The Gemini Deception (13 page)

So far, it was the one single decision he’d made that she agreed with. Nothing had drained her more since the beginning of this charade than having to be around the Paytons. She had studied the family’s history, but no amount of studying could prepare her for the idiosyncrasies of close relatives, particularly siblings. What were Thomas’s giveaways—the nuances of behavior and speech that only those she let her guard down with would recognize? And how could they possibly prepare her to respond to memories shared only between the two sisters?

Ryden had noticed Nancy’s gaze on her more than a few times, and it had thrown her completely off her game when Nancy had referred to her as Peanut. She’d never had siblings, but she’d been in foster homes enough to know that sisters and brothers often gave each other nicknames. It had been obvious that Nancy had expected her to react accordingly, probably by calling her by her own nickname. Instead, Ryden had smiled and pretended to be distracted by her nephew’s enthusiasm about the festivities.

Finally alone in her bedroom, with Ratman nowhere in sight and his guard dog Kennedy ensconced in her own room, she had begun to relax a little. She lay on the bed, breathing deeply, until she felt calm enough to let her mind wander away from today’s events and into the realm of unpleasant possibilities of what they’d do to her if she couldn’t pull this off. Would she have agreed to all of this had she known what they would require? She’d asked herself this very question too many times to count and had always come up with the same answer. Her fate would have been sealed had she declined. At least this way, she had a chance to stay alive.

She got up and walked to the window, too restless to sleep. What if she found a way to escape? Didn’t they have tunnels under the White House that led to some obscure exit? She’d seen that in a movie somewhere. But those were probably guarded, too. Everything in this place was guarded. How about if she managed to slip away from Kennedy somehow during the next big conference somewhere and disappeared? No, that wouldn’t do either; the whole world would be out looking for Elizabeth Thomas.

And calling the police was not an option. Who could she point to, and who would believe her instead of Ratman? Even after she proved she wasn’t the real president, Ratman would deny ever having known otherwise. She’d still take the fall for killing the Laudens, not to mention facing new charges for being involved in whatever conspiracy and crimes against the president. She couldn’t stop from dwelling on one disaster scenario after the other.

She paced the room, feeling claustrophobic. She sat down on the bed again, but the sensation of feeling trapped only intensified. She couldn’t breathe.
God, I need some air. I need to get out of here
. She threw on her robe and opened the door. When she saw the way was clear, she ran down the corridor to the Yellow Oval Room, which gave her access to the massive Truman Balcony.

She felt as though someone had a death grip on her throat. She threw open the balcony doors and leaned over the rail, gasping for air, unmindful of the chill. She tried to calm herself by thinking of pleasant things—new candle designs and past vacations she’d taken—but soon her mind was on Ratman again and what he would do to her if she failed.

*

Shield came out of the shower, wrapped herself in the huge towel—complete with an embroidered presidential seal—and stepped into the bedroom. She’d hoped the hot water would relax her after the long, exhausting day with Thomas, but for a reason she couldn’t grasp, she felt wired. In actuality, she’d felt so from the moment she stepped into the White House. The pressure of sitting the U.S. president, especially one who had been recently attacked, would explain that, but deep inside, she sensed it was more, though she didn’t know why. Her instincts were never wrong, however; she suspected it would be only a matter of time before her restlessness was justified.

She was changing into her pajamas when she heard Thomas’s phone ring. It kept ringing for what seemed forever. The president was clearly either in no mood to pick up—which was highly improbable considering her position—or she was unable to answer, a possibility if she was in the bathroom. Had Thomas stepped out for whatever reason, she knew to inform her bodyguard.

Shield retired to her bed fifteen minutes later, still not tired but knowing she should make the effort because the president’s day started at six a.m. and she needed to be alert. It was already well after midnight. As she reached for the bedside light, the phone in the next room rang again. When no one picked it up, she grabbed her Glock from the drawer of her nightstand and went to the door that adjoined their rooms. Rapping sharply, she called out, “Madam President?” No one answered.

