Lady Liberty (22 page)

Austin clamped his jaw, clenched his teeth. So Cap didn’t yet know what the incident was, but he knew there was one, and Intel had shortened its suspect list to PUSH
or Faust. Okay, fine. So far, nothing he couldn’t salvage. He’d known going in that Faust couldn’t be trusted, and he had prepared a contingency Plan B. All he had to do was stay cool, abandon Plan A, implement Plan B, and then burn and bury them all—including Gregor Faust. PUSH would welcome him with open arms. They had approached him before, but by then he had already allied with Ballast. At the time, Ballast was stronger, more powerful, and most feared. But PUSH hadn’t been idle. It was well established now. An alliance could be … convenient.

Austin stood up, gave Cap his most sincere look. “I’ll find out what the key fits. But I need to take it with me to make an impression. I’ll get it back to you in a couple of hours.”

Obviously not thrilled about the key being out of his possession, Cap frowned.

“You’re welcome to come to the lab with me, but opening yourself up to discovery is risky. You’d be better off trusting me to handle it discreetly. Then, should the need arise, you would have deniability” Austin shrugged, knowing the senator would never risk losing deniability or anything else that could cost him the nomination. “Your call.”

Again Cap hesitated, transparently torn. “You take it, Austin—but don’t keep it long. It’s not that I don’t trust you, it’s that I don’t know what whoever sent this is going to do next.”

“Try not to worry” Austin feigned a concerned look. “We’ll figure it out.”

When Cap nodded, Austin stuffed the key in his pocket. He knew exactly what bastard had sent the key and exactly what the bastard would do next.

But Faust had no idea Austin knew he had been betrayed or what
his
next move would be, and in that truth lay Austin’s strength. A strength he would use to destroy everyone who had ever crossed him. Everyone.

Including Sybil… dead or alive.

Was Sybil Stone dead or alive?

Sam Sayelle intended to be able to answer that question soon. With a fresh cup of steaming coffee, he locked himself in the upstairs conference room and closed the blinds on the windows leading to the hall. He didn’t want to be distracted. And he didn’t want anyone, including his boss, Carl Edison, who had run the paper with an iron fist for decades, to know what he was doing.

Taking a seat at the side of the table, Sam kept his back to the wall and his gaze facing the door. No surprise observers were welcome to take a look at Conlee’s transcripts.

There had been six transcripts so far. That small room down in the basement fascinated Sam. The storage area had been covered in inch-thick dust and cobwebs, yet there hadn’t been a speck of dust or the hint of a musty smell in the small room, and all of the equipment had looked brand-new. Sam had the feeling that broadcasts had been done there many times in the past.

Within hours of the first broadcast, he had also known that it had been genuine and on the air because he had received a healthy number of phone calls from other reporters wanting to know if he’d left the
Herald
and if his job was available. He had also received an e-mail from a listener who had heard what he’d had to say and had liked it.

After the third broadcast, Sam had put out subtle feelers in the office and, according to Sniffer, who was about as subtle as a sledgehammer, everyone—including Edison— knew about the broadcasts. Newcomers to the paper had congratulated him on the “lucky break,” but none of the old-timers had said a word. Other than being baffled and relieved at not having to formulate an elaborate lie, Sam didn’t know how he felt about that. Conlee had provided no cover, no suggestions, no recommendations on how he
should handle inquiries. He’d only ordered Sam to handle them without mentioning him. Sam didn’t know how he felt about that, either.

He spread the six scripts on the table before him and began an intense study. They were political essays, opinion pieces. He looked for patterns, repetitive key words, anything that could give him a clue what information he was passing along.

His coffee grew cold. His eyes grew blurry. And he made absolutely no progress. Which meant he left the conference room with the same question on his mind he’d had when entering: Was Sybil Stone dead or alive?

“Stretch, Sybil.” Flat on his belly, Jonathan leaned as far as he could over the ledge of the jagged rock. Dangerously close to falling, he extended his reach, but it fell far short of what he needed. The dropoff to the pit of quicksand was steeper than he had thought: fifteen, maybe twenty feet. “Come on. A little farther.”

She sank deeper, until all that was above the surface was her left arm, the top and handle of the briefcase, and her head. “It’s not working, Westford.”

He tried—
God, how he tried
—but he just couldn’t reach her with the knotted parachute cord.
Why the hell hadn’t he kept more of it?
He scanned the terrain for a fallen limb, for anything long and strong enough to hold her, but he saw nothing.

“We’re running out of time,” she called up to him. “We both know what we have to do. Focus solely on getting the briefcase.”

She moved her arm, pushed up on the submerged portion of the case. “If you could get around the rock and work from the ledge, we’d be okay, but you can’t. We don’t have enough cord. There isn’t a way around that, so forget about me and just get the case.” Sweat beaded on her brow, mixed with the rain, and dripped down her upturned face. The case surfaced, and she sank until her neck dipped beneath the sludge. “You’re going to have to take it, Westford.”

She was rattled, not thinking clearly. If he could reach the damn case, he could reach her. “I can’t get to it.” And then there was obstacle number two. “Have you forgotten the damn thing is wired? If you bust open the cuffs, it’ll detonate.”

Panic flitted through her eyes, then acceptance of the inevitable. “I’m going to die here, Westford. But I can’t take the key with me. You’ve got to get it to the president.”

