First Daughter (15 page)

He was her only connection to the outside world, to life. "Don't leave me alone!" she wailed. "I don't care what you do to me, I'll
never
tell you about Emma," she said through her tears.

"Quite the little loyalist, aren't you?" His voice came from the darkness. "No matter. As it happens, I already know all I need to know about Emma McClure."

She felt a wave of nausea as her terror ratcheted up.

"No, no! Please!"

She wanted to shrink into the chair, to disappear like him, but she remained in the cone of light. She hung her head, the blood pounding in her temples.

"What is it?" Kray said, his voice suddenly soft. "I'm a reasonable man. Tell me."

She shook her head. Her fear clouded her eyes.

Kray stepped into the light. "Alli, please speak to me." His features took on a rueful cast. "It's not my fault. You forced me to frighten you. I didn't want to, believe me."

For a moment, utter stillness held her in its grip; then she began to weep, her breath fluttering like a spent leaf. "I need . . . I need to go to the bathroom."

Kray expelled a tender laugh. "Why didn't you say so?"

He unstrapped her from the chair, and she whimpered.

"There," he said.

She stared at him, wide-eyed, so stunned, her brain refused to function.

He brought over a bedpan.

"This can't be happening," she said more to herself than to him. "I won't." She was sobbing and begging all at once. "I
can't
."

He stood in front of her, arms crossed like a corrections officer, detached, observant, his smoke-colored eyes on hers.

"Please!"
she begged. "Don't look. Please, please, please turn away. I'll be good, I promise."

Slowly, he turned his back on her.

Stillness overcame her then, as her mind tried to accommodate. But it was so hard. Each time she thought she had a handle on her new reality, it turned upside down: good was evil, kindness was pain, black was white. She felt dizzy, alone, isolated. Terror crept into her bones, freezing the marrow. But, oh, her bladder would burst unless she peed, peed right now! But she couldn't.

"Emma didn't tell you a thing." She was trembling, the muscles in her thighs jumping wildly. "How do you know about me and Bark?"

"I'll tell you, Alli, because I like you. I want you to trust me. I know because there was a microphone in your dorm room. When you confessed to Emma, you were also confessing to me."

Alli closed her eyes. At last, head bowed, shivering, she let go, the sound like rain spattering a tin roof.

T
HE
POTUS and Secretary Paull sat together in the backseat of the president's heavily armored limo on the way from the White House to where Air Force One was waiting to take the president and his small party to Moscow to meet with the Russian president, Yukin. In the briefcase that straddled the president's knees was the Black File Paull had provided, proof that Yukin's handpicked head of the state-owned RussOil was his still-active ex-KGB assassin.

The president could have taken Marine One, his helicopter, to the airfield but with its privacy shield between the passenger compartment and the driver, the limo provided absolute privacy, something with which the president, in the waning weeks of his Administration, had become obsessed.

"This abduction business," the president said, "how is it progressing?"

"We're following every lead," Paull said noncommittally.

"Ach, Dennis, let's call a spade a spade, shall we?" The president stared out the bulletproof smoked-glass window. "We've been blessed with a bit of great good luck. This business, unfortunate as it may be
for the Carsons—and God knows every day I pray for that young woman's safe release—has provided us with the excuse we need to excise the missionary secularists—
all
of them." He turned back, his eyes burning with the fire of the devout. "What I want to know is why hasn't that already happened?"

"The president-elect's agent—Jack McClure—has been following a very promising lead."

"Well, you see, Dennis, now you've just put your finger on the nub of the problem."

Paull shook his head. "I don't understand, sir," he said, though he was quite certain he was reading the president all too well.

"It appears to me that Jack McClure is gumming up the works."

"Sir, I believe he's on to a lead that could bring us Alli Carson's abductor. I was under the impression that our first priority was her safe return."

"Have you forgotten our previous discussion, Dennis? Give the order to Hugh Garner, and let's get on with it. By the time I return from Moscow, I want the First American Secular Revivalists in custody. Then I'll address the nation with the evidence he'll have trumped up from his FSB security force."

