First Daughter (16 page)

One of these drones had accessed the national missing persons database for the entire District, Virginia, and Maryland, but the printout was useless. Save for the usual slew of runaways from Omaha to Amarillo who had disappeared into the bowels of the District, there was nothing to help them.

"Let's get to work," Garner said to Jack as Nina left them.

He led Jack out via the rear exit that gave out onto a dimly lit corridor, down a short flight of concrete steps to the custodian's area. Here was a warren of workshops and storerooms containing all the many implements and supplies required to keep an upper-tier college like Langley Fields looking shipshape for the parents who paid tens of thousands for the education of their sons and daughters. No fine school could afford to look shabby, and with a large campus like this one, the maintenance was constant.

Clearly, however, the custodial staff was elsewhere because when Garner led Jack into the largest of the workshops, it was deserted, save for two hooded men and their armed guards. They were sitting on opposite sides of the room, facing away from each other. Between them, along the wall, was an oversized soapstone sink and several
workbenches above which hung pegboards thick with handsaws, hammers, awls, levels, metal rulers, and planes. Screwdrivers, chisels, pliers, and wrenches of every imaginable size were clustered in one area. Some of the benches had vises bolted to them. The smells of glue and oiled metal were strong in the air. Between the pegboard sections were windows that afforded a peaceful view out over the rose garden, now an army of thorny miniature stick soldiers on a half-frozen parade ground.

"What is this?" Jack said, alarmed.

Garner pulled him back into the hallway for a moment.

"We've brought in the co-leaders of the First American Secular Revivalists," he said in a low voice. "A number of FASR members have vanished, only to resurface as part of E-Two. At the very least, FASR is a training ground for E-Two terrorists. In our estimation, it's a legit front for the revolutionary group."

"Brought in? Are these men criminals?"

Ignoring Jack's question, Garner concluded: "Keep your mouth shut, bright boy, and you just might learn something."

Returning inside, Garner signaled to the guards, who jerked the prisoners' chairs around, pulled off their hoods. The men blinked, disoriented. They stared at each other, then at Garner and Jack, their eyes wide open. They were clearly terrified.

"Who are you?" one of the men asked. "Why are we here?"

Garner strode over to the soapstone sink, inserted a rubber stopper in the drain, turned on the cold-water faucet full-blast. As the water began to fill the sink, he said, "Peter Link, Christopher Armitage, you're members of E-Two, the missionary secularist terror group."

"What?" both men said nearly simultaneously. "We're not!"

Garner stared down at the rising water. "Are you telling me you're not missionary secularists?"

"We believe that organized religion—
all
organized religion—is a
danger to modern-day society," Chris Armitage, the man on the right said.

"But we're not terrorists," Peter Link said from the opposite side of the room.

"You're not, huh?" Garner signaled to Link's guard, who unshackled him, hauled him up by the back of his collar, frog-marched him over to where Garner was standing. Garner turned off the cold-water tap. The sink was filled to the brim.

Link stared from Garner's face to the gently rippling water. "You can't be serious. . . . What do you think this is, a police state?"

Garner slammed his fist into Link's stomach. As the man doubled over, Garner grabbed both sides of his head, jammed it into the sink. Water fountained up, foaming as Link began to thrash.

"You can't do this!" Armitage shouted. "This is America—we're guaranteed the right of free speech!"

Garner hauled the sputtering, choking Link out of the water. The guard grasped his arms as Garner turned to Armitage, dug in his jacket pocket, flipped open his ID for the other man to see. "As far as you and your pal here are concerned, I
am
America."

Stowing his ID, he got back to work torturing Peter Link. But as Link went under for the second time, Jack put a hand on Garner's arm.

"This isn't the way," he said softly. "You're being foolish."

He sensed that was the wrong thing to say. Garner kept his hands on the back of Link's submerged head as he glared into Jack's face.

"Get your fucking hands off me, or I swear to God you'll be next."

"You brought me in for my help," Jack said quietly. "I'm giving you my opinion—"

"I didn't bring you in, McClure. In fact, I fought to keep you out. But the new president will have his way, even if it's the wrong way."

