Lady Liberty (52 page)

Sybil frowned. “Commander, since when do we thank someone for not killing someone else—even if we think they deserve it?”

“Since that someone else homesteaded in the proverbial ditch and tried to drag someone who didn’t belong there into the ditch with him.” Conlee grunted and shoved his cigar stub between his teeth. “Besides, a damn lot of paperwork comes with a corpse.”

“Sybil?” David’s voice sounded through the transmitter.

“Yes, sir?” She strained to hear him over the roar of the celebration, cupping her hand over her ear as she had so often seen Jonathan do.

“Press conference in forty-five minutes. I can’t get back that fast. You’ll have to handle it. Word is out that we’ve had a terrorist attack.”

Damn it.
“Some of the media was already here?”

“One of Richard Barber’s contacts. Tell him he’s fired. On second thought, don’t. I’ll handle that as soon as I get back.” David’s tone proved Barber wouldn’t find the experience pleasant. “Commander, are you still with us?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Could you have Barber escorted to my office and have him wait for me? Tell Mildred to watch him like a hawk, and see if the attorney general would be interested in joining us. Tell him he’ll be issuing a couple of warrants in the near future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh, and, Sybil?”

Nearly giddy with relief, she smiled at Jonathan and resigned herself to reality. They’d managed to pull off a hell of a victory, but celebrating it would have to wait. David was celebrating the way he always celebrated big victories and close calls: by diving into work. It was his personal rendition of affirming life. Personally, she let her gaze drift down Jonathan; she’d opt for the lovemaking rendition, but David was the boss. “Yes, sir?”

“I know that after all you’ve been through this is going to be hard to stomach, but you need to be ready to answer questions on that treason nonsense. Winston will brief you at the office in a half hour.”

“All right.” Resentment warred in her. No matter how much she gave, they wanted more.

“Don’t take any guff.”

She wouldn’t have to take anything from the media. She’d walk through the door. They’d go for her jugular. She’d hit the floor. And that would be that. “I won’t.”

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. After all you’ve done, for you to have to do this—” He muttered a curse. “It’s insulting, Sybil.”

“It’s all right, David.” She wasn’t crazy about the idea herself. It was insulting, and it stung. She dragged her hair back from her face. Hell, call a spade a spade. It hurt.

And as weary as she had been from the events of the last seventy-two hours, this treason business snatched her joy at their success and wore her down in a way the crisis couldn’t because it attacked the one thing she had left: her character.

The White House Press Room was buzzing.

News had broken that the United States had averted a terrorist attack less than an hour ago and members of the media had poured in, quickly overflowing the room. It was the middle of the night, and yet the turnout wasn’t really surprising. Friday’s canceled briefing had the media edgy. Everyone had known something significant was about to break; they just hadn’t pinpointed what. Sybil Stone’s plane exploding had everyone hanging close.

Sam took his usual seat in the third row and was surprised to find Sniffer sitting on his left, holding a brown envelope that looked too familiar. Scanning the other media members, Sam felt his stomach pump acid and sour. Many of them held the brown envelopes. He hadn’t authorized Ground Serve to distribute them—after what he’d witnessed at A-267, he never would—so why had it?

Austin.
Sam looked at Sniffer. “What are you doing here?”

“The veep is going to brief us on the terrorist attack.”

He held up the envelope. “But I want to ask her some questions about this.”

“Where did you get that?”

“The source isn’t disclosed, but the material seems authentic enough.”

Definitely Austin.
Sam’s blood boiled. The jerk was attempting to use the media to humiliate Vice President Stone again. “It’s more dirt on Sybil Stone, right?”

Sniffer nodded, looking perplexed. “Yeah. Did you get one, too?”

“Don’t use it.” A man spoke from the right side of Sam, his voice distinct and familiar.

Silence overtook the room, and Sam turned toward the voice: Marcus Gilbert. “What are you doing here?” And why was he holding Linda Dean’s journal?

