Operation Proof of Life (8 page)

Chapter Twelve

Maryland

A church bell tolled a few blocks away, its baritone peals reaching far in the clear air. As he listened to the first clangs, Peter closed his eyes and saw the library in his mind, the grounds crowded with people attending the ceremony. He saw Cormac standing at the lectern at the top of the wide steps, his arms gesturing as he revved up the crowd. The library’s Roman-style columns were interspersed with flags, creating a larger-than-life backdrop for the larger-than-life poet preaching world peace in front of them.

As the last echo of the church bells evaporated into the cool air outside, Peter opened his eyes and stared out the only window in the tiny apartment he hadn’t boarded over. Even though the apartment was on the second story, it was too far on the outskirts of town to see anything more than the church steeple in the distance.

Although Peter looked out the window at the fall landscape, he saw the coming moments at the library from Moira’s viewpoint. She insisted on doing her jobs alone. While Peter wanted to see Cormac take the bullet of death more than anything else in this world, he acquiesced to Moira’s demands. Her focus, her energy, had to be harnessed and trained on the scope with no distractions. The kill had to be clean. The escape as well.

He envied her skill. His mind generated dozens of ideas a day, each one a labyrinth of details, possibilities and alternate outcomes. To keep up, his body was always in motion as well. There were far too many voices in his head to sit still and breathe like a yogi over the scope of a rifle. He preferred his statements to be loud, messy and a symbol of anarchy. A sniper kill was singular, perfect, clean.

Peter envied Moira her youth as well. Age was catching up with him, taunting him with mistakes and errors that would land him behind bars again. He would kill himself before he let it happen. The time had come to step back, return to his home, reinvent himself and his dedicated group into a legitimate political force. The idea, once repulsive, now tugged at his mind with ever-increasing demand.

This last hurrah should have been catastrophic. Instead it would be a simple exclamation point. O’Bern would be martyred and Peter would live to go on and rise as a popular figure in his place, undoing his years of peace-mongering with an effective campaign strategy to draw in youth who grew complacent and tired of peace. They were a selfish lot these days and ripe for growing seeds of dissension.

An image of Brigit’s face blipped across his mind. She was in town, no doubt to see Cormac. A traitor like his old friend, she deserved to die as well.

But a quick execution was too painless for her. She deserved to suffer for killing their mother, for trying to turn Tory against him. For pretending she wasn’t related to him, while at the same time following his path and trying to clean up or cover up the destruction he wrought.

She posed as an advisor, a psychiatrist. Whatever guise was needed to conceal her true past and buddy up to government officials and other power players. Peter knew all about who she really was and who she worked for. The Americans were as stupid as the British. While they watched over their shoulder for the enemy nipping at their heels, the real danger was standing in front of them, pretending to help.

After he was done with Cormac, Peter would think more about Brigit. She would be an impediment to his political career. Therefore, she would have to go.

In the bathroom, the girl stirred, and Peter turned his head to listen for a moment. Her fingernails scratched at the door like a dog. Again, Brigit’s face flashed through his mind. An idea came to him and he smiled.

There would be no exclamation point for her. Brigit deserved her own personal anarchy. His mind suddenly filled with possibilities.

Chapter Thirteen

The ride to Maryland in Michael Stone’s Navigator wasn’t as bad as Brigit envisioned. Even though she had to face him in the split rear seating, the deputy director spent most of the ride on his cell phone, coercing the FBI and other nameless entities to trust his judgment on the impending disaster.

As Brigit and Truman sat on the leather seat across from him listening to him make high-ranking officials believe the plan he was pulling together was really their idea, Brigit guessed that in the end, if all went well and the innocent public was no more the wiser, Michael would also let those other officials take the credit.

The ability to command, rather than demand, was the true essence of power. Few men or women understood the fundamental difference. Because Michael did, he and his advice were trusted and respected from the president on down. People wanted to believe the deputy director of Central Intelligence because they believed
in
him.

He never raised his voice, never argued. He presented the facts as he knew them and requested immediate assistance with the same calm demeanor Brigit had observed in his office. If doubt was raised, he overrode it with reassurance and a smile, which conveyed his conviction even over the phone.

Everyone complied. Special units, SWAT teams and all available personnel in the giant beast of law enforcement were activated. All with a phone call from one man.

Brigit closed her eyes, awed at the control he held in the palm of his hand.

When she opened her eyes, Truman nudged her and conveyed how impressed he was with a simple lifted brow and quirk of his mouth. Brigit had to agree. Michael Stone in full-blown leader mode was damned impressive.

And sexy as hell.

He took an incoming call and she watched his body language change. His head moved but a sliver, but his stare shifted to look at her. His free hand rested on the door handle and he eased back a bit into his leather bucket seat. “What did you find out about her?”

