Last Snow (37 page)

“The point is you make a choice when you tell a lie, or even when you withhold the truth—”

“Stop it!” Alli said sharply. Her face, when she turned it toward Annika, was very pale.

“—even in instances when you must tell a lie in order to protect a person you’re close to or love, or in order to serve a higher end. This is what happened to me.”

The two women eyed each other, almost, it seemed to Annika, as if they were gladiators in the Forum, overlooked by the Tarpeian Rock, the ancient burial place of betrayal. She felt energized by this electric charge, by the hope that the ongoing conflict between them would jolt the girl out of her traumatized shell.

“Every lie has its moment when it’s believed,” she said, with her teeth slightly bared, “even by those whose nature it is to doubt, or to be cynical. Lies are seductive in nature because they’re what you want to believe, or contain an element, a seed of the distrust you yourself harbor, though you may not even be aware of it.”

Alli gave a strangled little cry as she peeled herself from the glass. “Is this the way you think you can gain my trust?”

“I never even considered gaining your trust. The man who kidnapped you, who held you hostage, stole your trust, and you’re incapable of getting it back.”

Tears sprang to Alli’s eyes as she tore out the door, stumbling across the flagstone terrace, around the side of the house, blindly following some strange, self-destructive instinct that took her toward the cliff face and the falloff to the churning water below.

D
ENNIS
P
AULL
awoke in a room full of windows. Early morning light flooded the polished wood floor, by which he knew he wasn’t in a hospital or institutional room. He wasn’t bound, either. He was, however, disoriented. Where was he? What happened? The last thing he remembered . . . Christ, his head hurt.

“I have something for that headache.”

He turned his head at the sound of a woman’s voice and immediately experienced a tightness where the dart had sunk in. The woman was dressed in a conservatively tailored suit that was too stylish to have been bought on even a G-15 salary.

“Dr. Denise Nyland. I’m a neurologist.” She smiled as she held out two pills in one hand and a glass of water in another. “Here, these will help.” When he hesitated, she added, “They’re just Tylenol, I assure you.”

He took them from her and, when he had checked the logo imprinted
on each tablet, he swallowed them with the entire glass of water.

“I know you must have a lot of questions, Mr. Secretary,” she said. “All of them—and more—will be answered shortly. In the meantime, I suggest you rest while I tell you where you are.” She glanced out one of the windows, where a marble fountain plumed water into the air. Beyond were lawns and carefully sculpted shrubbery, even perhaps a small maze, though from his present angle he couldn’t be certain. He rose from the chair in which he’d been placed and at once felt a wave of dizziness, so that he was obliged to sit right back down.

“You’re in Neverwood, an estate owned by the Alizarin Global Group. I’m employed by the firm.”

Paull fought his way through the vertigo and the pounding in his head to pay strict attention. Alizarin Global was the entity that had paid for General Brandt’s off-the-grid trips to Russia. He’d never gotten around to Googling it, his mind taken up by grief, remorse, self-pity, and rage following the news of Louise’s death.

“Then you must be the one who concocted the chemical that was on the dart.” Paull had trouble enunciating, as if his mouth had been shot up with novocaine.

“Neverwood is in Maryland, precisely ninety miles from the White House,” Doctor Nyland said, pointedly ignoring his remark.

Paull frowned, which caused the pain in his head to eddy up. “Why was I brought here?”

“In a moment, Mr. Secretary, all will be made clear.” That professional smile, clean and icy as a toothpaste ad, held no malice whatsoever. “For the moment let it suffice to say that no one means you any harm. As soon as you are briefed, you’ll be handed the keys to your car. You’ll be free to go without any strings attached.”

“What is Alizarin Global?”

Doctor Nyland merely smiled. “Good-bye, Mr. Secretary. I wish you a pleasant day, wherever your journey leads you.”

And then he was left alone for precisely six minutes. He timed it on his watch, which hadn’t been taken from him. Using his time alone productively he went through his pockets and determined that, apart from his car keys, his possessions were present and accounted for.