Using the edge of his hand, Jack struck Garner's elbow at the ulna nerve, breaking his grip on Peter Link. Jack hauled him out of the water. Tears streamed out of Link's eyes, and he vomited water all over himself.

"Jesus Christ!" Armitage shouted, terrified.

Garner broke away from Jack, stalked over to Armitage, yelled in his face, "You don't get to use those words!" He was seething, his shoulders bunched, his hands curled into tight fists. A pulse beat spastically in his forehead.

Jack, seeing that Link was semiconscious, laid him down on the floor. He knelt beside him, checked his pulse, which was erratic and weak. Looking up, he said to Garner, "I sure as hell hope you have a doctor on premises."

Garner opened his mouth to say something, apparently thought better of it, hauled out his cell phone. Not long after, the door swung open and a physician appeared. He hurried over to where Peter Link lay in a puddle of water and his own vomit.

Jack rose and said to Garner, "Let's take a walk."

T
HE SKY
was piled with ugly-looking clouds, ready for a fight. A stiff wind hit their faces with a chill edge, making their noses run, their eyes water.

"I'll have your career for this," Garner said as they walked past the dormant rose garden.

"You'd do best to cool down," Jack said, "before you make threats."

Garner stalked ahead, then whirled on Jack. "You challenged my authority in there."

"You exceeded your authority," Jack said quietly. "We're not in Iraq."

"We don't have to be," Garner said. "This is a matter of national security. We're dealing with homeland terrorists, traitors to their own way of life."

Jack peered into Garner's face. He was determined to keep his voice calm and steady. Someone had to be rational in this discussion. "Because they don't think like you or the current Administration?"

"They kidnapped the First Daughter!"

"You don't know that."

"Quite right. Thanks to you, I don't. Not for certain, anyway. On the other hand, we have E-Two's signature at the scene of the crime."

"Someone else could have left those," Jack pointed out.

Garner laughed bitterly. "You don't really believe that, do you?"

"To be honest, I don't know what to believe, because we don't yet know what's going on."

Garner began to walk back the way they had come. "Right. Let's get back to the interrogation so we can find out."

Jack turned, blocked his way. "I won't let you continue torturing these people."

"You can't stop me."

Jack flipped open his cell phone, put it to his ear. "I'm due to call the president-elect anyway."

Garner put up his hands. "Look, look. I'm here to find the people who snatched the president-elect's daughter. What's your excuse?"

"Torture doesn't work," Jack said. "Either the subject clams up till he dies or, more likely, he lies. He tells you exactly what you want to hear, but it's not the truth. Fortunately, there's a better way to determine if these guys are the perps."

Garner licked his lips. Jack could see his ire ebbing slightly.

"So what's your bright idea?"

Jack folded his cell phone, put it away. "I go back in there, talk to Chris Armitage. Then I let him go."

"Are you insane? I won't allow it!"

"We release him and, when he's recovered, Link as well," Jack said. "We follow them. Put them under twenty-four-seven surveillance. If they're involved, we'll know it soon enough."

After considering a minute, Garner nodded. "This is your idea, you do the surveillance yourself."

Too late, Jack saw how Garner would make him pay for challenging him. Though Jack wanted more than anything to detach himself from Garner, run down his own lead with regard to Cyril Tolkan, he knew he couldn't wriggle out of this assignment, so he nodded his assent.

"I'll need help keeping an eye on the two men."

"That's your problem. Take care of it."

As he was walking away, Garner called after him, "You have forty-eight hours, bright boy. And after you fail, I
will
have your career."

W
HY IS
the light out?"

From out of the absolute darkness, Alli Carson felt the air against her face and she shrank away, certain that he was going to hit her. In the days she'd been here, he'd never struck her, but the threat of violence was always in the air, keeping her immersed in a sea of terror. She was too frightened not to sit in it.

"What have I told you?" Kray's voice seemed disembodied, the heart of the darkness itself. "No talking except at mealtimes."

