The Gemini Deception (11 page)

Shield had been given the so-called Living Room, an adjacent suite with its own bathroom. Used by several presidents and first ladies as a separate bedroom, in recent years most chief executives employed it as a private study or family living space, but Thomas hadn’t yet designated a function for it.

Shield stopped in front of the president’s door. “Madam President, should you need to leave your room for any reason, please knock on the paneled door that joins our bedrooms or call my room.”

Thomas brushed off the request. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, I have two men on guard at my disposal.”

“Those men have been replaced by me. I am your primary.” Shield had already stated that a little while ago. Maybe the president was too preoccupied to recall everything that happened to her, but surely she’d remember an important mention that concerned her well-being. Perhaps she was just still too new at this to know what primary implied.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were hired to protect me during public appearances.”

“As well,” Shield said. “Maybe you haven’t been informed, but the job of a primary involves constant security.”

The president hesitated. She sounded strangely reluctant when she replied, “I…I am aware. I simply don’t want you to intrude on my privacy.”

Shield observed her a few more seconds before she said, “Very well then, Madam President.”

Only after Thomas had entered her bedroom did Shield go to hers. The room was everything she expected a presidential suite would be: luxuriously appointed and well equipped with all modern comforts, but she missed her earthy, wood-beamed bedroom. Others might have been impressed with the canopied four-poster bed, wondering which presidents or influential guests had slept in it, but she gave little thought to such matters. As a matter of fact, she found the massive thing so suffocating she felt as though she were being buried alive.

Fifteen minutes later, she lay in bed wearing navy pajamas, which she’d purchased to wear during guard duty just in case someone barged in or she had to move fast and didn’t have time to change. At home she slept in nothing but boxers. She could only hope the ongoing investigation into the assassination attempt would lead somewhere so she could soon return to her home in Tuscany. Sitting POTUS was admittedly more interesting than most jobs she’d gotten recently, but at least with the others she was always back home within days or weeks. If nothing ever came of this investigation, she could be stuck here for Thomas’s entire term.

And what was up with the president, anyway? Thomas didn’t appear at all happy to have a permanent private guard. If anything, she seemed irritable and distracted. Sure, the attempt on her life and five dead guards were enough to throw anyone off their game, but she didn’t even acknowledge having seen Shield in Greece. Despite her get-more-women-into-male-dominated-fields rhetoric, maybe Thomas would have preferred a male guard like most VIPs did. People were under the general misconception that men were better qualified to protect and defend. What they didn’t know was that it took a lot more than dumb muscle to prevent, predict, and secure. If an offender found opportunity for even an unsuccessful attempt, security had usually failed. It didn’t matter how big or strong you were, a bullet killed indiscriminately.

She leafed through the stamped bundle of sheets she’d been given concerning the president’s upcoming appearances. Tomorrow’s Find Your Sport event on the South Lawn featured dozens of Olympic champions and was expected to draw twenty-five thousand people, most of them kids. Thomas would be stretched thin trying to appear at all the activities scheduled for the daylong extravaganza. Shield only hoped the president would be a bit more concerned about her safety than her privacy.

*

Southwest of Baltimore, Maryland

Next morning, February 27

Elizabeth Thomas picked absentmindedly at the tray of food that Beard, as she’d come to think of him, had delivered for her supper. Both of the men who tended to her always wore ski masks when in her presence, but one obviously had facial hair beneath and the other didn’t, so that was how she distinguished Beard from Cleanshaven.

Many others were likely guarding her. Whoever had managed to pull off such a well-orchestrated kidnapping—killing all of her Secret Service detail in the process, without hurting her—would certainly take extensive measures to ensure their important captive couldn’t escape or be easily rescued. A security camera in the corner of the windowless room kept constant tabs on her except when she was in the adjoining bathroom.