At the six-minute mark the door opened and a young, pleasant-faced man entered the room. He was dressed in a dapper business suit, and he smelled vaguely of a cologne nearly as expensive as the clothes he wore. Clipped to the breast pocket of his jacket was a small laminated tag in the shape of a hexagon. It was orange, or perhaps a warm red. It bore no type or name; it must be, Paull intuited, Alizarin Global’s logo.

“Good morning, Mr. Secretary,” he said briskly, with the same slick smile that had animated Dr. Nyland’s face. He clipped an identical logo tag to Paull’s jacket. “I imagine you’re hungry.” Stepping back, he gestured to the open doorway. “There’s coffee waiting, and freshly baked croissants with homemade strawberry jam. I understand strawberry is your favorite.”

Without comment Paull followed him out into a hallway with hunter green walls, brass light sconces, and paintings of famous sailing ships of the 1900s. The man approached double pocket doors made of carved ebony, which he slid soundlessly open. He stood on the threshold, indicating that Paull should enter. As soon as Paull did, he slid the doors shut.

Paull found himself in an old-fashioned drawing room, complete with a marble fireplace, a baby grand piano, a pair of oversized chesterfield sofas, a wet bar along one wall opposite another filled floor to ceiling with books. An enormous bay window overlooked a pond elegantly spanned by a Japanese-style bridge. A brass ship’s clock, crouched atop the mantel, chimed the time.

Two men sat in facing Queen Anne chairs, between which was a coffee table laden with a chased silver coffee service for three. To one side stood a hotel-style server’s cart. The moment Paull walked in the two men rose as one. He recognized them immediately: Miles Benson, former director of the CIA, and Morgan Thomson, the national security advisor during the previous administration. Benson was one of those leather-necked battle vets for whom posters were invented. His face, though dented and deeply scored, was the more powerful and commanding for its battered mien. He had high cheekbones and a fierce Clint Eastwood squint. His manner was no-nonsense, even his glance was brusque, and yet Paull was willing to bet that he saw everything. Thomson was slender, ferret-faced, with a long, sharp-edged nose and hooded rodent eyes that looked out on the world with inveterate suspicion. He was virtually lipless, the better to show bright, white teeth, which were as sharp as his erudite tongue. His intellectual prowess was legendary in neocon circles, and even beyond, which made him the quintessential pundit on talking-head TV.

These two seemingly had nothing in common, and yet during the two terms in which they had been in power they had forged an unshakable alliance on which, until near the end, the former president had relied. These two had shaped his policy and were responsible for the shambles of his legacy. Unrepentant and every bit as arrogant as the day they had assumed their respective posts, they refused to believe that any decision they had made was wrong or misguided. The world, in other words, was their world, reality to the contrary. Complete control had been their aim as well as their hubris, because nothing so grandiose could be controlled by two men, a hundred, or even a hundred thousand.

All of this recent history flashed through Paull’s mind in the three seconds it took for the two men—Edward Carson’s archenemies, who plotted his destruction—to reach him and, with smiles a millimeter thin, pump his hand.

A moment later, Paull said, “Your behavior is outrageous, bordering on the criminal. I’ll have my car keys now.”

“Of course,” Benson said, dropping them into his palm.

Without another word Paull turned to go. He was almost at the door when Thomson said in the plummy tones of his television voice, “Of course you’re free to leave, Mr. Secretary, but it will be a pity if you don’t get to see your daughter and grandson.”

Paull stood frozen for the space of several thunderous heartbeats, after which he was compelled to turn back to face them. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your daughter, Claire, is in the room across the hall. Your grandson is with her.”

Paull was virtually stupefied. “Why are they here?”

Thomson had clearly taken point. “They came to see you.”

“Don’t make me laugh. My daughter hasn’t wanted to see me since before my grandson was born.”

“She does now,” Thomson assured him. “We told her that you were terminal.”

