Whitewash (69 page)

Natalie Richards nodded and gave a slight wave to Senator Shirley Malone as she entered the room. The woman did look like a class act, tall and stately in black silk with silver sequins. Didn’t hurt to have that handsome young man on her arm though she wasn’t sure she agreed with the Indiana senator’s timing.

Actually, Natalie was relieved to see that the fallout, the crashing and burning of Senator Allen, wouldn’t include any of his staff. That he would even try blaming Jason Brill was something she had not anticipated, but she couldn’t say she was surprised. It was called survival in Washington. Or collateral damage, as her boss had called Zach Kensor. She wasn’t anxious to see another casualty. Didn’t matter if she did think Brill was a major pain in the ass.

She continued to watch the door after a glance at her watch. Where in the world was Colin Jernigan? The president was due to arrive any minute, and here Natalie sat surrounded by three empty chairs.

Jason Brill proudly held the chair out for Senator Shirley Malone at her place next to the podium, the place that would have been Senator John Quincy Allen’s. She would be replacing him tonight in more ways than simply on the program.

She had told Jason no one would dare to question his being here, especially if he arrived as her escort. And she was right. No one did, though he felt their eyes like darts in his back. Even Lindy couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. He wanted to tell her that although she didn’t believe in him, someone else did.

Earlier in Senator Malone’s hotel room he had come clean, confessed everything he knew and, more importantly, everything he did not know. He had been convinced that Senator John Quincy Allen was powerful enough to make him take the blame for Zach Kensor’s murder. Almost every visible connection Senator Allen had with Zach, Jason had either arranged, made payment for or scheduled. And perception was everything in Washington. Jason really did believe he was screwed.

But Senator Malone simply told him, “The truth can be a powerful weapon.”

Now, as Jason watched William Sidel take the podium, he wasn’t so sure that was true. Sidel was still here, untouched, unscathed and stronger than ever, surrounded by those who had invested, lobbied, promoted and trusted him. There was something wrong with that, Jason thought, as he took his place.

Jason Brill proudly held the chair out for Senator Shirley Malone at her place next to the podium, the place that would have been Senator John Quincy Allen’s. She would be replacing him tonight in more ways than simply on the program.

She had told Jason no one would dare to question his being here, especially if he arrived as her escort. And she was right. No one did, though he felt their eyes like darts in his back. Even Lindy couldn’t stop her jaw from dropping. He wanted to tell her that although she didn’t believe in him, someone else did.

Earlier in Senator Malone’s hotel room he had come clean, confessed everything he knew and, more importantly, everything he did not know. He had been convinced that Senator John Quincy Allen was powerful enough to make him take the blame for Zach Kensor’s murder. Almost every visible connection Senator Allen had with Zach, Jason had either arranged, made payment for or scheduled. And perception was everything in Washington. Jason really did believe he was screwed.

But Senator Malone simply told him, “The truth can be a powerful weapon.”

Now, as Jason watched William Sidel take the podium, he wasn’t so sure that was true. Sidel was still here, untouched, unscathed and stronger than ever, surrounded by those who had invested, lobbied, promoted and trusted him. There was something wrong with that, Jason thought, as he took his place.

Abda paid close attention. Mr. Reid had introduced William Sidel, the head of EchoEnergy. He would be the one introducing the President of the United States.

Abda’s fingers found the small prescription bottle in his jacket pocket. He had practiced over and over again, so that no one could possibly notice. He rolled the lid off with little trouble. He found the capsule easily and gently pinched it between his fingertips.

He caught Khaled watching him from the corner where he also waited with a tray.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Sidel was saying, “I have the privilege to introduce with great pride our President of the United States of America.”

The banquet hall resounded with applause. Chairs skidded out as guests rose to their feet. No one was even looking Abda’s way and he used the distraction to take out the capsule. It was difficult to see the man they were applauding. Abda had little time. He craned his neck and twisted his body to get a glimpse between the applauding bodies.

He brought out the capsule, pleased that his hands were dry and his fingers steady, though he could feel the vibration of excitement pumping in his chest. This was the moment they had planned for. All their hard work, their secret meetings, their sleepless nights had brought them to this one moment.

Abda was ready. His fingertips squeezed the capsule. He was about to break it over the appetizer. The fatal powder would become a part of the sprinkles of Parmesan. And then it would be too late. It would be over, a lesson that would teach them all.

That’s when Abda noticed the red necktie. The President of the United States was wearing a solid-red necktie.

They had won. His nation had won. He and Khaled and Qasim had won. Abda should have felt relieved. No one would die today. But as he dropped the unbroken capsule back into his pocket he felt it would only be a matter of time.

Abda paid close attention. Mr. Reid had introduced William Sidel, the head of EchoEnergy. He would be the one introducing the President of the United States.

Abda’s fingers found the small prescription bottle in his jacket pocket. He had practiced over and over again, so that no one could possibly notice. He rolled the lid off with little trouble. He found the capsule easily and gently pinched it between his fingertips.

He caught Khaled watching him from the corner where he also waited with a tray.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Sidel was saying, “I have the privilege to introduce with great pride our President of the United States of America.”

The banquet hall resounded with applause. Chairs skidded out as guests rose to their feet. No one was even looking Abda’s way and he used the distraction to take out the capsule. It was difficult to see the man they were applauding. Abda had little time. He craned his neck and twisted his body to get a glimpse between the applauding bodies.

He brought out the capsule, pleased that his hands were dry and his fingers steady, though he could feel the vibration of excitement pumping in his chest. This was the moment they had planned for. All their hard work, their secret meetings, their sleepless nights had brought them to this one moment.

Abda was ready. His fingertips squeezed the capsule. He was about to break it over the appetizer. The fatal powder would become a part of the sprinkles of Parmesan. And then it would be too late. It would be over, a lesson that would teach them all.

