Lady Liberty (13 page)

Sybil smiled. “You didn’t.”

“I had to, Sybil.” He straightened. “It didn’t address
some significant challenges operatives routinely encounter in the field.”

“The hell it didn’t,” Sybil said. “I went through that course, Westford.”

“Three times before you passed it, as I recall.” West-ford looked down his nose at her.
“After
I restructured it.”

She nibbled at the bark, annoyed because she liked him. Few had the brass to contradict her these days, and it appealed to her more than it should. “So it’s true then,” she said, studying him. “You
are
arrogant.”

“When arrogance can save some operative’s life, you’re damn right I am.”

He didn’t have an arrogant bone in his body. But he thought he might. Substance over show. She liked that, too, and resented liking it as much as everything else she liked about him.

Having lousy judgment about men, and being reminded of it often, wasn’t a pleasing thing to a woman. But seeing the way his playful tone transformed his face was pleasing. Westford was always attractive, but when playful, he looked downright gorgeous—and irresistible to tease. “Is it also true your hunches are impressively accurate? They say you can smell danger. Does it really have a scent?”

“Yes, it does. It’s bitter.” He propped his arm on his knee, obviously uncomfortable that the discussion centered on him. “But it’s not an uncommon skill for covert operatives, Sybil.”

“It seems unique to me.” He seemed unique. Genuine. She munched down on a bite of bark. God, she positively hated liking that.

“It’s not. But it comes in handy”

“I expect it does.” When he shifted again, water dropped through the canopy and sprinkled them. Sensing he’d had about enough teasing and prying, she changed the subject. “So the White House has gone public with the position that all persons on board the flight are presumed dead.”

Westford stiffened, silently rebelling. “Yes.”

“Do you think that’s our wisest course of action?” Revulsion surged up acid from deep down in Sybil’s stomach.

“It gives us our best shot of getting out of this swamp alive.”

“Only if the mosquitoes don’t carry us off.” At least she had been spared her worst fear—snakes. “What’s our weather status?”

“You don’t want to know.”

She stared and waited.

“Remnants of a tropical system are parked over our heads,” he said. Sybil groaned, and he added, “I told you, you didn’t want to know.”

She ignored him, again shifted topics. “I’m concerned about David. He promised to restore integrity to his office and he meant it. Lying to the public about us has to grate at him.”

“I’m sure it’s had him on his knees in the Oval Office. But if it can keep us alive, then he has to do it.”

His meaning escaped her, but a fearful shudder rippled through her chest. “On his knees in the Oval Office?”

“Never mind.”

“No way” No one had forgotten the events that previously had occurred in the Oval Office, and if David had broken his promise to the people, then she damn well needed to know. “Tell me what you meant.”

Jonathan picked up on the distrust in her tone and gave her a look laced with reprimand. “He prays there often. Privately”

She felt shame for doubting David, and for the first time she understood that restoring faith to people whose trust had been broken took time
and
evidence of innocence. It shouldn’t be that way but it was, even for her, and she couldn’t expect more from others than she was capable of giving herself.

This incident also proved something else she wished it
hadn’t. It wasn’t only the men in her private life she thought she knew well but didn’t, it was the men in her professional life, too. Fear twisted her stomach in knots. Did realizing that mean she now needed to doubt all her personal
and
professional judgments? Second-guess
all
her decisions? Good God, she’d be crippled. Hamstrung. Anything but effective.

“Sybil, why do you look so upset? The man was praying, not selling state secrets.”

There was no way she could voice her thoughts out loud. “I wish he didn’t have to lie. That’s all.”

“He has no choice.”

Her empty stomach grumbled and ached. She rubbed it, swearing she’d trade her fortune for a cheeseburger. “Why?”

“Sam Sayelle received a call from PUSH claiming responsibility for your assassination. He confronted Barber, but our favorite senior advisor ducked him. That was a big mistake.”

Barber was part of Cap Marlowe’s pack, and he had a penchant for making convenient-for-Cap mistakes. “How big a mistake?” A heavy cloud moved over them. Sybil strained to see Westford through the deep shadows.

“Huge.” He swallowed a bite of bark, then another. “Sayelle got ticked at being shut out of the info loop and called the commander.”

Commander Conlee?
“How?” Sayelle shouldn’t know Home Base existed, much less about Conlee or how to reach him.

“Obviously, someone told him. Intel suspects Cap Marlowe, but Sayelle refused to confirm or deny it. Needless to say, Cap’s become a mute amnesiac on the matter.”

“Damn it.” Sybil swallowed her exasperation. “If Cap had to do this, then why didn’t he act as an intermediary?”

“Frankly, the commander doesn’t know or care. He wants to establish direct contact.”

“With Sayelle?” Sybil couldn’t believe it. “Why?” Could this get any more complex? Austin, Cap Marlowe, Sayelle, Barber, and, she’d bet her eye teeth, David’s press secretary, Winston, were all in bed together politically— and all against her.

“We’re officially dead. Conlee can’t transmit direct to us anymore. He needs a go-between to keep us updated.”

“So he recruits a member of the press?”

“He’s done it before and been successful. He just codes the messages and has the press relay them to agents in the field.”

“But that was Marcus Gilbert, and Conlee trusted him. He’s retired now and this is Sam Sayelle we’re talking about, Westford. He isn’t a patch on Marcus’s ass—and he hates me.” Agitated, she smoothed her dripping wet hair back, tilted her face into a gusty breeze. “David will never authorize this. Never.”

“He already has.” Jonathan sent her a level look. “Con-lee’s judgment has always been sound. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“With my life at stake?”

“And mine.”

She buried her face in her hands. Calmed herself down. “Fine,” she said. “But he had damn well better be right, because if he’s not, we’re dead.”