Sniffer tuned out, kept his head buried in the envelope’s contents, eager to be intimately familiar with the facts before he slammed Sybil Stone with them.

“Moral support,” Marcus said.

“For whom?” Sam tried lowering his voice, but a pin drop would have sounded like an explosion in the suddenly still room. Sniffer withstanding, all gazes had locked onto them.

Marcus stuffed a hand into the pocket of his rumpled black coat. “I understand the veep had a challenging weekend. She’s survived a plane explosion, several near-death experiences—including being shot at and nearly blown up while stopping a terrorist attack on American soil. She also risked her life to save Cap Marlowe’s.” He paused and listened to the shocked reactions of the other media members. “I’m here to say thanks—and to tell her she can count on me for whatever, whenever.”

That declaration caused more than a few surprised gasps, including one from Sam. It was a well-known fact that Marcus had a strict bias against female politicians. He had made ignoring them an art form long before Sybil
Stone had appeared on the Hill. Most women knew Marcus only by reputation, and in the form of heartfelt advice from others who warned them to stay away from him. “Are you two friends?”

“No.”

Images of her naked and on her knees, begging Austin for all their lives, shot through Sam’s mind. In her position, would he have as much courage? His voice faded to a whisper. “I was wrong about her, Marcus.”

“A lot of people were.” He passed Ken Dean’s journal to Sam. “Don’t look at it. Just give it to her.”

“Why?”

“Because while some people thought Captain Ken Dean was a traitor, she didn’t. This proves she was right.”

“His wife’s journal?” Sam had seen it, stacked among her cookbooks.

“It’s not hers, it’s his. Ken Dean was frustrated by failed attempts to stop Gregor Faust and Ballast, so he went rogue to try to stop them himself.”

“Which is why Linda and the kids were abducted.”

Marcus nodded. “Vice President Stone defended Dean blind. No proof, no evidence. She judged him by his character, and she trusted him. She didn’t have a lot of company, but that didn’t matter. She did what was right. Give her the book so she can prove it.”

“I will.” Sam took it. “I can’t believe I was so damn wrong about her. I thought I had good instincts.”

“You do. It’s like I said, a lot of people were wrong about her.”

“But not you?”

“No, I was wrong, too. I just discovered it before the rest of you.” Marcus dropped his voice to keep this part of their conversation private. “That’s why I warned you again a few months ago to keep an eye on Cap Marlowe.”

“Warned?” Sam felt sick inside. “I thought you were telling me he was a good man.”

“He
is
a good man, but he’s a politician first.” Marcus cocked his head. “That’s what he most envies about Vice President Stone.”

In Sam’s mind, more and more pieces of the puzzle slid into place. “I understand now, Marcus.” A knot formed in his throat. “She’s the real thing.”

“Real?” Their conversation caught Sniffer’s ear. “She’s as corrupt as they come. I have the proof right here.”

Marcus spared the junior reporter a warning look and raised his voice several decibels, clearly wanting everyone in the room to hear him. “If I were you, I wouldn’t use that proof.”

“Why not?” Sniffer still didn’t look over at Marcus’s face. He rifled through pages of documents and supporting photographs. “There’s all kinds of—”

“It’s manufactured bullshit.”

“How do you know that? You haven’t even looked at it.” Sniffer swiveled his gaze, giving Marcus a hard look for the first time. Recognition lit in his eyes and his jaw dropped loose. “You’re the man from the Wall.”

“Oh, shit.” Sam dragged a hand over his forehead, feeling a wall-banger of a headache forming behind his eyes, thumping in his skull. “It’s you?”

He nodded.

Sam glared at Sniffer, who looked embarrassed enough to start a forest fire. “You didn’t know Marcus Gilbert?”

“I’d never seen him.” Sniffer shrugged. “He looks different in his pictures.”

Sam gritted his teeth and reminded himself that Marcus had retired before Sniffer had even graduated from college, much less had come to work for the
Herald.