She had spent many long hours trying to surmise who was behind the plot. Only one of her minders—Cleanshaven—spoke to her, and he had a trace of an accent, though she couldn’t be sure what it was. East Bloc, maybe Slovak or Russian. He was always extremely polite and respectful, but he answered with as few words as possible, and only then to benign queries. If she asked for something to drink, he’d reply, “What would you like?” but would ignore completely any questions related to where she was, who was holding her, how long she would be here, or what they wanted. He’d simply shaken his head when offered money to help her escape and shrugged when she asked why they’d taken her wedding ring.

The food they provided her, like her accommodations, was high quality. This morning’s eggs Benedict had been accompanied by a fruit medley, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and cappuccino. Most likely it came from restaurants, or else they had a top-notch chef in their employ. Somehow they seemed to already know a lot of her favorite foods, though Cleanshaven had told her not to hesitate to ask for anything in particular she might want. Despite the excellent menu, she rarely ate much, too distraught and preoccupied by her confinement.

Aside from that, she was probably one of the best-treated prisoners in history, but she couldn’t care less about the fancy food, comfy bed, and wide assortment of
New York Times
bestsellers they provided her to occupy her time. She wanted to know what the hell was going on in the outside world. Was the vice president continuing business as usual, or had everything come to a virtual standstill with her kidnapping? Had her captors made their demands? Did they leave any clues to help authorities find her?

Though uncertain exactly how much time had elapsed—they had knocked her out after getting her out of the elevator and she’d woken up here—she surmised from the meals they’d given her that she’d been missing for at least three days or so. She was growing more pessimistic with each passing minute. Her kidnapper’s demands must be unreasonable ones for it to be taking so long to free or find her. Like many previous presidents, she held to the dictum that America didn’t negotiate with terrorists and had said so to the world in her inaugural address.

If her vice president agreed, and if the nation’s top law-enforcement officials were unable to discover her whereabouts, what would happen to her?

*

The White House

Ryden looked out her bedroom window at the preparations taking place on the South Lawn. So far, her public appearances had been contained to small venues. Today, she’d have to perform in front of some twenty-five thousand people, who all wanted to get a good look at the president to shake her hand or have their picture taken with her. Ratman had told her that Elizabeth Thomas’s family would be there, too.

She felt nauseous at the thought of having to see them. Surely a family member couldn’t be fooled, definitely not one as close to Thomas as her sister. She’d been nervous enough just telephoning Nancy after the assassination attempt to assure her she was all right. Nancy had wanted to chat and hear a full report of what had happened, but Ryden was able to cut the discussion short with excuses that too much of importance was demanding her immediate attention. She’d promised to call back another time for a lengthier visit but had yet to follow up.

What if Nancy or her other family realized she wasn’t Elizabeth? Ryden had visions of someone pointing at her and screaming, like they did in
Invasion of the Body Snatchers
. Would she have time to run and escape, or would she be shot down on the spot? The lawyer had said that if she told anyone or tried to insinuate something publicly or otherwise, she’d be terminated…but what if she was discovered or suspected against her will? Would they still shoot her down?

She had no doubt they would. She suspected they’d make it look like a public attack on the president, though they’d have to replace her body at the morgue with that of the real president because certainly an autopsy would be done, as with JFK. She would leave this world as silently and unwanted as she’d entered it, and perhaps she’d be sealing Elizabeth Thomas’s fate as well—if she was even still alive. Her only hope in the event she was exposed was to run—find a way to get out and keep running, but this new guard dog Kennedy, her primary, would make it even more difficult.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Maybe she was just being paranoid. With the surgeries and other improvements, even she couldn’t tell the difference between them now. Ryden Wagner had disappeared somewhere under Elizabeth Thomas, and the only inconsistency was well hidden under her clothes: a birthmark on her lower back that they couldn’t laser away like they had other moles and freckles, but fortunately a difference only Thomas’s deceased husband could have caught.

Ryden jumped when she heard a knock. “Yes?”

“Madam President, it’s Kennedy. I’d like to review your schedule for today.”