She turned the knob and walked into an empty room. When she checked the bathroom and found it empty as well, she bolted out of the room and into the corridor, where she stood still for a moment in the hope of catching movement or sound. Neither happened, but she did detect a small draft on her bare feet.

She ran down the hall and stopped in front of the door to the Yellow Oval Room, used primarily as a private meeting space or sitting room. The door, usually closed, was now slightly ajar. She knocked but didn’t wait for a reply. Proceeding quickly inside, she found the doors to the Truman Balcony wide open, the curtains in a frenzied dance because of the breeze.

“Madam President,” she said as she pushed the curtains aside to find Elizabeth Thomas leaning over the railing, grasping the rail. “Are you all right?”

When Thomas didn’t reply, Shield went to stand beside her, the cold metal sending a shock through her body.

“I’m…fine.” The president sounded out of breath, like she’d just run a marathon, and she was clearly using the rail for much-needed support.

Normally, Shield would have lectured her about taking off on her own, but right now Thomas looked like she could barely stand. Something was very wrong. “Should I call the doctor?”

Thomas spun around and looked at her like she’d said something crazy. The exterior security lights on the White House were bright enough for Shield to see that the president was unusually pale. “You can’t call a doctor!” Thomas said, a little too loudly.

“With all due respect,” Shield said, “you don’t look well, and you almost passed out this morning.”

“I’ll be fine,” Thomas insisted. “I’m just tired and…stressed. Besides, I really don’t need the added attention.” She looked at Shield’s bare feet. “You’re the one who’s going to need a doctor.”

Might the president have been drinking? “The in-house doctor is very discreet,” she said.

Thomas gave her a quizzical look. “What are you saying?”

“That he won’t share your…medical information or condition, and I definitely don’t intend to tell anyone, either.”

Thomas threw her hands up. “What…kind of place…is this?” Her breathing became labored again, and she looked on the verge of panic.

“Excuse me?”

Thomas turned her back to Shield and hung over the railing, clearly trying to catch her breath. “Just go away,” she rasped.

“I can’t do that, Madam President.” Shield tried to conceal the clatter of her teeth. She was freezing in her light pajamas and bare feet.

“I don’t need an audience.”

“There’s no shame in having a panic attack, Madam President. At least let me help you to your room before you catch pneumonia.” When Shield put her hand on the chief executive’s shoulder, Thomas jumped.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I’m sorry. I just want to help you.”

Thomas turned to Shield and stumbled against her before regaining her footing. “Thank you, but all of you have given me more damn help than I can handle, so no thanks.” She pushed past Shield and took a few steps into the Yellow Oval Room but stopped when she saw Kenneth Moore standing in the doorway to the corridor.

“I have been trying to call you. What’s going on?” Moore sounded like a father who’d caught his daughter up after curfew. Shield didn’t like the way he looked or talked to Thomas and didn’t know why the president put up with it.

“Nothing is going on. I’m fine.”

“Kennedy?” He looked to Shield for an answer.

“I escorted the president to get some fresh air.”

“In your pajamas?”

Kennedy looked at her frozen feet, now burning from the change in temperature. “I like the cold.”

Moore checked his watch. “At one in the morning?” He glared at Thomas.

The president looked away and Shield could see her hands had started to tremble again.

Something told her that Moore was the last person Thomas wanted to see right now. She clearly wasn’t as close to him as Shield had assumed.

“Madam President, are you ready to go back in?” Shield asked.

“Yes. It is rather chilly, isn’t it?” Thomas walked quickly past Moore into the hallway.

“Is something wrong with the president?” he asked Shield as she started after her.

“As far as I can tell, she just needed to unwind.”

“Did she say anything?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Like what?” Shield pretended ignorance. She wasn’t about to tell him about the president’s panic attack.

Moore looked at Shield closely for a long time. “I worry about her,” he finally said when Shield didn’t flinch or look away. “She hasn’t been the same since the assassination attempt.”