“Let me tell all of you a story” Marcus said loudly enough to easily be heard. “Four months ago I started taking a morning walk to the Vietnam Wall. The vice president saw me there and said hello. The next morning, when she
walked past, she passed me an envelope. Twenty dollars was inside it.”

“She’s bribing you with twenty bucks?” Sniffer snorted.

“I didn’t know why she had given me the money. I was intrigued, so I went back.” Marcus elevated the pitch of his voice. “Every day I saw her at the Wall, and every day she passed me an envelope. If she planned a trip, she would put a twenty in for each day she would be gone.”

This intrigued Sam, but it puzzled him, too. “Did she ever explain why she was giving you money?”

“No, she didn’t. Once she asked my name. I told her it was Gil. The only other words the woman ever spoke to me were ‘Good morning, Gil. Isn’t it a gorgeous day?’ He blinked and let his gaze travel reporter to reporter. “One rainy morning she passed me the envelope and an umbrella. There was a hundred-dollar bill inside and a note that read ‘Stay dry, Gil.’” He grunted and a smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “Finally, the humbling truth dawned on me. She had no idea who I was.”

Marcus paused, clearly remembering the incident, and then went on. “I approached a member of her guard detail on the matter. Naturally, he had been concerned about the contents of the envelope early on, and so he had asked her what was inside. She said that, while she preferred to help people anonymously, she didn’t want her actions to raise any concerns. Essentially, she thought I was a homeless vet. The money was for food.”

Sam grunted and smiled. “So much for the allegation of treason.”

“Yeah.” Marcus’s eyes shone brightly.

Sniffer looked as if he wished the floor would open up and swallow him down. “But you’re Marcus Gilbert. You’re a millionaire.”

“I know that, kid.” Marcus’s eyes twinkled. “But she didn’t know it, and she didn’t know me. I looked homeless and hungry, so she fed me and gave me money to get out of
the rain.” Marcus let his gaze slide from person to person throughout the room of familiar, respected faces. “Which is one of many reasons I’m going to offer her my services, if she chooses to run for president.”

Sam’s mind reeled. The great Marcus Gilbert putting his muscle behind a woman? Who could have ever expected it? But after what Sam had seen at that missile site, he felt as Marcus did about her. A woman president would be a hard sell to the general public, but what the hell? Sam would put his stock in her. When he thought about how close he had come to publicly levying accusations against her, he got a little nauseous. Not only would he have lost his professional credibility, he would have screwed her up professionally and personally. Factoring in what he now knew about her firsthand, he would have regretted that the rest of his life. “Don’t attack her, Sniffer.”

“What?”

“Don’t do it,” Sam warned.

“I
am
going to do it. You’re just pissed because you didn’t get the evidence.”

Marcus stood up. “Let me make myself perfectly clear on this, kid. I respect and admire Vice President Stone. She loves this country more than anyone I’ve ever known, and I’ve known plenty of good people, including a fair number who’ve occupied the Oval Office. I don’t give a damn whose godson you are, you hurt her, and your career will be over before it starts. I’ll see to it.”

With thirty years of connections to draw on, Marcus could see to a damn lot. Sniffer would play hell snagging a job for a third-rate rag. Sam again offered the kid some healthy advice. “He’s saving your ass, Sniffer. Be grateful, not stupid.”

Sniffer glared at Marcus, at Sam, and then at the others in the room, many of whom held brown envelopes, and finally the fire in his eyes died. “She’s real?”

Sam nodded.

Sniffer gave Marcus a sharp nod as a thank-you for saving his backside, then walked up to the podium and set down the brown envelope.

The Fox News correspondent followed and left his envelope on top of Sniffer’s. Reporters for CNN, MSNBC, and others followed, all depositing their envelopes of evidence against Sybil Stone on the podium.

Marcus Gilbert’s word still carried a ton of clout.