Lady Liberty (7 page)

Jonathan leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
Down and dirty tactic, Liberty.
Senator Wade had one daughter and one granddaughter. Beth had been born just two weeks ago, and Wade was still acting appropriately dotty. Amazing how a six-pound kid could take down a giant. While extremely vocal and strongly opposed to tobacco remaining legal, Wade had been so thrilled about Beth’s birth he had passed around enough cigars to fund the tobacco industry’s lobbying costs for the next six months.

Liberty again paused for Wade’s response, and then it happened. The right pump came off and thumped against the carpet. “I’m a little fuzzy on a rationale that would substantiate that position, Martin. Our courts established these funds as money due to the children—for their maintenance and support. So it’s their money, not the deadbeat parent’s. Do we agree on that?” She waited for his response, and then went on. “Okay, fine. So if the money already belongs to the child—let’s say, to Beth—and the government recovers it for her, then isn’t the government withholding half of Beth’s money from her clearly a crime? We are depriving her of the use and benefit of her own assets.”

The senator said something she didn’t like, and Liberty’s jaw tightened more. “Well, since when does our judicial system charge victims a fee for being victims of a crime?” A half beat, and she interrupted. “No, Martin. That
isn’t
the way it works now. The way it works now, the kids are victimized by their nonpaying parent and then victimized again by their government. Don’t you consider that unacceptable? Don’t all of our Beths and Sarahs deserve better from us?”

Jonathan rubbed at his chin. If Martin Wade didn’t consider the position unacceptable, Jonathan had the feeling the man was going to wish he had. Liberty now had toed off both pumps. Bare feet made the woman feel vulnerable, and when vulnerable, Liberty went razor-sharp, on guard, and straight for the jugular.
Odds? A hundred percent.

She stiffened and narrowed her eyes, but her tone remained unchanged. “I’m sorry to hear that, Martin,” she said, her disappointment in him obvious. “If you should change your mind, you know my door is always open.” She lifted the orange and squeezed it hard, probably wishing it were Martin Wade’s neck. “No, there’s no need to send me a copy. I’d like to help you on this—the bill certainly has merit—but without the stipulation for the children, I can’t endorse it, or even support it. Actually, I’ll be ethically
forced to oppose it. Strongly. Do give Sarah and Beth my best.”

Jonathan wasn’t buying it. Liberty hadn’t given up. She had dug in.

Apparently the senator realized it.

A slow smile spread over her face. “That sounds excellent, Martin. Send the bill and its supporting documents to Grace, and we’ll take it from there. It’s my pleasure to help you whenever I can. And, Martin, thank you. You’re doing a good thing for the children. This will literally change their lives.”

She said good-bye, thumbed a phone button, and ended the call. “God bless bipartisan politics!”

Though her words had been whispered, her success sparkled in her eyes. Jonathan couldn’t resist. “More good news, ma’am?”

Liberty smiled, soft and watery. “A rose petal, Agent Westford.”

“Congratulations.” He smiled back. When happy, Liberty was a sight to behold. One too potent for a man guarding her to behold. Needing a little distance, he nodded, then walked the plane.

Hours passed, yet Jonathan couldn’t shake the feeling that they were swiftly approaching a significant brink. Having the lab results come back clear and verified had taken a load off his mind, but the incident itself gnawed at him. If not to contaminate her, why deliberately cut Liberty with a knife? There had to be a reason, and his not knowing what it was worried him.

About two that afternoon, Captain Dean eased the plane into a northerly heading over the Florida coast and made a descent so smooth it ranked barely noticeable. This was the last leg of the journey, and so far no problems had cropped up. Grateful for that but still wary, Jonathan scanned the plane then looked back at Liberty.

Somewhere over the Atlantic, she finally had dozed
off. An open file folder rested in her lap and she still held a pen in her hand. The pumps, of course, had been put back on her feet. She had a thing about shoes, as if bare feet somehow equated to a bare soul, and she defended her soul’s privacy with passion. Yet she bared her soul when it mattered, as she had with Wade for the kids.

Women in general he understood fairly well, about as well as a man could understand women. But Liberty specifically? Even though he knew everything the best intelligence resources on the planet and personal professional observations could provide, in ways she remained a mystery to him.