Damn, this woman wouldn’t leave her alone. “Just a minute, please.” Ryden threw a robe over her nightgown, hurriedly put in her contacts, and opened the door. “Come in.”

Shield forced herself not to stare at the president’s disheveled hair and face still devoid of makeup. She’d always considered Thomas a striking, proud-looking woman, but only now did she realize how attractive she really was. Without the in-house stylist’s coiffure and perfect cosmetics, she was even more Harper’s type—a natural beauty.

The president sat at her vanity table and looked at her through the mirror as she ran a brush through her hair. When Shield didn’t immediately elaborate on why she was there, Thomas got up and faced her. “Well?”

Shield looked down at her folder but remained at the door. “Today…the Find Your Sport event.”

Thomas walked to the window. “Oh, that’s today?” She looked outside. “And I’ve been wondering all morning what a beach-volleyball court and temporary soccer field are doing out on the lawn.” Turning back to Shield, she said wryly, “I see why you come highly recommended.”

Oh boy, this is not going to be easy.
Thomas clearly did not relish having her as her bodyguard.

“I was about to say, should you want to depart the festivities for any reason, please refrain from doing so on your own. Thousands of people will be here today, and although every single one of them will have been scanned and checked, we can never be too safe.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’re done.”

Shield started to leave but hesitated at the door. “Madam President…” She turned to look at her. “My abilities to guard you are not compromised because of my gender.”

“That’s wonderful,” Thomas replied flippantly as she removed her robe and tossed it on the bed.

Shield quickly averted her eyes but not before she got a good look at Thomas’s rather sheer, cream-colored nightgown, trimmed in lace, which allowed a far-too-revealing view of the slender figure beneath. This woman was not only frustrating but also distracting as hell. “Is your dislike personal?” Joe had told her back in Greece that the president was distant, but he hadn’t said she treated him with cold indifference, and the expression on the woman’s face in Greece was anything but cold.

“Men are less chatty. Are you usually this talkative with your subjects?”

“No, Madam President.” For someone who advocated gender equal rights, Thomas was doing a miserable job at setting an example. “If you have any doubts, however, I’m sure my boss can have me replaced.” Shield wanted to tell her to go to hell. She’d worked too long and too hard and had put her life on the line more than a few times to protect self-proclaimed important people to have to put up with this ungrateful woman.

“This boss of yours,” Thomas said, her voice edged with contempt, “who would he replace you with? A mute, perhaps?”

“I…” Shield was getting very close to not giving a damn about whether this woman lived or died, but she did care about what Pierce would say if she walked. She’d given an oath to do her job to the best of her abilities. She forced a smile. “Have a good morning, Madam President,” she finally said, and left.

She went back to her own room and had to force herself not to slam the door.
Great. Another snobbish bitch.
Although she’d studied the White House and its environs through maps on her way to Washington, she had been up most of the night while a guard from the Uniformed Division stood outside the president’s door. She wanted to familiarize herself with the grounds and all possible exits, as well as everything planned for the next day. As a result, she hadn’t gotten more than two hours’ sleep, and that, combined with Thomas’s attitude, was really making her cranky. Shield just wanted to get on the first plane to Tuscany and never leave Italy again.

She paced, listening for sounds from the other room indicating the president was nearing departure, and an hour later, her phone rang.

Thomas was short and to the point. “I’m ready.”

Inspired by Team USA’s #1 showing at the 2012 London Olympic Games, Elizabeth Thomas had made Find Your Sport the theme for her version of the Democratic initiative to solve childhood obesity within a generation, following in the footsteps of the Obama Let’s Move campaign. A host of Dream Team medal-winning athletes would be on hand to participate in interactive sessions with the kids, designed to help them discover sports and activities that would motivate them to lead more active lives. Ryden hoped that having Michael Phelps, Gabby Douglas, and Missy Franklin here, in addition to many other favorites, would take some of the attention off her.