Power Play (An FBI Thriller) (4 page)

N
ow that we’re officially sharing secrets, Madame Ambassador, call me Davis.”

“Very well. Davis.”

“Is that why you asked me over today, to tell me you don’t think George McCallum’s death was a suicide?”

“In part. Let me add that George was the eighth Viscount Lockenby, the head of the very large McCallum family. His family seat is near Canterbury, in Kent. Lockenby Manor.” She paused for a moment, and he saw grief in her eyes. She cleared her throat. “George was the polar opposite of Brundage. He didn’t know or care a thing about sports. To him, Wayne Gretzky could have been a Polish astronaut. It didn’t matter, he was a wonderful man. He loved life, loved his family, loved me. He paid attention to everyone, most especially me. He had this gift, I suppose you could call it. He knew, for example, when I needed to change my back tires or where I’d dropped a missing bracelet. Someone in his family was always phoning him, even about little things like a pet that couldn’t be found or a horse running in the fourth race at Doncaster. He was involved in all their lives deeply, and he took his role as head of his family seriously. He protected them.”

Again she paused, then met Davis’s eyes. “He did not, however, foresee his own death.

“They found him in his car at the bottom of a cliff near Dover. The car was smashed, of course, but there was no evidence the car had been tampered with, and there were no skid marks to suggest he was losing control and trying to regain it. The car went straight over the cliff.

“It’s true it couldn’t have been an accident, since the cliffs are a goodly distance beyond the road, thus anyone would have plenty of time to stop a car—if one wanted to. At first everyone believed he’d lost consciousness, maybe suffered a heart attack. There was an autopsy, but I was told it was difficult to determine what had happened, since his body had been so traumatized. Still, it was ruled an accidental death.

“Then the whispers started right after the funeral, whispers and tabloid stories that it was really a suicide, that George had fallen into a profound depression because I’d broken off our engagement, that I was to blame, that I drove him to kill himself. It seems I hadn’t even told him to his face, no, I’d sent him an email telling him, and it broke him.”

“Had you broken it off with him?”

She shook her head. “Hardly. We’d been happy, making plans. He liked the U.S. He didn’t mind living here six months out of the year; he even liked the idea of being posted elsewhere in the world.

“George was in fact under a good deal of stress in the final two weeks of his life. It had to do with his eldest son and heir, William Charles—Billy. George had told me he was a troubled child throughout his school years and that despite his complete support, Billy was asked to leave Oxford in his first year. He soon cut off most contact with the family and moved to Germany. He lived in a mostly Muslim neighborhood in Hamburg and eventually courted a Lebanese girl and ended up converting to her religion.
George thought that structured life seemed to help William at first, and perhaps it did, but there was more, a lot more. I realized George didn’t like to talk about Billy—it was a painful subject for him, and I didn’t push it.

“Two weeks before George’s death, there were huge headlines in the British tabloids, such as ‘Viscount’s Heir a Terrorist’ and ‘House of Lords Member Breeds Traitor.’” She gave him a twisted smile. “That’s doubtless one of the first things you read about me, isn’t it?”

Davis nodded, saying nothing.

“They published a photograph of Billy taken somewhere in Syria, bearded and in local garb, armed with a Kalashnikov. We had no idea where they’d found that picture, but it was clearly Billy, no denying it, George said.

“It was a major embarrassment, needless to say, both for George and his family and for me, the United States ambassador who was engaged to him. The story was irresistible, and we came under intense scrutiny by the press. But there was no talk between us of ending our engagement. And then George died, and that faked email surfaced in the press—again, I don’t know how—and it all led to the speculation that George had killed himself, that I was responsible because I sent him that email, favoring my own career in his time of need, that sort of thing.

“As you know, Davis, the English tabloid press is probably the most virulent in the world. I remember one of the headlines—that I’d gone to Paris to get away from George and meet up with my lover. The fact is I was in Paris when George died, but I was there to meet with Jean-Marc Ayrault, the French PM.

