Conspiracy (45 page)

 

At the American air base outside of Tokyo, the pilot was ready to take off for the United States, but Taylor insisted on using the secure military phone first. When she had General Clayton on the line, she told him everything that had happened. He promised to report it all to Chief Justice Hall.

"One other thing, General Clayton," she added. "I see no need to disclose these events to anyone other than Hall. Do you agree?"

"Absolutely, and I'm certain Gary will as well."

"It's finished, then."

"It's all finished. By the way, you want to know about the presidential election?"

"Oh, my God. I forgot about that."

"Webster won," Clayton said. "All three networks are predicting a clear victory for him."

As she hung up the phone, Taylor felt none of the disappointment she thought she would have only days ago. She now believed that other things in her life were more important.

"The election is over," she said softly. "The election is finally over."

Cady shrugged, reflecting the indifference he felt. Then he threw his arms around her and kissed her for a long moment.

She called to Lieutenant Farnsworth, "Can you drop us somewhere close to Mendocino, California?"

"Anywhere you want," he replied.

Cady put an arm around Taylor's back. Together they walked toward the waiting airplane.

 

The End

 

 

 

Excerpt from

The China Gambit

 

by

 

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

 

Copyright © 2012, Allan J. Topol

 

 

 

 

 

Before Craig had a chance to answer, his cell phone rang. He didn't recognize the number.

"Craig Page here."

"Mr. Page, this is James Anderson, Deputy Police Chief in Calgary Canada."

Craig's heart was pounding. Two day ago Francesca had sent him an e-mail, telling him she was in Calgary, working on a big story.

"Are you Francesca Page's father?"

"I am."

Craig held his breath.

"Unfortunately, Mr. Page, I have to inform you that your daughter died in an auto accident this evening. Her car collided with a truck on an icy road."

"No," he gave a bloodcurdling cry. "No. It can't be."

Not Francesca. I love her more than anything in the world.

"You're mistaken. It's not Francesca."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Page. She had a passport and other ID in her jacket pocket."

The fool was lying. "You're no Calgary cop."

"I'm very sorry, Mr. Page. She had a Tiffany's wristwatch. Engraved on the back 'To Francesca With Love...'"

He'd given her that when she graduated from Northwestern.

"And a scar on her left ankle."

He vividly recalled the ski injury she suffered during their trip to Megeve two years ago at Christmas.

The man's accent and inflections were from Calgary. As the reality drove home like a spike through his body, in agony, a rash of grief covered his face, distorting his mouth, turning his grey eyes black. Francesca was dead.

"I'm so sorry," Giuseppe said.

But Craig barely heard his words.

"Leave me alone," Craig said, rising abruptly. "I am alone."

He left Sabbitini and wandered the streets of Trastevere. Crossing the Tiber on the Ponte Sisto, he recalled his father, four years old, so alone after the carnage on the farm, his whole family murdered.

Now, I too, am no longer connected to a single living soul.

Aimlessly, in a daze, he crossed streets, disregarding traffic signals, ignoring honking horns and the curses of motorists. He passed churches, but didn't go inside. He wouldn't find solace there.

He walked for two more hours. Then drifted into a Trattoria. He ordered a bottle of Chianti. The waitress poured a glass, but he didn't touch it. He placed his head into his hands and lowered it to the coarse wooden table. He cried, the tears streaming down his cheeks, dripping into his mouth. "Francesca," he muttered in a barely audible plaintive lament.

He had no idea how long he remained with his head on the table. He heard, "Craig." A powerful set of arms pulled his head up, then raised him to his feet. It was Giuseppe.

"C'mon Craig, we're going to the airport. I'm taking you to Washington."

 

 

 

 

 

Excerpt from

Spy Dance

A Novel

 

by

 

Allan Topol

National Bestselling Author

 

Copyright © 2001, 2011 by Allan J. Topol

 

 

 

 

 

 

Nervously he picked it up on the second ring.

"Is this Greg Nielsen?" a man's voice asked in French.

"You must have the wrong room," he replied, trying hard not to disclose the tension in his voice. He could feel perspiration beginning to form under his arms.

"I know that you're Greg Nielsen," the caller persisted.

"You're obviously mistaken. There's no one in this room by that name. I suggest you talk to the hotel operator."

"I would urge you not to play games with me, Mr. Nielsen. Be in front of the Bristol at six tomorrow morning. A black Mercedes will pick you up."

David's mind was focusing on the accent of the caller. Clearly Parisian, he decided. "What is your name, please? I'll give it to the hotel operator. Maybe she can leave a message."

"Did you understand what I said?" The caller sounded annoyed. "Tomorrow at six."

"And if I'm not there?"

"Certain people in Washington will be very interested in knowing where you are, Mr. Nielsen."

The phone clicked dead.

 

 

Allan Topol is the national bestselling author of novels of international intrigue, including
Spy Dance
, recently translated into Chinese. He is a graduate of Carnegie Institute of Technology, who majored in chemistry, abandoned science, and obtained a law degree from Yale University. A partner in a major Washington law firm, and an avid wine collector, he has traveled extensively, researching dramatic locations for his novels. You can visit him at
http://www.allantopol.com
. Please let him know if you would like to receive his free newsletter.