guard against anyone who might slack off, or betray him, or leak information or mess up in the slightest.

It was an exhausting way to live, a life Xander couldn’t imagine wanting.

He didn’t see any reason to beat around the bush. “We did a full threat assessment before you came and saw nothing that seemed out of place. You certainly have upset some people in your time, but I didn’t see anything active. Do you have any idea who might have a contract out on you, Mr. Denon? And who would know your movements, and that we were involved in your protection?”

Chalk shook his head slightly, and Xander tried to rein in his temper. He was boiling mad, he realized suddenly—furious and upset and trying like hell to remember his training and shove the anger down into his boot heel, because he couldn’t let anything ruffle him, not now. He knew it was the aftermath of the morning’s escapades, and frustration at nearly being beaten. It would pass soon enough. Adrenaline did wonky things to your system after a shooting. He knew that from too many rooftops, too many triggers pulled. He took a breath.

“I’m sorry, sir. We’d prepared for every contingency for your protection, went through every checklist, and there was nothing on the street about a contract. The state cop, Grant, told me the man was traveling on a Spanish passport. You piss off someone in Spain?”

Denon nodded. “Probably. I piss people off everywhere, Mr. Whitfield. It’s part of my job. I don’t know who was behind this. But I trust I can keep you and Mr. Worthington—”

“Sir, please. Trey, or Chalk. Mr. Worthington is my father.”

“Trey, then. I’d like to keep you two on. Hopefully you can find out who has it in for me.”

Xander narrowed his eyes at the man. “Not that we don’t appreciate the vote of confidence, but wouldn’t your own security services be better equipped for this kind of investigation, sir?”

Denon shook his head and smiled sadly. He leaned in so he wouldn’t be overheard. “Unfortunately, gentlemen, I’m afraid my instincts tell me this is something best kept out of house. And since you’ve proven your loyalty to me in such a spectacular fashion... Well.”

Xander met Chalk’s eyes. He was right—Denon suspected the attack had come from within.

“All right, sir. We can do that. We’ll get on it right away.”

“Thank you,” he said softly.

Xander grabbed a cocktail napkin and wrote a note to Denon.

Is there someone on the plane you suspect?

He passed it over, and Denon’s eyebrows hiked up to his hairline. But he pulled a fountain pen from his shirt pocket, wrote on the napkin and pushed it back.

No. Never. These three are the ones I’d trust with my life.

Xander showed Chalk the napkin. He nodded, pulled out his laptop, began to type. Xander knew he was backgrounding the people on the plane. Sometimes the people closest to you were the ones you should trust the least.

Xander folded the napkin and put it in his pocket. Denon was eyeing him, whether impressed by his astuteness or something else, he didn’t know.

Keep your enemies close. Denon was either crazy or brave, he wasn’t sure which.

He cast a glance toward the back of the plane. Louis Bebbington, George Everson and Maureen Heedles. Trusted associates. Scared to death. How many people did Denon employ? And did any of them hold a grudge? This wasn’t going to be an easy case, he knew it.

“I need to chill for a minute. Don’t mind me.” Xander tossed back some more Scotch, then settled back into the leather, and shut his eyes for a minute, resetting.

He wasn’t kidding Sean Lawhon. There were going to be repercussions. To the shooting, to protecting Denon. He needed to make a few plans of his own—how to protect himself and Sam, and the fragile world they lived in.

He’d killed a killer. Word would get out.