“Of course what the tabloids wrote was far sexier. I spoke to George’s family—those who would speak to me, that is—but they
didn’t believe me when I told them I hadn’t broken it off, or they were too busy fending off the media wanting to know everything about George’s son—how he became a terrorist, why he became a terrorist, and what they felt about it. You get the idea.

“The tabloids even suggested that my husband, Brundage, had killed himself as well and I’d managed to get it covered up with a heart attack story, backed by the president.” He saw her hands were clenched into fists, flames nearly shooting out of her red hair. “Can you imagine? Accusing me of murdering Brundage?

“The press don’t have any of the famous British sense of fair play, no brakes. In England there’s simply no way to set things straight. If they decide you’re guilty of something, they single you out as their latest star.

“Needless to say, the whole affair embarrassed our government, the embassy staff, and many of my British friends. I offered to resign, but the president refused to accept it, told me to soldier on, that I had done nothing wrong. As for Perry, she wants to go tear out someone’s throat. Soldiering on is only part of the reason I’m sitting in my lovely house with a bodyguard to protect me—” She stopped cold.

Davis said, “What would the bodyguard protect you from? The press? No, not the press. You’d chew the press up and have Hooley toss them over the fence. All right, Natalie, why do you have a bodyguard? Why did you want to see me?”

She said, “I told you I didn’t believe George McCallum’s death was a suicide. Actually, my strongest reason for that is because I’m sure as I can be someone is trying to kill me.”

N
atalie told him about the attempt on her life on the narrow country road on the way to George’s country home, vivid in her mind since she’d awakened early that morning sweating, her heart hammering in her chest, breathing hard and fast, nearly choking on the remembered fear.

“My Jag, Nancy, has lots of oomph, thank heaven, but I knew he could catch me; the Mercedes was more powerful and the driver was really good. Then two cars came over the hill in front of us, which meant witnesses, and the driver did a fast screeching K-turn and sped back toward the M2. I pulled over and sat there, my head against the steering wheel. It didn’t occur to me then to flag down those two cars, ask them what they’d seen.”

“What did you do?”

“When I got myself together, I drove to the police station in Whitstable. The constable accompanied me back to the scene. There were tire marks—both cars—but there was nothing more to show them but a dent in my back fender.

“By nightfall I saw a headline: ‘Swallow This: Black Widow Blames Auto Accident on Mysterious Assassin!’”

“Did you see the driver of the black sedan?”

“No, like I said, the windows were dark-tinted and the license plate was muddied, probably on purpose.”

“What happened then?”

“Arliss called me back home after consulting with the British government. From their perspective, you see, I was either unstable or, worse, the focus of a plot they could not unravel. Either way, all parties sought to avoid a major international scandal. Arliss said she and the president believed me, of course, but it obviously wasn’t safe for me in England. I can’t tell you how glad I was to come home. I believed I would be safe here, since all the violence had happened in England, and it seemed to be tied to George.”

Davis nodded. “The son’s photo, the e-mail, then his death. Okay, tell me what happened back here in the States?”

“I’ve been home six days, conducting business by phone, or in meetings at the State Department, meanwhile dodging the press, following the papers here and in London, waiting for Arliss and the president to decide when it will be a political necessity for me to resign.” She sighed, told him about her run in Buckner Park at sunset, a beautiful time of day to run, her thinking time.

“So another attempted murder using a car as the weapon?”

“It was like England. For an instant, I thought it was all over for me, but then I managed to roll behind bushes against a tree in the nick of time. It was close. I could even smell the car exhaust.”

“What did the car look like?”

“Another big black sedan, and again, I couldn’t make out the license plate and the windows were tinted so I couldn’t see the driver or how many people were in the car. I know it can’t be the same car as in England, but it was probably the same person behind the wheel—to try to kill me with a car twice? Why the same play?”

“You called the cops?”

She shook her head. “Believe me, I thought about calling them, but I knew I couldn’t risk a police report getting into the press. I
had no proof, and without that, another press leak might give the secretary of state and the president no choice. And what was there to find, anyway? Maybe evidence that a drunk might have lost control, got scared, and drove off as fast as he could?”

