Body of Evidence (Evidence Series) (24 page)

“He was still vice president then and had about six months left in office.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“He spent more time with Evan than he did with me. Tat. Why would anyone mail something to my address from South Korea?”

“I think Roddy screwed up and hoped to save himself. Maybe he sent the original pages from your field notebook, before Jeannie changed it. Proof things weren’t kosher.”

She frowned. “Do you think Roddy was supposed to kill me that day?”

Curt squeezed her knee. “I don’t know. If you’d disappeared, how would the North Korean government have reacted? Would they have let JPAC leave or detained everyone? I think Roddy needed to get you to the Joint Security Area and raise a fuss about your safety. JPAC would probably have been ejected—which would have allowed Evan to smuggle out the bomb.”

The green glow of the dashboard lights revealed the tightness of Curt’s mouth. “Unfortunately, we still can’t prove Raptor is behind anything. My actions, my evidence, are bound by law. Theirs are not.”

“They blew up a jet.”

“If we can’t prove Evan was following orders, Raptor will get away with it.”

The acid in her stomach churned. “They’re going to blame it all on Evan—and on me, for dating him.”

“Your turn. Tell me about the time your uncle visited you in Egypt.”

“Why?” Exasperation and frustration made her voice harsh. “He was no longer vice president when he came to Egypt! What does it matter?”

“Because the arms deal with the Sudanese warlord—a Janjaweed militia leader and a wanted war criminal—took place in Egypt. Mara, it happened right under your nose.”

The air inside the car turned thick, nearly solid, too concrete to inhale, let alone pass through constricted lungs. The knot that had been sitting in her belly for weeks suddenly melted into a pool of boiling acid and pulsed up her esophagus. He spoke with such conviction, such assurance. And she knew him well enough by now to know there had to be some kernel of truth, or he wouldn’t be so certain. And yet, she
knew
her uncle wasn’t the corrupt man Curt believed him to be. “No. Fucking. Way.”

“He did, Mara.”

“Vice presidents smile prettily with elementary school children and attack the opposition party with pit-bull tenacity. They don’t make arms deals.”

“He wasn’t VP when he conducted the deal.”

“Is that why you want me to testify? I promise you, Curt, I don’t know a damn thing. I’ve never met anyone from Darfur or even Sudan. Hell, I don’t even know what Janja-whatever means.”

“Janjaweed. Darfur isn’t an ethnic or religious conflict—it’s nomadic tribes versus sedentary. Janjaweed is a blanket term to describe the nomadic Arab gunmen who see no problem with killing entire villages so they can take their water and grazing land.”

“I know what war criminals do. Before I worked for JPAC, I worked in Bosnia for the International Commission for Missing Persons. I excavated mass graves—sites where entire villages had been lined up and shot in the name of ethnic cleansing. I recovered the remains of children and babies, some still locked in their mother’s arms. My uncle would
never
cut a deal with someone who would do that.”

“He did, Mara.”

“Well, if that’s why you want me to testify, you’ve wasted a trip to North Korea. I can’t help you.”

He shot her a frustrated look. “Don’t be insulting. I didn’t go to North Korea because I want you to testify.”

She had to admit, that was unfair of her. He’d been nothing but heroic.

“And if I thought you could testify about the arms deal, I’d have your uncle on charges a lot worse than obstruction of justice and influence peddling.”

“Then why am I testifying?”

“You’re a character witness.”

Incredulous, she snickered. “I’m a
character
witness? You mean I get to tell everyone that after my father, Uncle Andrew is the best, most wonderful man I’ve ever known? Well, hell, Curt, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I’m in.”

“No, Mara. You’re not going to tell everyone what a paragon he is. You’re going to tell the jury what he did for you.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about how Andrew Stevens used his power and influence to get you into Stanford and even snagged you a full scholarship you didn’t deserve.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FOUR

E
VAN’S FRUSTRATION BOILED
over. “I’ve got a plan, Dad. Either way, she’ll come to us.”

“I’m sick of waiting. I think you’ve got a soft spot for the girl.”

Evan gritted his teeth. “Mara’s a job, Dad. I swear. I forgot to adjust the scope because the damn thing is too fucking complicated and I didn’t have much time. When I took the shot, her head was in the crosshairs.” So maybe he did feel a bite of pain when he pulled the trigger. That was his own business. He hadn’t been
trying
to fail. Lord knows he knew the consequences, and given the choice between his life and Mara’s, he’d choose himself every time.

“If Mara has a chance to breathe one fucking word about smallpox to the wrong person, we’re fucked. The plan was an anonymous attack at the Macy’s parade. But if there is any chance Mara knows what she saw in North Korea, al Qaeda won’t be blamed, we will.”

“She couldn’t possibly know,” he repeated for the hundredth time. “She saw a bomb but didn’t know what it was.” Even as he said the words, he rubbed the scars on his thigh. His father didn’t know it was a vaccine-resistant strain, didn’t know Evan had been sick, because Evan had quarantined himself during the contagious period and contained the damage.

Mara couldn’t know about the biological weapon, because if she’d gotten sick, there was no way North Korea would have let her go. But even so, she could pinpoint Roddy as the man who’d led her off-site. So Roddy had been taken care of. And Jeannie, with her second thoughts on selling out, she was a liability too. Then her brother had admitted to knowing about the bomb. Jeannie really should have kept her mouth shut.