Tense and weary, Sybil slumped against the rock. An as-yet unidentified traitor loose inside a top-secret site, a plane exploded, seven people killed, a deadline looming that threatened mass destruction, and Conlee recruits Sam Sayelle.

David must be half out of his mind. And with everything else, he had all the condolence calls to make, including to Austin—which probably would make Sybil a pauper—and to Ken Dean’s wife, Linda—which definitely
would make David wish he were a pauper or
anything
other than the man making that call.

Sybil suffered a stab of guilt. Linda had made no secret of her opposition to Ken being Sybil’s pilot, or of blaming her for dragging Ken to every hot spot and hellhole on the face of the planet, putting him in unnecessary danger. More than once Linda had reminded Sybil that he had a family who needed him. And more than once Sybil had called Ken into the office and offered him a lateral transfer to a less dangerous job. He had routinely refused, for which Linda also blamed Sybil. She supposed it was easier for Linda to blame her than to blame her own husband, but … now this.

Linda Dean had awakened from a dead sleep every single night since Ken had left for Geneva, certain she had been roused by some ominous sound. Now she was cooking dinner and she had that same wake-you-from-a-dead-sleep and raise-the-hair-on-your-neck feeling. She couldn’t logically explain any of it—the sensations seemed totally unprovoked. Nothing unusual had happened in the old Victorian that had housed her family through three generations, and there had been no warnings from the security guards who patrolled the subdivision that had built up around it. Still, she glanced over to the back door and checked the alarm system. The red light was glowing; the alarm was on and being monitored.

An alarm is necessary, Linda. There are a lot of crazies out there.

We will not raise our children in an atmosphere of fear, and that’s final, Ken.

So had begun their domestic war.

She had won that battle but had lost the war six months ago, when her husband announced at breakfast an
alarm system would be installed that day and then promptly closed the matter to discussion. In their twelve-year marriage, that had been the first and only time anything that affected their family had been dictated and closed to discussion. Linda hadn’t cared for the feeling and had no desire to repeat it, but there was something about Ken then, and ever since, that had her instincts warning her he had his reasons and she would be wise to heed them. With him working for Sybil, who knew what could happen?

Few politicians had as many natural enemies as Sybil Stone, and by making Ken her pilot, she had made Linda one of them. Sybil had no right to ask him to take on higher risks of being hurt or killed. But would Ken listen? No. Sybil Stone could do no wrong to Ken. Linda hated her for that most of all.

She pulled the cutting board out of the cabinet and placed it on the counter. They had gotten the alarm, but Ken hadn’t returned to his old self. He was… different now. Distant and closed. More often than a confident woman would like to admit, Linda had wondered if he was having an affair. Maybe with Sybil Stone.

You’re being unfair, Linda. Ken has never given you a reason to doubt him.

Guilt swept through her. She rinsed her hands at the sink and then dried them on a fresh dishcloth decorated with blue irises. The kids were upstairs doing homework, and since the walls weren’t vibrating from their dueling stereo systems, they obviously hadn’t yet finished. In fact, nothing was moving. The only sounds in the house were those of her in the kitchen, preparing dinner.

How odd.
She stilled the knife midair above the cutting board and listened.

Nothing.

Not the kids. Not the habitual whistle of wind through the shutters. Not the attic window that had rattled her entire life.

Something thudded down the hall.

She nearly jumped out of her skin.
Damn it, Linda! Stop spooking yourself over nothing.

Something strange snagged her gaze. Ken’s brown-leather journal stood spine out with her cookbooks on the shelf. Why had he put his journal there?

She’d take a look at it as soon as she checked on the kids. The only time they were this quiet was when they were doing something they shouldn’t be and knew it.

She put down the knife then walked to the foot of the stairs. Staring up the stairwell, she remembered Ken’s warning when he’d kissed her good-bye:
Be on your toes, honey There are people who want us to fail, and they could stir up trouble. We’ve had threats…

Butterflies filled her stomach. Ken had been flying dignitaries for fifteen years and never before had he so bluntly reminded her of the elevated dangers that came with his job. She’d attended the seminars. She knew the stories of politically motivated attacks against families as well as any other spouse. And she knew that some fruitcakes actually believed they could get to someone like Ken by attacking his family. It never worked, of course. But in recent years, the attacks had become more prevalent. Of course, Sybil Stone didn’t have to worry about that. Now that she had divorced her husband, she had no family to attack.

Nothing moved upstairs, and, for a fleeting moment, Linda wished she hadn’t vetoed the kids’ vote for a Doberman, though the Udalls’ dog next door, Fang, hadn’t barked. He considered the entire neighborhood his territory and barked like crazy if so much as a strange car rolled down the street. A little calmer, she expelled a rushed breath. Her heartbeat slowed to a canter and her dry mouth eased a little. “Katie? Kenneth?” she called up to them.

Neither answered.

“This isn’t funny” She braced a hand on her hip and stared up the carpeted stairs. “You guys answer me, okay?”

Still no response.

Pure fear unleashed inside her. She grabbed the banister, took the first six steps. The hardwood floor behind her creaked, and she paused to look back. Something hard crashed into her neck. Her knees buckled and she fell to the steps, tumbled down them to the floor at the foot of the staircase.

Pain streaked through her chest, her right ankle, her hip. She couldn’t draw breath. Spots formed before her eyes; everything blurred, dimmed. Good God, was she dying?

The kids. She had to get to the kids.
Steeling herself for another avalanche of pain, she rolled over, trying to get up on her knees, and strained to focus, praying she could stay conscious. Fuzzy, fluid images swam before her eyes. Three men standing over her dressed all in black, their faces hidden behind stocking-cap masks, their hands gloved. She tried to move but couldn’t. Tried to scream but made no sound. She couldn’t do anything to defend herself or to protect her children. Who were these people? What were they going to do to them?