“So you hired Hooley.”

“Yes. Hooley is ex–Special Forces, and came well recommended. He wanted me to speak to the police, to the FBI, to the State Department, but as I said, I haven’t even told Arliss or Thorn—President Gilbert—no one except Hooley and Connie Mendez, a former Secret Service agent Hooley recommended. And now you.”

“Do you know our FBI director?”

“Yes, I’ve met him, but I don’t know him or his loyalties. Whereas you, Special Agent Sullivan, I saw what you’re made of, how you deal with surprise and danger. Don’t you see I had to decide who to turn to. I don’t know any other agents in the FBI, though I’ve heard of that exceptional boss of yours, Agent Savich. There’s no reason for any of them to believe me, not given what’s happened and what’s been reported. After yesterday, I thought perhaps you would.”

Davis didn’t hesitate. “I do believe you. But I want to bring my boss, Dillon Savich, to see you. I want you to tell him what you’ve told me. Believe me, Natalie, we’ll do everything to find out what’s going on. And there will be no press leak. Something else—Savich has a gift, like George McCallum. He seems to know things, sense things. Sometimes you don’t want to think about it because it’s scary, but you’re glad he’s on your side.”

She was quiet until she’d poured him another cup of the sinful coffee from a silver carafe. “Can you guarantee me that you’ll be directly involved?”

“You know I can’t, but I’ll try.”

“Davis, look. Your being there at that shopping mall at that particular moment—the way you dealt with Jitterbug—to me it was a sign.”

Now he was a sign? He said, “You weren’t at all afraid of Jitterbug, not for an instant.”

“Not after I realized he wasn’t one of them, that he was only a pathetic addict who needed to be punched in the head. Or elsewhere.”

Them?
He said nothing, only looked at her. She blinked first, nodded. “All right, I’ll speak to your boss, but only if you agree to do something for me first.”

Now he was negotiating with an ambassador. “You want me to dismiss my harem?”

She laughed, actually laughed. “I want you to come with me tonight to a function at the secretary of state’s house. It’s a show of solidarity to invite me, and a sort of testing of the waters as well. If Arliss and I hadn’t been friends for more than half our lives, I think she’d have asked me to resign herself by now with outward regret and inward good riddance. But she wants to go the extra mile. I want you to come with me, as my escort and bodyguard.”

Why didn’t she want Hooley going with her? Well, okay, dumb question—Hooley would stick out like a shark in a fishbowl. He looked like what he was, a wrecking ball, and he’d maim anything or anyone with the poor judgment to set the
Enterprise
down within three feet of Natalie Black.

“I’m not trained as a bodyguard.”

“I’ve seen you in action, Agent Sullivan. You don’t get excited and go off the deep end, you do what you have to do, nothing more. If there was an attacker, you’d deal with him, then you’d remove him from the premises, no one the wiser.”

Davis liked her, really liked her, and he didn’t want her to be hurt. “Is your daughter going with you? From the looks of Ms. Biker Babe, she’d keep you safe.”

“Perry is not a diplomat, so it wouldn’t work. I’m afraid if someone threatened me or even made a snide remark, I might end up seeing her give me her heartbreaker smile while she stood over a bleeding body.

“She’ll be there, though. Actually, she’s coming with the secretary of state’s son. And that’s another reason Arliss doesn’t want to cut me loose. Her son, Day, would blow a fit. You see, Day and Perry were practically raised together. I used to think of them as brother and sister, but now, well, maybe they’ll get married, but I’m by no means sure yet, since Perry’s a clam on the subject.”

Davis ruminated, then gave it up. “All right, tonight I’ll be your bodyguard with the understanding that first thing tomorrow, you speak to my boss, Agent Dillon Savich. Shall we shake hands?”

She gave him a patrician down-the-nose stare, but he stared back. He knew all it would take would be for her to be with Savich for two minutes to change her mind. Davis wondered if Hooley would think Savich was a pretty-boy tool. Somehow he didn’t think so.

“Very well,” she said, rose, and stuck out her hand.