“Sybil—”

“No. Stop and listen to me.” Sybil sank more. Her chin was nearly covered. She blinked hard and fast, as if praying her courage wouldn’t fail her. “The case is all that matters. Fail and a lot of people die. It’s that simple.”

“Just hang on, Sybil.” He searched frantically. “I’m looking, okay?”

“Westford?” Sybil’s voice changed, hollowed by defeat. She was supposed to lead, and leaders must have courage. But the truth was, she was afraid to die. Who would mourn her? Who would put flowers on her grave? Who would wake up in the morning and feel sad that they were living in a world she was no longer in?
Who?

She cleared her throat, begging the thoughts to stop, and shouted up to him. “Dying is bad enough. Dying and not knowing you’ll get the case to David is more than I can take. You’ve got to get it to David, Westford.”

Jonathan didn’t answer. When he got her out of this, Sybil might feel okay about having let him see her fear, but Lady Liberty would be mortified. Even if he had wanted to,
he wasn’t sure he could have answered her. She was steeling herself for death. Feeling that she was leaving life unloved, that she had failed to save others. Pain arced through his chest. “Be patient for a second.” How could she believe only Gabby would mourn her? An entire nation would grieve. And, God forgive him, he would grieve for her the rest of his life.

She stared up at him, cold resolve and distance in her eyes. “Throw me your knife.”

“What for?” he asked, pausing a scan of the area to glance at her. He didn’t like that look in her eyes, or her tone. She was separate now; the woman and the vice president were two distinct entities, and one had no sympathy or compassion for the other.

“I’m going to cut off my hand at the wrist and toss you the case. I know you have the stomach for seeing me do it. You have field-surgery skills and you’ve been shot yourself. In your job you’ve seen enough blood to fill this pit.”

But he had never seen
her
blood. “Are you crazy?”

“This is a direct order, Westford,” she shouted. “Throw me your knife.”

“I will not!” He glared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “You aren’t going to die or cut off your arm, Sybil, and I’m not going to see you bleed.”

“I am Vice President of the United States and I’ve issued you a direct order, Agent Westford. By God, you’d better follow it and throw me your knife—
now!”

Jonathan swept a hand over his face. Hard to believe it, but the woman was dead serious—and humbling. “Shut up and listen to me.” He’d hoped to avoid this, but she had given him no choice. “Do exactly what I tell you to do. Exactly.”

“We’re short on time.”

“And you’re wasting it.” He glared down at her. “Roll onto your back.”

“How the hell—”

“Just do it, Sybil.”

She rolled, tipping her head back. “It’s going to swallow my face—all at one time. I know it is. You’re just trying to spare me and have me die quickly. You’d better get this case first or, so help me, I’ll haunt you for the rest of your life. I might anyway. No one tells me to shut up, Westford.”

He ignored her. “Spread your legs apart.”

“What?”

“You’re wasting time, woman. Time we don’t have.”

“Promise me. No matter what, this case gets to David before tomorrow night.”

Damn stubborn, one-track minded
— “I promise.”

Finally she spread her legs.

“Now, slowly—very slowly—lift them up. Keep them spread, Sybil. Don’t forget that, it’s important.”

She began moving. “I think you’re crazy. Absolutely insane. Why the hell I’m listening to you, I have no idea. And don’t you dare say it’s one of your damn character flaws, or so help me, I’ll—hey, I can see your socks.”

“Thank God.” He swiped at sweat rolling down his forehead, blurring his eyes. “Okay. Now just stay in that position. Don’t move. You won’t sink as long as you don’t move.”

“You’re leaving? Good God, you can’t just leave the case.” Her eyes stretched wide. “You
promised
me, Westford.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“Then why can’t I see you anymore? Where are you?”

“Just give me a minute—and don’t move.” Finally he spotted the limb he needed. “Just a minute.”

“I can’t believe you. I’m lying here spread-eagled in rank-smelling sludge, practically locked in the jaws of death, and you’re leaving me to die without even trying to save the case—after you promised. You know David needs it. I’m going to fire you for this. Do you hear me, Westford?”

She couldn’t see him; he hadn’t returned to her field of vision. But she heard him. “Then you’re going to have to live to spite me. Dead women can’t fire people.”

What a rotten time for him to be logical. Sometimes men could be heartless pigs. “Okay, fine.
If
I live through this, I’m going to fire you and bust your—”

He tromped through the trees and back to the rock, dragging a limb.

“You came back for it.”

“You sound stunned. If I weren’t a heartless pig, I’d be hurt.”

“Are you reading my mind? How—”

“Gabby mentioned your fondness for the term.”

From that smirk, she had mentioned a lot more. “She’s a pig, too.” One with a big mouth.

“Right.” He spared her a glance. “Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

How could he sound so calm and unaffected? She was going to die, damn it. And he was forcing her to admit the truth when she was standing at death’s door, primed to rage. “Not yet.”

“Then I deserve the benefit of the doubt.”

He did. “Okay”

Westford tied the limb to the rope, dropped back onto his belly on the jagged top of the rock, and then extended the limb down into the sludge pit. “Don’t grab. You’ll screw up your ballast. Just give me a second. I need more angle.” The end of the limb hit something solid—her ribs, gauging by her grunt.

He winced; she’d have a hell of a bruise. “Sorry” He maneuvered the limb into position with the length of cord attached to it, sliding it under her right arm and across her chest. “Okay. Now squeeze with your right arm and grab the limb with your left. Get your hands around the limb as fast as you can.”