“You people are insane.” Turning away, Paull put his hands on the grips of the sliding doors and began to push the doors apart.

“Aaron,” Thomson said in his richest tone. “Your grandson’s name is Aaron.”

Paull, filled with conflicting emotions, whirled on his tormenters. “None of this will mean a damn to me when you’re taken into custody. Kidnapping a member of the United States government is a federal offense punishable by—”

“No one’s being arrested,” Benson said sharply. “No one’s going to jail.”

“He can’t help himself, the military has marked him for life.” Thomson said this in an equable, almost a kindly manner. He raised a hand. “Why don’t we all sit down. Aren’t you even the least bit curious as to why we want to talk with you?”

Turning, Thomson sat down on one of the chesterfields and poured coffee into the three cups. “I don’t know about you, Mr. Secretary, but I’m famished.” He looked up expectantly. “Is your opinion of us so set in stone that you won’t give us a chance to explain the . . . unorthodox method by which you were brought here?”

“Unorthodox?” Paull echoed.

Thomson shot Benson a significant look. In response the ex-military man cleared his throat before saying, “I apologize for the extreme methodology that brought you here.” He crossed to the chesterfield, accepting the cup Thomson offered. “However—and here I think you’ll agree—I seriously doubt that we could have induced you to come here any other way.”

Thomson nodded at his compatriot’s conciliatory tone. Taking up another cup, he lifted it as a token offering to Paull. “Please believe us, Mr. Secretary, you’re a guest here. An honored guest.”

Paull, his best dubious face forward, slowly settled himself on the chesterfield across from the two men. He put three sugars in his coffee, a dollop of half-and-half, and stirred with a tiny spoon. While he did this Benson opened the warming cart and produced plates of croissants, eggs, bacon, and small, precise triangles of buttered toast. All very civilized, Paull thought, as he sipped his coffee, which was strong and rich, much better than the swill he would have bought at McDonald’s or Denny’s.

“If I may,” Thomson said, “your mistake was in hacking into General Brandt’s bank account. We monitor it twenty-four-seven.”

“But, as it happens,” Benson said, “your mistake was our good fortune, and I’ll tell you why.” He added Tabasco sauce to his eggs, took a bite, and nodded appreciatively before setting down his fork as if he were already full. “Brandt is our man on the inside.”

“Brandt isn’t a member of the cabinet,” Paull said.

“He’s in an even better position, he’s an advisor who has Carson’s ear, especially on all matters Russian.” He shrugged. “Given what
you’ve been up to the last several days I don’t suppose that comes as much of a shock to you. However, we’ve become increasingly concerned with the General.” He pursed his lips, as if he’d just bitten down on something acrid. “You remember Colonel Kurtz, I imagine.”

“
Heart of Darkness
,” Paull said. “Joseph Conrad, a great book.”

“Thank God your frame of reference isn’t
Apocalypse Now
,” Thomson said. “Coppola made a mockery of that masterpiece.”

“Back to Kurtz,” Paull said. “Are you trying to say that General Brandt is insane?”

“Well, if not,” Benson said sourly, “he’s certainly in his own private heart of darkness.”

For the first time Thomson looked disconcerted. He lifted a hand and scratched his eyebrow with the back of his thumb, a gesture that eerily mimicked the intelligence officer played by G. D. Spradlin, who briefs Captain Willard on his assignment to terminate Kurtz in a memorable scene near the beginning of the film.

Benson, who Paull could tell wasn’t prepared to deliver what he intuited as bad news, cleared his throat again. “In point of fact, and despite what my esteemed colleague said, the allusion to
Apocalypse Now
isn’t unwarranted.” He paused for a moment as if unsure how to proceed. “You do know that the character of Kurtz was based on the much decorated Green Beret, Colonel Robert Rheault?”

“During the war in Vietnam,” Paull said, digging back in his memory. “Wasn’t Rheault relieved of his command?”

“That’s right,” Benson said, sitting ramrod straight. “He was accused of murder.”