Heat rose in Brigit’s cheeks, and she fidgeted. Clearing her throat, she forced her gaze away from him and looked out the window at the passing scenery. The car had slowed to a crawl and she told herself it was the sudden delay making her antsy and not the deputy director’s laser-beam gaze.

They still had to be five or six blocks from the library. How much would he discover or deduce about her in that time?

And why did she care?

Mental, emotional and physical intimacy scared her. Her secrets had to stay buried, which made friendships and relationships impossible. The few friends she had were more acquaintances then honest-to-God, go-to-lunch-and-share-your-lipstick kinds of friends. Her coworkers boiled down to Truman, who knew the deets but also loved her enough to keep them buried. Past trips down the boyfriend lane had been short and unsatisfying because she was constantly hiding her emotions, her thoughts and her past. Relationships of any kind did not fit into her complicated life.

Worrying her four-leaf clover pendant, she distracted herself from Michael and her dysfunctional life by focusing on Peter. If even one thing appeared to be off to him, even a simple slowdown in the traffic pattern, he’d abandon his plan and possibly take it out on Ella. Hurting the child would go against his code, but he had grown more reckless over the past few years. One red flag during today’s event could throw him into a panic. Brigit only hoped the ambulance trick played out real enough to escape Peter’s natural instincts.

Michael ended the call and Brigit’s gaze automatically swung to meet his. His pause lasted just a second, but told her he wasn’t happy with her. However, when he spoke, he was all business. “Ambulance is on its way with two trained SWAT members disguised as EMTs to handle O’Bern. Teams are moving in to form a staggered perimeter around the library. Snipers are in route. Everyone’s been supplied with a photo of Donovan.”

Truman pushed his glasses up on his nose. “Snipers?”

“With scopes,” Michael said. “To look for suspicious behavior.”

Brigit nodded, peeling her attention off the sexy man across from her and back to the landscape crawling by at the pace of a snail. Even though she tried to ignore him, she could see his fixed stare from the corner of her eye. His concentrated focus, like a physical hand, roamed over her. The touch of it was warm and commanding, just like his voice had been on the phone. Her pulse tripped over itself.
Mind control
, she told herself.
He’s trying to will me to confess.

As the car came to a full stop, she cleared her throat again and rubbed her sweaty palms on her thighs. “Traffic must be bad,” she said to no one in particular. “We’re going to be late.”

Michael’s voice conveyed none of her anxiousness. “Traffic’s being routed away from the area, therefore slowing normal patterns.”

Truman spoke from beside Brigit. “Then how will we get through?”

“We’ll get through,” Michael said. His tone brokered no further questions.

Brigit wasn’t sure the DD of Central Intelligence should even be in the area. “Shouldn’t you be back in your office safe and sound? I mean, we’re going in blind here, and it’s not exactly without danger.”

He clenched his teeth and a muscle in his jaw worked before he spoke. “We are quite possibly messing with the health and well-being of my niece. My place is here, dangerous or not.”

Underneath the cultivated calm, he had to be struggling with mixed emotions. While the situation was seemingly out of his control, his response took a small measure of control back. He wasn’t rash, but he wasn’t one to play it safe either. Pursuing a safe resolution, not only to the celebration, but also to the kidnapping, helped him deal with his fear.

Being in control was a big issue in Brigit’s life too. Lately it seemed the more she tried to bring order to her life and leave the past behind, the more tangled in chaos she became. Like her father’s incarceration and finally catching up with Tory only to fail at being a sister to her again. Stopping Peter could change all that, but she’d have to make sure she really did stop him.

Michael was still intent on bending her mind to his will. His smoldering eyes, dark as sin inside the car, bored into her. Suddenly the big backseat seemed cramped, the air hot and weighted. She unbuttoned her trench and considered rolling down the window. Why wasn’t the car moving?

She punched her BlackBerry out of sleep mode. The display window time read ten-oh-three. “We’re late, and the ambulance is going to get stuck in this traffic jam too.” She grabbed the door handle and gave a yank. “I’ll walk the rest of the way and keep an eye on things. See if I can spot Donovan.”

Jumping out of the car, she drew a breath of cold November air. Truman and Michael’s voices clashed against each other as she slammed the car door shut and half-ran over to the sidewalk. If she’d been wearing her sneakers, she could have taken off at a sprint. Even though her heels were only an inch and a half, she could barely trot.

Hearing a car door slam behind her, she jogged a little faster, peeking at the people in the cars she passed. Some of them stared back. None of them were Peter.

She didn’t make it to the end of the block before she heard confident, heavy footsteps closing the gap. Unable to cross because of the turning traffic, she cringed even before she heard his voice. “What the hell are you doing?”

Michael Stone stood a foot behind her. His bodyguard was two feet behind him.