Seated midcabin and taking their cues from the vice president, Harrison and Cramer appeared at ease now, too. A crew member napped. Cramer sat silently keying information into a laptop. The keys clicked steadily. He was preparing D.C. for their arrival at Andrews Air Force Base. Normally Grace would have handled that duty.

She had given Harrison hell about being ordered off the plane. That was the trouble with consummate professionals. They didn’t appreciate being deemed “unessential” even if it spared them their lives. Grace was one woman who knew how to hold a grudge with conviction. Unfortunately, she would have plenty of hell-raising help from the other discontented staffers who had been bumped off the flight. Unlike members of the House who came and went, staffers tended to nest on the Hill until retirement. Being deemed unessential was telling them their lives were unessential. That kind of thing didn’t slide like water off a duck’s back. It soaked down to the bone.

When staffers returned to the Hill on Monday, Liberty would be doing hard time, soothing ruffled feathers. Staffers were a hard-nosed, jaded bunch and had pretty much seen it all. Few would be touched by knowing that, at the time the order had been issued, Liberty had had a bomb shackled to her wrist. And none would feel their removal had been warranted.

Tuning out the storm-induced static in his earpiece transmitter, Jonathan thought about her eviction order. She hadn’t cleared everyone out because of the briefcase bomb. If it blew, it likely would destroy only the contents of the case and maybe her. Lance wouldn’t have authorized it otherwise, unless he had no choice; and that was a possibility, considering the Code One. It seemed as if she were expecting a tragedy on this flight. Yet there had been no specific threat—there couldn’t have been, or Jonathan would have been notified. Even if the storm had made it impossible for Home Base to contact him via transmitter, they would have done so through Captain Dean. So what had prompted Liberty to issue the skeleton-crew-only order?

Julie, a crackerjack navigator with a thousand-watt smile, took over the duties of the banished flight attendant and delivered a cup of coffee to Harrison.

“Thanks.” He took the steaming mug. “Next run, forget the cup and just hook me up to a caffeine IV.”

He was tired. They were all tired. During the last five days, there hadn’t been much time for sleep.

“The IV will cost you,” Julie warned in her thick Texas drawl. “One day when you least expect it.”

“Always does.”

“Dang right.” On her way back to the galley, she stopped at Jonathan’s side. “Coffee’s fresh. Can I get you a cup?”

“No thanks.” It smelled good. Rich and strong, but the last thing he needed was more caffeine. Everyone on the plane seemed relaxed except him. He was wired tight. Damn it, something wasn’t right.

He bent down to look out the window and recognized the Florida Everglades, the thickets of woods and marsh and dense brush just to its north, then glanced at his watch and converted to Eastern Standard Time: 4:12 P.M. Right on schedule. To the west, lightning ripped through the sky. The band of thunderstorms that had originally diverted
them from route one were now sweeping east and the plane would soon be right in the middle of them. The bad weather had to be screwing up Home Base’s satellite observations. How could they continue to monitor and advise without accurate Intel?

His internal radar up, Jonathan walked the plane, looking for something—anything—to explain his discomfort. Nothing seemed amiss, yet each silent step he took reinforced his certainty that something serious was about to happen.

He burned. Down deep, in that secret place no one can define or describe or teach you exists, he burned, and he knew.

Then he smelled it.

Bitter as brine, more pungent than smoke, thick and heavy and consuming. The same sickly smell that had assaulted him right before he had taken the bullet for the former vice president. The same deep, dank stench that always warned him tragedy would soon strike.

The unmistakable smell of death.

Every time he had sensed it—every single time— death had followed.

Alert and wary, searching for anything out of the ordinary, anything the least bit suspicious, he noticed the scent fading and returned to midcabin to check on Liberty.

Still dozing. No longer fitful. Finally the tension had left her oval face. Something inside him went soft. When she relaxed, she looked more like a woman in her twenties than her thirties, pretty in a nonclassical, polished kind of way. A strand of blond hair caressed her cheek. His stomach clutched.

Grimacing, he looked away. He had been right to transfer off her detail. He still wasn’t sure what had caused his admiration for her to change to something deeper. He didn’t welcome or want it, but the change had happened. When he looked at her, rather than seeing the vice president,
his assignment, he saw a leggy blonde with a crooked nose and deep blue eyes that could praise or flay with a flicker, and that had left him no choice. Emotional attachments colored judgment, and this could cost Lady Liberty her life.

