Betrayal (22 page)

A voice to his left broke the silence. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was just getting out of the limo from Dulles when the story hit Headline News, so I stayed in the car to watch the whole report.”

Stuart must share a bloodline with Houdini, Wiley concluded, vexed at being caught yet again unawares. “What story?”

Stuart arched his eyebrows behind his rimless silver spectacles. “Abrams is dead.”

The news hit Wiley like a bat to the chest. This time he didn’t have a drink to spill, but he almost would have welcomed that momentary distraction. Abrams’ death might mark the end of his presidential aspirations. Hell, he thought, it might even signify something worse than that. Much worse. Although he had not received a video and ultimatum like Rollins and Abrams, Wiley could not rule out the possibility that one of the victims had exposed his involvement. He knew that the wise move was to assume as much. He gulped involuntarily. With Abrams dead, the odds were fifty-fifty that his was the next name on the list. With a dry throat, he asked, “Was it another bomb?”

Stuart nodded, and then added, “There’s more. An unidentified woman was also killed in the explosion.”

Wiley felt an arctic chill sweep over the desert in his mouth. “Cassi?”

“It could be. I don’t know.”

Wiley studied Stuart’s face and decided that he was telling the truth. He really did not know. “I don’t think it’s her,” Wiley said. “Odi wouldn’t kill his own sister. Of that I am totally sure. Still, accidents do happen. I better call to find out.”

As Wiley reached into his breast pocket for his cell phone, Stuart’s arm shot forward fast as a cobra strike to grab his wrist. “Not now. You are about to receive a very important call.” Stuart stared at Wiley until he got it.
 

“Your meeting went well?”

“Excellent.”

“Tell me.”

“In a word, he’s perfect.”

Wiley arched his eyebrows in appreciation. Stuart was hardly predisposed to superlative compliments.

“Ayden has brains and charisma and a deep-seated hatred seething within. He could easily be the next Bin Laden—given a little guidance, and the proper financial backing.”

“And he’s about to call me?”

“In precisely two minutes. As you requested, I have arranged for the two of you to meet. This call is to work out the details.”

Wiley felt dizzy, as though the air pressure had changed in the room. This was it, he realized, capital I, capital T. He had been committed before but this took his campaign to a whole new level. By personally conspiring with a terrorist, he would be crossing a different kind of line, entering a whole new level of the political game. There were only two doors at the end of that road. One led to the Oval Office, the other to the electric chair.

“It’s the only way—now that Abrams is gone.” Stuart said, reading Wiley’s face.

Wiley expected Stuart to pull a voice recorder from his pocket and play his “Whatever it takes” quote. But he didn’t. He just added, “Picture the plane.”

Air Force One immediately popped into Wiley’s head. He hated the fact that Stuart read him so well. Air Force One was the image to which he fell asleep every night—that open door and staircase with the red carpet and presidential seal. Still, he had a pretty darn good life already. Given the increasing possibility of door number two, Air Force One was no longer enough.

Before he could say no, Stuart continued. “Ayden is not only the best chance we have of catching Odi. He is also the perfect man to coordinate the future terrorist attacks. We need someone like him, now that Abrams is dead.”

Wiley was about to concur when his phone began to ring. He looked down at it and then over at Stuart. “One door closes and another one opens …”

Chapter 36

Annapolis, Maryland

C
ASSI
POURED
THE
last drops of Barolo into the hotel’s oversized wineglass. Then she lit a fresh candle with the remains of the first and plopped back down into the tub. She knew she should have been working out rather than drinking to relieve her stress, but the room-service menu had been at hand, while both energy and willpower had seemed well beyond her reach.
 

She took another sip as Andrea Bocelli’s
Viaggio Italiano
began its third repeat and contemplated adding more hot water to the cooling tub. Her marathon of indulgence had thus far yielded neither rest nor peace and she did not relish the thought of seeing her breasts prune, but she had neither the energy nor the desire to move.

Both of her charges were gone now. Dead. Caput. Rollins and Abrams had quite literally been blown to bits—as had her career. A week ago, she would have considered this the worst thing that could possibly happen. Now the anticipation of being fired in disgrace barely raised her pulse. Odi’s bomb had done more than break bones and boil flesh; it had shattered her faith.

The ring of her mobile phone eclipsed Andrea’s swooning voice, and Cassi looked over her shoulder to give the intruding device a forlorn stare. That would be Wiley, she thought, calling to inform her that she was fired. He would apologize for using the phone, explaining that the folks in public relations could not wait. For the good of the Bureau, they had to be swift and decisive and all that, blah, blah, blah. She decided to let voicemail take the call. That would make it easier on both of them. If she ever emerged from the tub, she would text message her resignation.

