Dangerous to Know (22 page)

So when Maggie's limo drove around to the back of the turreted turn-of-the-century mansion that served as the vice president's official residence, it was Buck Evans who stepped out of the shadows and yanked open the rear door. Digging a hand into her arm, he half helped, half hauled her out of the back seat.

“I've diverted the surveillance cameras. Let's get you upstairs, fast.”

He hustled her through a side door, past a darkened room and up a set of narrow stairs. After scanning the wide hallway that ran the length of the second floor, he tugged her after him, toward a door set halfway down the hall.

“Go on inside. I'll reset the cameras, then come back for Mrs. Grant when she calls.”

Maggie had barely stepped into a small foyer before the door shut behind her. She stood still for a moment, trying to slow her pounding heart. From her breathless state, she guessed that the total elapsed time from the moment Buck Evans pulled open the
limo's door until he shut this one behind her had been less than a minute.

“Harrumph!”

At the sudden sound, Maggie spun to the left and dropped into an instinctive crouch. Her hand reached for her weapon before she remembered she wasn't armed.

“So you're the one!”

A diminutive figure in a severely cut navy blue suit, thick-soled lace-up shoes, and an unruly mass of steel gray curls stood framed in a set of glass-paned French doors. She held herself ramrod straight, her chin tilted at a belligerent angle and her mouth thinned to a tight line as she surveyed the newcomer from the tip of her auburn head to the toes of her black leather boots.

Maggie straightened slowly. From her intelligence briefings, she recognized the other woman instantly. Lillian Roth, the vice president's personal confidante and assistant for almost twenty years. The sixty-three-year-old woman had appeared rather formidable in the few photographs intel had dug up of her. Maggie now discovered that the photos hadn't really captured the full force of Lillian's character. In person, she radiated all the warmth and charm of a Marine Corps drill sergeant on a bad hair day.

“Well, I must say you've achieved a startling resemblance,” the dresser said with a small sniff. “But it takes more than mere physical presence to emulate someone of Mrs. Grant's stature.”

“I agree completely.”

Maggie's cool reply duplicated exactly the vice president's voice and intonation. Lillian's gray brows rose, but she obviously couldn't bring herself to unbend enough to praise what Maggie considered a rather impressive performance.

“I'll take your coat. The vice president is waiting for you in her sitting room.”

Having memorized the floor plans of the residence, Maggie walked confidently through the double doors into a tall-ceilinged, airy room. She paused just past the threshold, visually cataloging the fixtures and furniture in her mind. Although an attack on the VP was unlikely in this secure environment, Mag
gie wasn't about to take any chances. She'd spend only one night here, but she wanted to be able to find her way around these rooms in total darkness if she had to.

The furnishings in the spacious sitting room were a tribute to Taylor Grant's exquisite taste and vibrant personality. A framed print of Monet's famous water lilies of Giverny hung in a lighted alcove between tall curtained windows. Accent pieces scattered throughout the room took their cue from this masterpiece of swirling blues and greens and purples. A magnificent green jade Chinese temple dog, one paw resting imperiously on a round ball, dominated the huge coffee table set between two facing sofas, which were covered in a shimmering blue-and-purple plaid. A collection of crystal candlesticks in varying shapes and sizes decorated the white-painted wood mantel, reflecting the light from the fire in a rainbow of glowing colors.

But it was the woman standing beside the fireplace who drew Maggie's attention. For an eerie moment, she felt as though she were looking at her own reflection through a large invisible mirror.

The vice president wore royal blue pleated slacks and tunic exactly like the one Field Dress had procured for Maggie. Overhead spots highlighted the subtle gold tints in her wine-colored hair, which was styled in the simple, elegant shag the OMEGA agent now sported. Her eyes, deepened to a dusky violet by the bold color of her outfit, stared at Maggie with the same unwavering scrutiny.

For a long moment, neither woman spoke. Then Mrs. Grant's full mouth twisted.

“It's kind of a shock, isn't it? Every woman wants to think she's unique. Special in her own way. Yet here we are, two identical clones.”