"I'll inform Garner as soon as you board your flight, sir," Paull said with a heavy heart. He wondered how he was going to finesse this ugly—and quite illegal—situation the president had dropped into his lap. At the moment, he saw no alternative to turning Garner loose on the FASR, but he held out hope that if he insisted that Jack McClure assist in the operation, the president-elect's man could find a way to mitigate the damage. Of course, that would put McClure squarely in everyone's line of fire. He'd take the heat if he got in Garner's face, but that couldn't be helped. Agents in the field were designed to deal with whatever heat was thrown at them. Besides, McClure was expendable; Paull's agent in the Secret Service wasn't.

During the secretary's ruminations, the limo had arrived at Andrews
Air Force Base. Paull, who had been debating all morning whether or not to bring up an extremely delicate subject, finally made his decision as the presidential limo rolled to a stop on the tarmac twelve yards from the near-side wing of Air Force One.

"Sir, before you leave, I have a duty to inform you . . ."

"Yes?" The president's bright, freshly scrubbed face seemed blank, his thoughts already thousands of miles away in bleak, snow-driven Moscow. He was, no doubt, licking his chops at the prospect of putting Yukin in his place.

"Nightwing missed his last rendezvous." Nightwing was the government's most productive deep-cover asset.

"When was that scheduled for?" the president snapped.

"Ten days ago," Paull replied just as crisply.

"Dennis, why on earth are you telling me this moments before I leave for Moscow?"

"He missed his backup dates four days ago and yesterday, sir. I felt it prudent not to bother you before this, hoping that Nightwing would surface. He hasn't."

"Frankly, Dennis, with your plate so full, I don't understand why you're even bothering with this."

"Assets are a tricky lot, sir. We ask them to do a lot of dodgy things—wet work. There's a certain psychology to people who kill without remorse. They tend to think of themselves as the center of the universe. This is what makes them successful, it's what keeps them going. But I've seen it happen before—every once in a while some developmental aspect becomes arrested. Their urge to be someone—to be special, to become known—overrides their self-discipline."

"What is this, psychology one-oh-one?" the president said testily.

"Sir, I want to make my position clear. When an asset's self-discipline disappears, he becomes nothing more than a serial killer."

The president's hand was on the door handle. His expression revealed that he already had one foot on Russian soil. "I'm quite certain
that isn't the case with Nightwing. My goodness, he's been an invaluable asset for upwards of thirty years now. Nothing's changed, I assure you. Stop jumping at shadows. I'm quite certain there's a good reason for his silence." He smiled reassuringly. "Concentrate on the missionary secularists. Let Nightwing take care of himself."

T
HE TROUBLE
with the president's suggestion," Paull said, "is that no asset—even one as productive and, therefore, sacrosanct as Nightwing—should be allowed to be so independent. In my opinion, that's a recipe for lawlessness and, ultimately, the corruption of basic moral principles."

"The president came to see me." Some wavering spark inside Louise's mind had roused her from her stupor. "Isn't that nice?"

"Very nice, darling."

Paull sat with his wife on the glassed-in porch of the facility where she lived. He could feel the radiant heat coming up through the flag-stone floor.

"Daddy," she said, "where am I?"

"Home, darling." Paull squeezed her hand. "You're home."

At this, Louise smiled blankly, lapsed back into her mysterious inner world. Paull stared at her face. The dementia had not dimmed a beauty that still made his heart ache. But now there was this glass wall between them, this horrifying divide he could not bridge no matter how hard he tried. She was as lost to him as she was to herself. He couldn't bear the thought, and so as he'd done before, he'd come and talk to her as if she were the close confidante she never could have been when she'd been young and vibrant. He had of necessity shut her out of his work life; now, to fashion his time with her into a memory he could take back with him into the real world, he spoke his mind to her.

