Lady Liberty (16 page)

Downing a long, cold draw of scotch for courage, he picked up the cell and direct-dialed a secure-line number at the White House, bypassing the switchboard and monitors. This was one call he didn’t want recorded.

Richard Barber answered on the first ring, sounding irritated by the interruption. “Yes?”

Before Austin and Sybil had divorced and he had lost his direct link to inside information, he had forged this alliance with Barber. It had been productive and beneficial to them both. He let his question tumble out. “Is she really dead?”

“Not yet verified, but highly probable.”

Highly probable.
Austin dabbed at the sweat beading on his forehead, stared at his reflection in the mirror above the mantel, and let his hope grow. “Has our mutual friend been notified?”

“You’ll need to take care of that.” Barber dropped his voice. “Don’t call me on this again. It’s too dangerous.”

So Commander Conlee was aware of the security breach, and he already suspected an infiltrator. He would be monitoring everyone from here on out. “How am I supposed to know what’s going on?” Austin grimaced at a tapestry hanging on the wall. There was no way that bastard Lance would tell him anything until he positively had to do it.

“I’ll call you.” Barber reassured him. “Have I ever let you down?”

He hadn’t, but… Austin put a biting edge in his tone. “Don’t start now.”

“I won’t.” The line clicked.

Silence droned in Austin’s ear. Barber shouldn’t let him down. Actually, he wouldn’t dare. If he did, his political aspirations and career would be over and he’d be doing time in a white-collar, minimum-security prison instead of holding a key position on David Lance’s staff. Yet he hadn’t warned Austin about any of this before the president had called. Annoyed by that, Austin tapped the button, then dialed the phone again.

Jean Holt answered. “Senator Marlowe’s office.”

“Put me through, Jean.”

“One moment, Dr. Stone.”

Cap came on the line. “Austin, what the hell is going on? The press is all over me.”

Sam Sayelle specifically, Austin speculated. “Sybil’s plane exploded.”

“Unfortunate,” Cap said, seemingly unfazed by the news. “It’s a damn shame she was tied up in peace-talk negotiations and not on it.”

Austin poured himself a second scotch and water. This time only two fingers; he needed to keep his mind sharp. “Apparently she left the talks and
was
on it.”

“Son of a bitch.” Cap let out a low whistling breath. “What happened?”

“No idea yet. Could be mechanical or a terrorist attack,” Austin hedged, deciding what he most needed was normalcy. He went into the kitchen and pulled out the fixings for a turkey sandwich, then slathered mayo on two slices of white bread. Sybil hated white bread. He pulled out two more slices. They had battled and he had won. Finally. She was not strongest or smartest, and she was not most powerful anymore. “Lance is being very closed-mouthed.”

So were Cap’s informers. “Did he mention PUSH or Ballast?” Just mentioning those two groups had the senator’s nerves sizzling and his gaze riveting to the south wall, pinning on his office safe.

“No, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Had Austin buried a secret message in that remark? Cap let the inference slide, not certain it was wise to know. In the silence, strains of Bach came through the line. Cap hated Bach. Give him ragtime any day. “Keep me informed.”

“You, too.”

Cap cradled the receiver. Nervous energy coiled in his chest. He opened the wall safe, reached inside, then pulled out the white envelope that had been anonymously delivered to his office two months ago. His hand trembled, his
mouth dried out, and his breathing shallowed. Shaking out a silver key, he recalled the phone message he had received the day the Ground Serve messenger had delivered the package:
When the time comes, you will know how to use it.

Two long months of agonizing, wondering and worrying who had sent him the damn thing, and why; of waffling between whether the sender had dirt on him personally and professionally; of waiting to fall from his office in disgrace. Oh, he hadn’t deliberately dealt dirty in his professional life, but no one survived on the Hill and remained lily white. Not for one year, much less thirty. Cap had done his share of stepping into the shadows. True, he had been damned cautious, but he had crossed the line now and then. Blackmail wasn’t outside the realm of possibility.

The rumor mill had it down that PUSH had sabotaged Sybil Stone’s plane. But for months Cap had felt that Ballast, Gregor Faust specifically, had sent the key. He was the master strategist. Yet maybe Cap was overreacting. Maybe the key he found in the package had nothing to do with the veep’s plane exploding. Maybe his certainty that the incidents were connected and that Faust had created them was just the product of fear and a guilty conscience.

Christ, he hoped that was the case. Because the alternative meant that, through the key, he could be directly tied to Gregor Faust, and whether that tie had been intentional or accidental didn’t matter. People on the Hill would believe it was intentional, and that would cost Cap the Republican nomination for President of the United States.

Dizzy, Cap dropped down in his seat. There was no way to explain away his reasons for not following procedure and reporting receipt of the key. He’d established the damn policy. No. No acceptable excuse whatsoever. Everyone who was anyone would be looking for someone to blame— for
anyone
to blame—and Cap had left himself wide open to be sacrificed.

He squeezed his eyes shut. Okay, he had made a huge mistake. Yet without knowing who had sent the key or what it meant, how could he have reported it? He couldn’t have an independent council appointed to execute a discovery process against him. No one survived those damn things with their dignity intact. Holding on to the key had seemed right and easy to do at the time. Right. Reasonable. Rational.

Now he felt like a damn fool. Sybil’s plane exploding and his receiving the key were likely related incidents. Actually, they were most likely
interrelated
incidents. The gnawing in his stomach doubled him over and the truth hit him like a sledgehammer: PUSH was hyping the media. Gregor Faust had set him up.

And Cap, for all his wheeling and dealing and political savvy, had made setting him up damned easy.

How the hell was he going to get out of this?