She drained the last sip from her glass as she waited for voicemail to kick-in. This was the first time in her life that she had drunk a whole bottle of wine. Staring at the bottom of the glass, she realized that she would be screwed if Wiley chose not to leave a message. She would never be able to get to sleep then despite the Barolo’s depressive effect. She would just lie there staring at the phone, willing it to emit a dreaded ring. She decided to get it over with now, while the wine was still rendering its full numbing effect.

“Hello.”

“Cassi?”

The voice was unusually weak but intimately familiar. She nearly dropped the phone in the tub. “Odi, oh my God.”

“Thank God you’re alive. I was so scared.”

“Odi, what are you … why …how could you do this? Why are you doing this? To them, to me, oh my God, I—”

“I can’t explain that now. But I can explain it later. You’re just going to have to trust me on this. I’m a patriot Sis, don’t doubt it. Despite all appearances I have not changed.”

Cassi got out of the tub but didn’t towel off. She wanted the sobering effect of the chill, and she wanted to pace. “I love you Odi, you’re a good man. Fight the evil. You’re sick. You need help. Let me help you. Just tell me where to meet you, one-on-one. I’ll—”

“I can’t do that. Not yet. There’s something I need to do first.”

“Odi, you mus—”

“I love you, Sis.”

Chapter 37

Chesapeake Beach, Maryland

O
DI
PACED
BEFORE
his computer screen, waiting for Ayden to come online. He was in a hurry to get to the lab, but he had to get this out of the way first. Brewing Creamer safely required absolute concentration, and he knew that would not be possible until after they spoke.

During a contemplative walk, he had found a pink rubber ball on the beach. He gave it a thousandth bounce against the kitchen’s linoleum floor. He was not panicked anymore, not now that he knew Cassi was alive. But he was still upset that Ayden’s friend had caused collateral damage. He needed to know who the dead woman was—or more appropriately, who she had been.

His fingers flew from the ball to the keyboard the second the ta-dong announced Ayden’s arrival on-line. “Your friend pulled it off, but a woman was also killed. Did she tell you what happened?”

“Abrams requested the company of an escort for the evening from his usual service.”

“So the dead woman was a prostitute,” Odi thought out loud, his fingers poised motionless above the keys. A desperate life had met an unfortunate end. The thought made Odi sad until he considered the caliber of woman a billionaire would choose to buy. It would not be a destitute drug addict or a white slave. She would be someone Abrams could pretend was a date. She would be a classy-looking educated girl—polished, refined ... and very highly paid. Prostitution would be the life she chose.

That deduction took the edge off Odi’s pain, but he still felt terrible that a bystander was now dead. Then Ayden sent a follow-up message that stole Odi’s breath.

“My friend paid the girl to take her place.”

Odi stared at the last sentence. This had gone from bad to worse—with a very unexpected twist. He typed, “A suicide bomber?”

“It’s not what you think. She was an old friend of mine from the Peace Corps, a beautiful, brilliant woman—with an inoperable tumor.”

Ayden did not add further detail. He must have figured—correctly—that Odi could fill in the rest. As a man who had risked his life for others hundreds of times, Odi understood the oxymoronic serenity that one derived from being willing to die for a cause. He was about to ask how Ayden knew about Abram’s penchant for escorts when Ayden surprised him yet again. “How do you feel?”

 
The question struck a chord and Odi typed an honest response without thinking. “I thought I’d feel a sense of satisfaction, accomplishment and relief once the CEOs were dead. But the truth is, I don’t. I just feel dirty.”

Ayden’s reply came back surprisingly fast. “That’s because you haven’t wrought any permanent change.”

Odi stared at Ayden’s words, unsure how to react. Eventually he typed, “How can you say that?”

“There’s an endless supply of people with equally-dismal moral fiber lined up for those CEO slots. The day after tomorrow they will be back to business as usual at Defcon4, Rollins, and ASIS. To create lasting change you have to be more creative. You have to think big picture …”

Chapter 38

Washington, D.C.

“W
HERE
WAS
THE
bloody orange phone?” Wiley cursed as he inspected the hissing labyrinth. Embarrassing as it was to admit, he had never before ridden the Washington Metro. Was the Orange Phone something all regular Metro users would know, like the Green Monster at Fenway park? It was worth a try. He said “Excuse me,” to a well-dressed young man walking past with a lawyer’s briefcase. “Do you know where I can find the orange phone?”

The man said, “Try Toys-R-Us,” without slowing his stride.

Wiley raised his arm and said, “Thanks.”

The three payphones visible from the base of the F-Street escalator all appeared to be the standard stainless steel and black. Was he missing something? He repeated Ayden’s order again to himself from memory. “Use the F Street entrance to Metro Center. At precisely six o’clock, approach the orange phone. I’ll instruct you further on our meet.”

Approach the orange phone, Wiley repeated. That seemed unambiguous enough.

Given the simplicity of this mundane meet, he was beginning to appreciate the strain that sophisticated deep cover ops must put on his men. He was starting to lose it and he was the bloody Director of the FBI. By the same token, Ayden must be a wreck.