That’s when Abda noticed the red necktie. The President of the United States was wearing a solid-red necktie.

They had won. His nation had won. He and Khaled and Qasim had won. Abda should have felt relieved. No one would die today. But as he dropped the unbroken capsule back into his pocket he felt it would only be a matter of time.

William Sidel could barely contain himself. Here he was seated next to the president and surrounded by a roomful of Fortune 500 CEOs, senators, foreign diplomats and celebrities. He was supposed to make a short speech. John had told him to keep it light and charming. Like John could instruct him on being charming. Who was he kidding? Sidel was in his element. He’d tell a few jokes, roast a couple of easy targets, work the room.

He didn’t even wait for all the salads to be served. Sidel couldn’t wait. He was back up on his feet and at the podium, anxious and ready. He noticed a trio arrive late, but paid little attention to them. And neither did anyone else. Instead, they were awaiting his words.

Eric expected to feel relief when Sabrina so easily accepted his confession that he worked as an undercover agent. Any relief was short-lived, however, and replaced by more clandestine planning. Maybe he was even a little worried that she was so anxious to join in his suggested covert operations.

It had happened quickly and rather smoothly. Within an hour of their decision, Colin Jernigan appeared with a gown and tuxedo, invitations and dinner seating down in front of the podium. They were only a few minutes late and even that Colin had orchestrated so that they walked in just as Sidel made his way to the podium. So what if they missed the appetizers; Sabrina looked ready to deliver the main course.

Sabrina tapped her foot impatiently under the table. The shoes Jernigan had gotten for her were a size too big and too tall. She’d stuffed tissues in the toes, but they still slipped off her heel. Even as she tapped her foot she could feel the shoe swinging and just when she needed every ounce of confidence.

Sidel started in with his lame frat-boy jokes. Actually, she’d be doing everyone a favor by shutting him up. And yet, her stomach continued to twist into knots. Her throat was dry despite having gulped her entire goblet of water. Jernigan even slid his glass over to her. Was it that obvious?

The attractive black woman across the table watched her out of the corner of her eye. She had nodded when Jernigan brought them in, even offered Sabrina a slight smile as she gestured for them to sit down.

Sabrina glanced at Eric. He had told her she could back out if she wanted and they’d simply enjoy the meal. In the last week she had survived her car being shoved off the road and exploding. She’d witnessed the death of her coworker. She’d had her reputation smeared and her life threatened. She’d come much too close to a water moccasin and face-to-face with a hired killer. And the man in front of her, standing at the podium, had been responsible for all of it. She stood up.

“Mr. Sidel,” she called out. Silverware clinked and stopped. “Is it true your processing plant is responsible for the contamination of Jackson Springs Bottled Water?”

Complete silence.

Sidel still had a smile left over from the joke he had just told. It took him a few seconds before the attack registered. “Excuse me?”

“Dozens of people have gotten sick. A ten-year-old girl was hospitalized with dioxins found in her bloodstream. Dioxins that your processing plant released into the Apalachicola River.”

She could see two Secret Service agents starting toward her, but Jernigan waved them off.

“I’m quite certain you don’t know what you’re talking about, ma’am.”

There were whispers now and shuffling of chairs as guests tried to get a better view.

“Oh, but I do.” And just as she saw the recognition start to register on his face she said, “I used to be one of your scientists.”

Abda had finished serving the head table just as the woman began to jeer Mr. Sidel. He had felt a disappointment, a physical draining of energy. The trays weighed him down. Every plate, every serving became an effort. He had not realized how difficult it would be to go from assassin to ordinary waiter. He should have felt relief. He should feel joy, for their mission had obtained their goal. They would, indeed, be awarded a portion of the military oil contract and their nation’s influence and standing would remain strong and steady. But instead of accomplishment, Abda lacked focus.

He listened to this woman and he heard the passion in her voice. Perhaps that’s what he worried he had lost somewhere between the appetizers and the salads, his passion. No, he had replaced passion for resolve. That was not a bad thing. Passion could be dangerous. And that’s when Abda saw Khaled approaching the head table. He balanced a tray on one hand above his head. All eyes were on the woman. No one noticed him. He was just another waiter. But Abda saw what was on the tray, three small, plastic bottles with pull-top caps.

Abda froze and watched as Khaled set the tray down next to the head table. He picked up two of the bottles. No one paid him any attention. He shoved the top of one bottle into the bottom of the other. He picked up the third bottle.

“He has a bomb,” Abda yelled.

Eric grabbed Sabrina and shoved her down onto the floor. Jernigan already had his gun out. Secret Service agents were scrambling toward the president. And the Middle Eastern man in a waiter’s uniform held his hands up for everyone to see he was serious. Two bottles already attached in one hand. Another bottle in his other hand. Liquid explosives, Eric thought. The man would need only to shove the last bottle into the others. As soon as the three liquids mixed they would explode.

Jesus! All this security and a waiter could stand two feet from the President of the United States and blow up an entire banquet hall.

Eric’s eyes raked the room.

“Take it easy,” Jernigan said to the man as he approached him, walking slowly, his gun held down by his side. “Whatever it is you want, we can get for you.”

The man wouldn’t answer, his eyes darted back and forth from the bottles in his hands to Jernigan to the frantic guests at the head table.

“You don’t want to do this,” Jernigan continued in a tone Eric recognized. In training, Eric used to joke and call it the lullaby tone. “Tell me what you’d like me to get for you.”

The man looked at Jernigan now. And Eric thought perhaps the lullaby tone really did work. But then the man smiled and his hands moved together. Before they connected, his head exploded with a blast from above. Eric didn’t even see the sniper.