“At this point, they’ll blame me as her crazy ex anyway. I’ll take her out, then start over, with a new name.”

“If you succeed, you’ll get a new name,” Robert Beck said. “If you fail, you’re on your own.”

A
LARMED BY THE
greenish tinge to Mara’s features, Curt parked on the deep shoulder a safe distance from the quiet interstate. As soon as the car stopped, she flung open the door and tumbled out into the chilly, star-filled Oklahoma night.

He braced, almost expecting her to run. But they were a hundred miles from nowhere. Tension dissipated when, a few feet from the SUV, she stopped and hunched over with her hands on her knees.

He jumped out and circled the vehicle. “Are you going to be okay?” he asked. From the look of her, it was a stupid question.

She shot him a glare over her shoulder. “You’re wrong. Uncle Andrew didn’t—”

He took a step closer. “From your reaction, I’m guessing you didn’t know—but you must have suspected.”

“The admissions department took pity on me! My dad had just died—”

“He’d died two years before, and you fell apart. Your grades tanked. All that is understandable. But no. Stanford doesn’t grant admission or full scholarships based on sympathy.”

“There was an interview—I flew out and explained my grades and why I’d bombed the SAT exam.”

“I’m sure you were very convincing. But the interview was a formality—and a fraud. Your admission was decided when your uncle secured government funding for a university study and pushed through a higher education bill with two-million in earmarks for Stanford. Your four years as an undergrad and two years in the master’s program cost taxpayers over two million dollars. But it didn’t cost you a dime.”

“Before my dad died, I was a great student. And my last six months of high school, I got my shit together. I
earned
my spot at Stanford.”

He’d never felt like such a shit revealing corruption in his life. This truth hurt her in ways he hadn’t anticipated, but it was too late to turn back now. “No, Mara. I’m sure you would have earned it, if your dad hadn’t died, but the truth is, your efforts were too little, too late. Based on Stanford’s admissions criteria at the time, there is no way you should have been accepted, let alone received a free ride.” He paused. “It’s called influence peddling, and your uncle was very, very good at it.”

“Are you saying I’m in trouble? Am I facing charges?”

“No. Even if I wanted to—and I don’t—I couldn’t charge you. Or your uncle, for that matter. The crime ended when you finished grad school and stopped receiving the scholarship, which was over five years ago, so the statute of limitations has passed.”

She slid down the side of the SUV and rested her head against the lower door panel. “If he’s not being charged with this, what do you want from me?”

“You can show a pattern of corruption.”

“I didn’t know. And I don’t believe it.”

Why did he feel a stab of guilt at the pain in her voice? This was his job. It was what he did best. “You don’t have to believe it. You only have to answer questions truthfully.”

“Can I plead the fifth?”

“No.” He slid down beside her. Gravel bit into his butt, and he shivered in the chill air. “You’ve been subpoenaed, and thanks to the statute of limitations, I can’t use anything you say against you. Fifth amendment doesn’t apply.”

She swiped at her cheek. “I was a wreck when my dad died.” She turned to him. “He was killed in a commuter plane crash. I woke up one day, and he was just…gone.”

Curt put his arm around her, but she leaned away from him, rejecting the feeble comfort he offered. Her reaction stung. He dropped his arm and scooted sideways, a sharp rock added injury to the insult.

“I was depressed—in a dark, terrible place. When I finally got my shit together, it was because Uncle Andrew sat me down and gave me something to work toward. He said it wasn’t too late for me to get into a good school.” She swiped at another tear. “He believed in me. He believed I had it in me to pull out of the darkness, to take control of my life. He saved me.”

“
You
saved you. He just gave you a reason. Who suggested Stanford, you, or him?”

“California sounded so glamorous. And so wonderfully far away from the mess I’d made of my life in Michigan.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her voice dropped. “Honestly, I’m not sure, but I think it was Uncle Andrew. My grades were awful. But I busted my ass—worked with tutors in math and science. The extra work couldn’t change my grades, but it ensured I was ready for the college-level coursework. I was told by the admissions board they’d reviewed work I’d done and had decided to make an exception for me.”

Curt sighed and swept aside the pebble that was digging into his tailbone. “You worked hard at Stanford. You earned your degrees, and no one can take that from you. But you didn’t get there on your own merit. Your uncle made it happen. And what he did was illegal.”

She took a deep breath but said nothing.

Curt knew her family couldn’t afford Stanford. Stevens hadn’t been a wealthy politician. He couldn’t have made a legal donation to secure her acceptance and he sure as hell couldn’t afford the steep tuition. Andrew Stevens didn’t come into money until later, after he left politics and joined Raptor.

He plucked the offending pebble from the ground and tossed it into the darkness beyond the roadside shoulder. “Deep down, you must have known.”

She picked up a pebble and weighed it in her hand before following his lead and hurling it into the darkness. “I was eighteen, self-absorbed, and recovering from a debilitating depression. No. I didn’t know.” She chucked another rock. “You’re supposed to be my white knight, but instead you’re telling me one of the things I’ve done that I’m proudest of is tainted.”

“Like your uncle, I’m not what you’ve made me out to be.” He dragged his fingers through his hair. “Christ, is there a man in your life you
haven’t
idealized?”

She crossed her arms. “Evan comes to mind.”

“Before you found out what a scumbag he is, I bet you thought he hung the moon.”