“Not quite identical,” Maggie replied, smiling. “Underneath this very flattering outfit, I'm trussed up like a Christmas turkey.”

The vice president's lips quirked in response. Without thinking, Maggie duplicated the small smile.

Mrs. Grant's eyes widened. “Good grief, you
are
real, aren't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Adam said you were good,” the vice president murmured, “but I see now that was somewhat of an understatement.”

Adam, Maggie noted. Not the special envoy. Not even Adam Ridgeway. Just that casual, familiar
Adam.
A little too familiar, in her opinion.

Taylor Grant gestured toward one of the sofas, then took the other. “You go by the code name Chameleon, don't you?”

Maggie nodded. No one, not even the president, knew the OMEGA operatives' real names or civilian covers. That simple but rigid policy protected the president in the event anything should go wrong on a mission. It protected the agents, as well. With OMEGA maintaining absolute control over such privileged information, they didn't have to worry about the inevitable leaks that plagued the CIA or FBI.

“Well, I can certainly understand how you earned that particular designation,” the vice president said. She eyed Maggie for a moment, her expression uncompromising. “You understand that I'm not happy about this charade? At all?”

“So I was told.”

“If my presence at these secret treaty negotiations wasn't so necessary, I wouldn't allow you to be used as a decoy like this. I've never backed away from a challenge…or a threat…in my life.”

“I know that, Mrs. Grant.”

For all her refined appearance and well-known sense of humor, this woman was as tough and as resilient as they came. She'd battled her way up through the political ranks on her own, without a prominent family name or fortune to ease her way. Obviously, she didn't like someone else taking the heat for her. Her deep brown eyes speared Maggie.

“I understand I have approximately twenty minutes to fill you in on the more intimate details of my life.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

The vice president's jaw tightened. “I'm not used to sharing
this kind of information,” she said after a moment. “With anyone. Politics doesn't encourage a person to reveal her innermost secrets.”

“Whatever you tell me doesn't go beyond this room,” Maggie said with quiet assurance.

She and Adam had agreed that this half hour with the vice president would be private, unrecorded. The little bug in her ring wouldn't activate until Mrs. Grant left the compound. Maggie's innate honesty compelled her to add a kicker, however.

“Unless you tell me something that will help identify the man who called you this morning.”

An emotion that wasn't quite fear, but was something pretty close to it, rippled across the vice president's face as she glanced at the phone on a table beside the sofa. Maggie could only admire the vice president's courage as she mastered that brief, unguarded emotion and turned away from the telephone with a contemptuous look.

“I don't like being threatened any more than I like revealing the details of my private life.”

Realizing that they weren't making much headway, Maggie sat up straight, tucked her hands into her sleeves and assumed a soulful expression.

“I once went underground in a convent. If it helps any, just think of me as a
religiosa,
a sort of female father confessor.”

Some of the stiffness went out of Mrs. Grant's slender frame. “Somehow I can't see you as a nun,” she drawled.

“It wasn't my favorite assignment,” Maggie admitted with a grin, abandoning her postulant's pose. “Those wool habits itch like the dickens.”

The vice president chuckled. “I believe you. All right, where do you want me to start?”

“Let's start with Stoney Armstrong, since I'll be meeting him in L.A. tomorrow. You dated for almost six months, didn't you, Mrs. Grant?”

“Taylor.”

At Maggie's surprised glance, she smiled. “I can't bring my
self to share the most intimate details of my love life with someone who addresses me as ‘ma'am' or ‘Mrs. Grant.' Please, just call me Taylor.”

No wonder Adam had developed such a close friendship with this woman, Maggie thought. The power of her office hadn't diminished her charm or charismatic personality.

“What do you want to know about Stoney?”

“For starters, what's behind his studio image of a muscle-bound, over-sexed, gorgeous hunk of beefcake?”

“A muscle-bound, oversexed, gorgeous hunk of beefcake,” Taylor responded dryly.