She kept her head up. He didn't want to hurt her, merely to teach her a lesson not yet learned; she knew this now.

"You need to focus your mind, Alli."

She could tell by the placement of his voice that he had sat down in front of her. She felt a little thrill of accomplishment at her newfound ability to discern the nuances of movement in sounds. This was Ronnie Kray, the same man Emma had met, whom Emma wanted to know more about. Now it was her turn. She had to keep that thought in the forefront of her mind. Emma had taught her how to be tough,
how to go her own way. Emma was also fearless, a trait Alli had never been able to grasp. Perhaps now was her chance.
Be brave
, she told herself.
Fate has put you in the same hands as Emma. You have the chance to finish what she started. You have a chance to understand this enigmatic man
.

"You have a keen mind," Kray continued, "but it's been dulled by your sheltered life. You've been taught to believe that you live a pampered life, but that's a lie. The truth is you live the life of a prisoner. You're forbidden to go where you want, you're forbidden to say what you want. You can't even make friends without your father's knowledge, so that their private lives can be invaded by the Secret Service, just as yours is. You don't own yourself, Alli. You're a puppet, dancing to your father's tune."

A chair creaked, and Alli knew that he had sat back. A whisper of cloth told her that he'd crossed one leg over the other.
I can see
, she thought,
without seeing
. She was grateful to him for having kept the light off, grateful for the opportunity he'd given her to sharpen her senses. For the first time since she'd known Emma McClure, she had stepped outside herself—the self, as Kray had so accurately said, that had been created for her.

As if divining her thoughts, Kray said, "You exist at the pleasure of your father. The Alli Carson the country—the world—knows is a confection, a Hershey bar: an all-American girl, with all-American values, all-American ideals. When have you ever been allowed to say what's really on your mind? When have you been allowed to voice your own opinion? Your lot in life has been to further your father's political career."

She heard his voice, and only his voice.

"Isn't that right, Alli?"

The darkness made it grow in power, until she could see it glowing like a jewel in her mind.

"You have your own opinions, don't you?"

For a long moment she said nothing, though she felt the answer
fizzing in her throat, clamoring to be exposed, to have its own life at last. Still, she bit it back, afraid. She realized just how familiar this fear was, how she had been afraid for years to say what was really on her mind, as opposed to what her father's handlers had insisted she say publicly. Only Emma had known her real mind, only Emma could have taught her how to be fearless, but Emma was dead. She lowered her head and felt a great sob welling up in her breast, and hot tears leaked out of her eyes, ran down her cheeks, dropped onto the backs of her hands. It was so cruel, so unfair that her one true friend had been taken from her. . . .

"Focus, Alli," Kray said in the manner of a professor to an inordinately bright student with ADD. "It's important that you focus your mind, that you shake off the dullness of the old automaton Alli Carson, that you hone your mind to a diamond edge. Now, tell me, do you have your own opinions?"

"I do," Alli said, her throat unclogging as the words she'd been wanting to say flew out. She felt herself transported back to campus, walking with Emma, who had more or less asked her the same question: Do you have your father's opinions, or are they your own?

He sighed, it seemed to her with pleasure.

"Then perhaps there's a chance I can reach the real Alli Carson. There's a chance I can undo what's been done to you."

The creak of the chair. "You wish to speak."

How did he know that? she wondered. What marvelous power he possesed!

"You have my permission."

"Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"Because I have to."

He said it in a way that shook her. She didn't know why yet, she was too stunned by her own reaction, but she was beginning to have faith now that she would come to understand what was happening to her, and why.

She felt him lean in to her, felt the aura of his warmth as if she held his beating heart in her hands.

"I want to share something with you, Alli. I have absolute faith in what I'm doing. Beyond that, I'm a patriot. This country has lost its way. There's a shadow over democracy, Alli, and its name is god—the Christian god in whose name so many ethnic people have been attacked, decimated, or destroyed: the Aztecs, the Inca, the Jews of Spain, the caliphs of Constantinople and Trebizond, the Chinese, blacks, our own American Indians. Sinners all, right?"