Darkness swallowed them and the rain persisted, arrogant and bone chilling. Sybil was so tired that putting one foot in front of the other was a major challenge. She brushed against some sort of thorny vine. It snared her right leg, stabbed into her flesh and clung, and she stumbled. “Damn it!”

Westford grabbed her arm, held her upright, and then cut her loose from the tangle with his knife. “Smilax.” “Smilax, hell. It burns like fire and feels like claws.” “That’s why it’s nicknamed catbrier.” He rubbed the blood away from the long, thick scratches on her leg and examined it. “They’re not too deep.”

She frowned at him. “Do you know everything?” He frowned back at her. “No, not everything.” Remorse set in. “I’m sorry I snapped. I’m tired and cranky.”

“Let’s take a break.”

It had been hours since they’d stopped. But if they stopped, he might kiss her again. Worse, he might not. “We shouldn’t. We can’t afford to lose the time.”

“What we can’t afford is to walk into the opposition because we’re so damn tired we’re bitchy and punch drunk.” He stopped inside a small circle of large pines. “This is a good spot.”

Sybil stepped inside the circle and didn’t think twice before collapsing on the muddy ground. She couldn’t get any more waterlogged or dirty, and if a snake wanted her spot, it was going to have to fight her for it. “When we get home, I’m going to double my treadmill time.”

“Right.” Westford stretched his jacket between two tree trunks then secured it with the parachute cord he had pocketed. Its edges created a waterfall that splattered the ground just beyond her back. Amazing, but the rhythmic splats weren’t annoying. They soothed her.

“That’s the best I can do without losing my pants.”

Surprise rippled through her chest. “Keep your pants, Westford, and sit down.”

He dropped down beside her and their arms brushed. “You’re welcome to lean on me.”

She searched his gaze. “I’d love to be human and let go. Actually, I’ve considered having a nervous breakdown—my neuroses are conquering me—but I’m just too tired to work up the steam to do it.”

“I meant physically, Sybil.” Braced against the tree, he bent his knees and motioned for her to come to him. “I’m softer than the ground.”

“Ah, then I accept.” As noncommittal as remarks come, he’d told her nothing, but grateful for the opportunity to feel anything but numb and cold and wet, she snuggled between his thighs then leaned back against his chest. He wasn’t much softer than the ground, but his scent was familiar and far more comforting. Too comforting. And too reminiscent of his kisses. Recognizing that line of thought
as dangerous, she veered to safer ground. “Has Intel reported further updates?”

“Not yet.” Westford yawned deeply. “Try to rest for a while.”

Sybil closed her eyes and relaxed against him, promising herself she’d only rest a moment. Think only of the danger and the briefcase cuff that now had abraded her wrist and made it raw, and how absurd it was that she considered their current situation to be less dangerous than merely thinking of him. Settling in, she felt his heart beat against her back. “Nice.”

Jonathan agreed but held his tongue. He felt the tension drain from her body, knew the moment she fell asleep. She didn’t slide into sleep peacefully; she tumbled, hard and fast. The woman was going to need some time to get used to the idea that he was a man and more time to accept what was going on between them. He shouldn’t have kissed her. And he shouldn’t feel guilty for not telling her everything Sayelle had transmitted. She had enough on her shoulders without worrying about things she couldn’t control, too. And she would worry about them. Nothing good could come from telling her, so why did he still feel guilty?

The terrorists had given the president seventy-two hours from their initial contact to get the briefcase back to Washington. That was Sybil’s phantom deadline. But what the hell was in the case? And why had the terrorists taken it to her in Geneva in the first place?

Perplexed, Jonathan glared down a curious raccoon until it backed off and took refuge under the bushes, then stroked Sybil’s hair away from her face and ran through various scenarios. But he couldn’t find a rationale for Geneva… unless the package already had been there. If that proved true, then the security breach she had mentioned earlier may have occurred in the United States but the terrorists were working in Europe—in Eastern Europe, specifically. Eastern Europe wasn’t PUSH territory; Ballast owned it, and this
entire incident carried Gregor Faust’s classic signature—including government infiltration at the highest levels, which would explain the security breach. Jonathan stiffened. All of this originated in Faust’s backyard. Why hadn’t Conlee or Lance put the pieces together?

According to Sayelle’s transmissions, some presidential advisors considered Faust the logical candidate. Yet Intel was muddying the waters with evidence of PUSH horning in on Ballast turf, and they considered PUSH’s responsibility claim credible and authentic.

Damn. Jonathan dragged a hand over his face, rustling his stubble of beard, and blinked hard to clear his tired eyes. Lance couldn’t know where to apply the most pressure; not with what he had. PUSH levying the attack would make things easier for the United States. It could attack PUSH without creating an international incident. But there was no touching Faust without such an incident. Faust also had the resources and connections to disappear underground indefinitely in a number of different nations, and if he failed to reach his objective, he would kill millions without thinking twice. Faust had sold his soul a long time ago. He had no conscience, no compassion. He wasn’t loyal to any man or any country. To him, anyone was expendable, and manipulating nations into war was just a profitable game. With him at the helm, Ballast was far more dangerous than PUSH, even if it had allied with China, as recently reported through Intel.

“Jonathan?” Sybil’s voice sounded strained, tight.

He thought she’d been sleeping.
Jonathan, not West-ford.
“Mmm?”

“Can we go on now?”

He needed to hold her. Just for a few more minutes. He’d waited years to hold her, and now that he knew what it was like, they might not survive to see where they ended up. Surely he could have a few lousy minutes. “We need to rest.”

“I know.” She rubbed her cheek against his chest. “But it’s more important to get the briefcase back to David.”

Something in her tone worried him, and she was shaking like a leaf. He looked down at her face and waited for her to explain.

“If he doesn’t use the contents of this case in time, it’s going to be bad.”