“I’m sure she’ll feel a lot better once we find out who’s responsible,” Shield replied. “Now, excuse me. I have to get back to the president.”

*

Ryden was about to shut the door to her bedroom when Kennedy appeared on the other side of the threshold.

“How do you feel, Madam President?” the bodyguard asked.

“Better, thank you.” Ryden’s hands had started to shake again at seeing Moore, so she jammed them in the pockets of her robe.

“Can I ask the doctor for something to help calm you down?”

“That’s not necessary.” Ryden had expected Kennedy to tell Ratman she was unwell and that she’d run off without warning, but the guard dog had protected her instead. She wasn’t sure why, but she did appreciate that much. “Where is Mr. Moore?”

“Down the hall. I didn’t see him leave the Yellow Room.”

Ryden opened the door farther. “Come in, please.” Kennedy stepped inside and Ryden shut the door. “What did he ask you?”

“If something was the matter with you.”

“What did you answer?”

“I didn’t tell him that you seemed…unwell.”

“Thank you.”

“I realize it’s a very stressful period for you,” Kennedy said, “but I assure you, I will do everything in my power to make sure nothing happens to you.”

“Until I finish my term,” Ryden replied, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in her tone.

“If necessary, then yes.”

“Then do me a favor.”

“Of course.”

Ryden had gotten sick and tired of people referring to her as who and what she was not. Every time they did, she became more aware of the lies, deceptions, and danger she was in. Kennedy knew better, anyway, and there was no reason to keep the show running when they were alone. “It’s bad enough I need a permanent babysitter, but since I do, stop calling me Madam President when there’s no one else around.”

“That would be against protocol,” Kennedy said calmly.

“I realize. But it would make my life here a little easier.”

“Very well then, Mrs. Thomas.”

Ryden let the sound of that name sink in for a few seconds. “Call me Elizabeth.” She figured at least that name could belong to anyone, and she wouldn’t necessarily have to associate it with the president.

Kennedy stood dead still as she studied Ryden intently for several seconds, the same way she had when they were first introduced. The bodyguard nodded. “As you wish…Elizabeth.”

That does sound a lot better
, Ryden thought, and realized her hands had stopped shaking. “That will be all for tonight.”

Kennedy turned to go. “Sleep well,” she said, and closed the door behind her.

*

Shield tried to sleep but ended up tossing and turning most of the night. Something was up in the White House, something aside from the fact she was convinced an insider had cooperated with Thomas’s attackers. Shield had no proof of the latter, but most organized attempts on a high-profile individual, especially a president, often involved internal assistance.

Thomas and her sidekick Moore presented a whole new dimension to the definition of high-strung. Most probably, the attack played a big part, but that didn’t explain Thomas’s trembling and apologetic behavior whenever Moore was around, as if she feared him. Nor did it explain Moore’s almost threatening demeanor toward the president. At times, he acted as though he owned Thomas, and he was never out of earshot whenever the president made an appearance, even when she was with her family.

Elizabeth Thomas herself was another kind of peculiar. She didn’t seem happy about having around-the-clock protection and seemed to dislike Shield, but on the other hand had asked to be called by her first name. According to Joe, the president’s ex-bodyguard, Thomas never so much as acknowledged her Secret Service agents, let alone ask them to call her by her first name.

What was going on? It was an irrational thought, but could Moore possibly
have
something on the president? What could Thomas have to fear from the aide who’d been with her for years? The two were clearly both involved in something, but what?

And why were they doing such a miserable job at keeping to protocol? Shield had guarded presidents before, both national and international, and so far, the relationship between president and advisor had ranged from basic courtesy to close friendship. Under no circumstances was the president submissive to an advisor, not unless…

Shield jumped up off the bed. Unless Thomas wasn’t interested in protection because she didn’t fear a repeat. And that would only be because there was no actual danger. The only threat she felt was from Moore.
Because he knows what happened or didn’t happen the day of the attack.
Could it be that, for some reason, Thomas had helped stage a fake attack? If so, then for what gain?