“So it wasn't his, ah, intellectual prowess that attracted you to him?”

Absently the vice president plucked at the fringe on one of the sofa pillows. “No, it wasn't. But at that point in my life, I didn't need the challenge of a rousing debate on domestic politics or international affairs. I needed, or thought I needed, Stoney Armstrong.”

She stopped playing with the fringe and glanced across the coffee table at Maggie. Her remarkable eyes filled with the gleam of laughter that had made her the darling of the international press corps.

“Every woman should have a man like Stoney in her life at some point or another, if only to remind her that great sex is highly overrated as the foundation for a permanent relationship.”

“True,” Maggie replied with an answering laugh. “But it's certainly not a bad place to start.”

 

Twenty minutes later, Lillian Roth knocked on the sitting room door, then poked her head inside. She glanced from Maggie to the vice president for a moment in startled confusion.

“Yes, Lillian?” Maggie asked, testing her skills.

The dresser's birdlike black eyes narrowed. She studied Maggie for long, silent moments, then switched her focus to Taylor. Giving a little sniff, she spoke slowly, as if not quite sure of herself.

“Buck just called on your private line. They're just starting the shift change. You have to go, Mrs. Grant.”

Pleased with the fact that she'd managed to fool the dresser, at least for a few seconds, Maggie rose.

The two auburn-haired women faced each other. Mrs. Grant—Taylor—held out her hand.

“Good luck, Chameleon.”

“Thanks. I'll need it! I just hope I don't do something stupid and totally ruin your image in the next couple of weeks.”

“You won't. Besides, I don't worry about my image when I'm in the Sierras. That cabin is the only place in the world where I go without makeup, don't bother with my hair, and bundle up in layers of flannel and wool. You just have to make it through a couple of brief public appearances, then you're home free.”

“Right.” Maggie laughed. “One huge benefit at the Kennedy Center tonight, and a dinner for two hundred of your closest friends in L.A. tomorrow.”

“Don't worry. Stoney will make sure all the media focuses on him tomorrow. And tonight…well, tonight you'll have Adam at your side.”

There it was again, that easy, familiar
Adam.
Maggie's grin slipped a bit.

As Taylor eased into her coat, her amethyst eyes took on a distant, almost dreamy expression. “I've been wanting to invite Adam up to the cabin for some time. If it weren't for these treaty negotiations…”

“Yes?”

The cool note in Maggie's voice drew the vice president's gaze.

“Well,” she finished after a moment, “let's just say that Adam's the kind of man any woman would want to have around whenever she was in the mood for a stimulating intellectual debate…or anything else.”

At that moment, the foyer door opened and Buck Evans slipped inside. His rusty brown hair, worn a little long on the sides, didn't quite cover his half-chewed ear.

“You ready to go, Mrs. Grant?”

“I'm ready.”

He paused with one hand on the knob and gave Maggie a hard look. “Officially, I'm on leave while Mrs. Grant is in California.”

“I know.”

“I'll be with her every moment at Camp David. Have your people contact me there if you need me.”

“Roger.”

The Secret Service agent's eyes narrowed. “Just for the record, I think this subterfuge is ridiculous. Every man and woman on this detail has sworn to protect the vice president with their lives.”

Maggie didn't answer. The decision to keep the switch secret from everyone but Buck Evans had been made by the president himself. She wasn't about to engage in a debate, public or private, about it. But she saw the total dedication in this man's fierce, protective stance toward Mrs. Grant, and understood the depth of his anger.

“Let's go, Buck,” the vice president said quietly. “We've only got an hour before the others begin arriving at Camp David.”

With a final nod to Maggie, she followed the agent out the door.

Lillian closed it behind them. Clearly unhappy at being left behind, she scowled at Maggie, then reluctantly assumed her duties.

“Have you had dinner?”

“No, there wasn't time.”

Her small mouth pursed into a tight bud. “I'll call down to the kitchens for a tray, then run your bath.”

“Fine. In the meantime, I'll look around the suite.”

“Humph.”