Threatening Austin Stone had made Jonathan’s lack of objectivity and professional distance glaringly apparent. The bastard had deserved killing, but losing control enough to threaten him made Jonathan dangerous to her. SDU missions were no place to be in when losing your temper. That aside, she had never looked at him and seen a man, only an agent. And she had never, not once, so much as called him by his first name.

The bottom line was that none of those things mattered. He loved her, which was no big deal. He loved most women he respected and admired. The difference was he could see himself falling in love with Liberty, and that situation Jonathan wanted to avoid.

The professional considerations were substantial. Even setting those aside, he understood too well the pain and destruction that could be done in the name of love. Personally, he’d suffered enough and wanted no part of it.

Considering his history and the odds, Jonathan would have to be nuts to buy into any part of the love-and-marriage package. After her experience with Austin Stone, Liberty surely felt the same.

Because that bothered him in a way it shouldn’t, Jonathan again walked the plane. Near the galley, the death smell suddenly grew stronger, more potent, filling his nostrils, closing his throat.

So if everything is okay, why the hell are you smelling death, Westford? Why can’t you shake it?

Desperate to find out what was wrong, he turned toward the rear of the plane. Harrison slumped against the wall, his eyes closed. The newspaper he had been reading
hung limp in his hands, fluttering in the draft of an air-conditioning vent.

Jonathan rubbed at the tension knotting his neck. Harrison was sharp, intuitive, and he hadn’t yet picked up on anything. Maybe Liberty’s actions, the president’s call, and Jonathan’s own suspicions on the Band-Aid incident had caused a synapse misfire. Maybe nothing was wrong, and his expectation had triggered the scent. Maybe the sense the flight was doomed was all in his mind.

The plane dipped into a slow, gliding descent, and the captain depressurized the cabin. Jonathan’s edgy feeling honed to cutting-edge worry. To depressurize, they had to be cruising at under ten thousand feet. Why had the captain breached high altitude, standard operating procedure? Ken Dean wasn’t a rookie. He wouldn’t open them up to low-grade, surface-to-air ground-fire threats for no reason.

Cramer perked up, set the laptop aside.

Harrison awakened and tossed the newspaper to the floor.

It isn’t just in your mind, Jonathan.

He swallowed hard. The death stench grew heavier, more dense. The danger was real. Close. Inevitable.

Reaching up to the radio transmitter in his ear, he issued a warning to Home Base. “Heads up, Commander.”

Shifting the channel, he tuned into the plane’s cockpit. Ken Dean’s voice piped through. He was engaged in a low-key conversation about Tiger Woods taking the Masters’ Tournament lead in a big way.

“Seven under par,” he said, sounding completely normal. “Seven. The guy’s on a roll.”

“Yeah. He’s stomping some serious ass on his drives,” another man responded. Jonathan didn’t recognize the voice. “Cost me fifty bucks yesterday”

“I warned you he was hot, Mark.” Julie was talking. The other guy, Mark, would be the relief copilot. “Didn’t I tell you not to bet against him?”

“Yeah, yeah, you told me. Christ, woman, you sound like my mother. Stow it, okay?”

“No way. I’ll leave being gracious to the veep. When I get a shot to say I told you so, I’m taking it and rubbing it in.” The hint of laughter lingered in her voice. “Who’s up for coffee?”

“I could use a cup,” Ken said. “Toss in some extra cream, would you?”

Extra cream?
First the shallow-descent SOP security breach and now
cream”?
Fear slammed into Jonathan’s gut. They were in serious trouble.

Silent and swift, he moved to Sybil, released the latch on her seat belt, and shook her arm. Harrison and Cramer brushed by, rushing to get on point.

Startled awake, she strained to focus on his face. When she did, she frowned. “What is it, Agent West—”

He silenced her with a steely stare, checked over his shoulder, and half shoved, half pulled her toward the back of the plane, not slowing down until they stood in front of the emergency exit. Harrison was on his feet, gun drawn at the foot of the corridor. Cramer stood six feet in front of Harrison, his gun aimed at the cockpit door.