"I inherited Nightwing eight years ago, Louise. What troubles me most is that though I'm his handler, I've never laid eyes on the man. Can you believe it? The rendezvous are dead letter drops, always in a
different District hotel designated by Nightwing himself, a sealed message left for 'Uncle Dan.' "

He shook his head, becoming more concerned as his thoughts were made concrete by his words. "At first, Nightwing provided us with intel on Russia and mainland China. More recently, he's widened his field to include priceless datastreams of intelligence regarding decisions being made behind closed doors in key Middle Eastern states, some of which are our purported allies. These datastreams invariably proved reliable, invaluable, so you can see why the president insists on treating him with extreme kid gloves. But Nightwing has been involved in questionable assignments; he's a law unto himself. Is it any wonder I'm disturbed that I know virtually nothing about him? His file is unusually thin. I have an unshakable suspicion that the information it contains is more legend than real. Who created the legend and why remains a mystery. Nightwing's previous handler is dead, so there's no one else to ask, and believe me I've spent many fruitless nights poring through the Homeland Security database—it incorporates those of the CIA, FBI, and NSA now—without finding any mention of Nightwing whatsoever. More than once it's occurred to me that the file was written by Nightwing himself."

Louise's hand in his was cool, as if he were addressing a marble statue, marvelously carved but, for all that, still stone. He wondered whether she heard him, whether his voice was familiar to her, like a favorite radio station one listened to when one was young. He liked to think his voice made her feel safe, secure. Loved. Tears welled in his eyes, temporarily blinding him. He plowed on with his discussion, more determined than ever to make of this visit something private and intimate he could savor later, when out in the bustling world, he'd think of her here, entombed in the labyrinth of her own mind.

"In fact, Louise, only two men know more about the asset than me: the president and the National Security Advisor. Given the president's nonchalant attitude toward the asset suddenly falling off the
grid, I'm beginning to suspect that against all protocol, one of those two men has been in touch with Nightwing without my knowing. However, I'm all too aware that trying to confirm that suspicion is a sure way to commit political suicide."

No, he decided, as he pressed the speed-dial key for Hugh Garner's cell, he'd have to take the president's advice and concentrate on Alli Carson's abduction and the FASR. For the moment, he had no choice but to leave Nightwing—file name Ian Brady—to his own devices. However, if the National Security Advisor now had the inside track with the president, it was time he himself made contact with his own powerful ally, because all at once the political landscape had turned to quicksand. Despite the danger, he had to make a decisive move before it sucked him under.

The call completed, he freed his hand from Louise's limp grasp. When he leaned over, kissed her pale lips, a tremor of love and yearning passed through him as he thought of her, rosy-cheeked and laughing, her long hair glinting in sunlight, lifted through the air by his strong arms.

W
ELL DONE
, McClure," Hugh Garner said. "As if we didn't have enough trouble, you've given us another girl—approximately the same age and weight as the First Daughter—who's also missing. She's either dead or wishes she was; at the very least, she's severely maimed." He slapped three sheets of paper he was holding. "But according to the ME's report, we have no way of identifying her." He smirked, looking from Jack to Nina. "Which one of you lovelies is going to volunteer to tell Edward Carson and his wife this bit of inspiring news?"

"I will," Jack said. "I call him on an hourly basis, anyway."

"One of these days I trust you'll surprise me, Jack." Garner tossed aside Schiltz's chilling report. "But, no, I need you with me, so, Nina, it'll be you who provides the Carsons with this morning's update."

Nothing on Nina's face betrayed what she might be feeling. She was dressed today in a smart suit over a blouse with pearl buttons up to her neck, where a tasteful cameo was pinned. How a woman could appear demure and sexy at the same time was beyond Jack.

They were grouped around a desk in the makeshift command center at Langley Fields. The desk was littered with the day's early
dispatches from the FBI, CIA, DIA, NSA, as well as every regional and municipal law enforcement agency that had been dragooned by Homeland Security into the search for Alli Carson.

The trio was the eye of a carefully controlled storm of activity that raged around them. No less than thirty operatives were crammed into the headmistress's outer office, working the computers that were hooked into the nation's deepest surveillance networks. Many were simultaneously on the phone, distributing phoned-in leads that other operatives in the field needed to run down. Bags from McDonald's, KFC, barbecue joints, along with half-empty boxes of subgum chow mein and moo goo gai pan were strewn about. Garbage cans were piled high with empty soda cans. The greasy odors of stale food, sweat, and fear made a permanent fug impossible to escape.