Refusing to meet his eyes, she watched the cars turning in front of her, waiting for the last one so she could cross the street. “I’m going to the library to see how I can help.”

A hand clamped on her wrist, whirling her around. Her left ankle wobbled and she fell into the director’s chest. He righted her gently, but didn’t let go. “You’re not going anywhere without me, Doctor.”

She pushed against the wall of muscle and straightened, staring up at his face. While he was ticked, a hint of amusement flickered in his eyes.

Her heart slammed against her ribs. “I can help look for Donovan.”

Brad had gone into bodyguard mode beside them, using his body to block Michael from the eyes of those nearby as best he could. Brad was big and broad like a rugby player, but Michael was even bigger, broader. “Deputy Director, I think it would be wise to return to the car.”

Michael ignored him, his attention completely on her. “You could also tip him off.”

“Tip him off?” Was he saying what she thought he was saying? Did he think she was working with Peter?

Bits and pieces of ideas knocked against her brain. In a weird way, his unsaid accusation made sense. “You don’t trust me.”

The security officer interrupted again. “Deputy Director…”

“Hell no, I don’t trust you.” Michael scanned the area as if Brad’s words had finally sunk in. “You show up at Ruth’s hours after Ella disappears. You come to me today with this wild story about Donovan and O’Bern fifty minutes before the ceremony and tell me Ella will be okay. You suggest I pull the FBI and local police off her case to descend on this ceremony like Grant taking Richmond. And then you tell me she’ll show up freaked out but otherwise unharmed at a park after this is over.”

He rubbed his thumb against her racing pulse. “You know too much about Donovan, about Ella, about this ceremony, and yet you claim you’re not directly tied to any of it. What else would I think? Either you’re helping Peter Donovan or you’re lying to me about who you really are.”

Before she could reply, he began dragging her back to the car. Between his immense strength and her wobbling ankles, she didn’t stand a chance against him, but she fought him anyway. By the time she landed in the backseat of the Lincoln with him beside her, they were both out of breath. Michael’s hand still circled her wrist.

With her free hand, she smacked the top of his. “I never took you as someone who would manhandle a woman,” she spat at him.

He released her, honest surprise breaking over his face. He sat back and shook his head. “I’m not.” Regret took the place of surprise. He glanced out the window and back to Brigit. “My apologies. The stress of the situation…” His voice trailed off as the sound of an ambulance siren drew near.

She almost felt guilty about pretending to be hurt, but then once again his eyes went serious and all emotion left his face and posture. He leaned toward her. “Why do you know so much about Peter Donovan?”

Her throat closed up. Truman, loyal as always, answered for her. “Dr. Kent has done extensive research on the minds of criminal kidnappers to develop a code-based profile for intelligence services worldwide. Donovan is one of the men she studied.”

Michael’s gaze never left hers. The laser beam bore into her again, reaching for her mind, touching her soul. “A midlevel criminal whose heyday was fifteen years ago? He’s never even been directly tied to any kidnappings. Why would you study him?”

Someone he’d spoken to on the phone had filled him in about Peter. Brigit looked away and again the well-trained Truman came to her defense. “The criminal who gets away is a more interesting research specimen than the one who gets caught.”

Michael reached out and touched Brigit’s wrist. “Not in my world.”

~ * ~

An ambulance, siren screaming, zoomed by on the street below. Moira took her eyes from the binoculars and glanced at the digital clock she’d set up on the windowsill. Ten-ten. The ceremony for Cormac O’Bern was scheduled to start at ten o’clock. Everything was in place. Her rifle and scope had been double- and triple-checked. Wind speed, velocity and humidity readouts changed constantly below the clock’s time display. By now she’d expected to see O’Bern at the lectern. In America, however, nothing started on time.

Once a trained sniper for the Palestinian Authority’s National Guard, Moira’s superior skill depended as much on her patience level as her ability to hit the mark with deadly accuracy. As Peter Donovan’s lover, she had stretched her patience level to even more extremes. A delay in the start of the ceremony did not cause her concern or anxiety. She lifted the binoculars to her eyes again and scanned the area.

A mass of people blotted out the long concrete steps of the library. Because the building couldn’t handle that many people on one floor, the reading was being held outside. The reception, as well, in the roped off parking lot behind it.

Limos and other long, black, official-looking cars continued to pull up on a side street to deliver dignitaries, actors and politicians invited to the event. The majority were ushered inside, where they would watch O’Bern deliver his speech and read his poetry on TV in posh, safe quarters.

The speech would last twenty minutes. O’Bern, standing behind the lectern and gazing down on his adoring fans, would look like a king, Peter had said, on his throne.

Moira smiled to herself. The king was about to be knocked off his throne for good.

A wave went through the crowd and she lowered the binoculars to find the source. The ambulance had been let through the barricades and was easing up to the curb in front of the library’s steps as it prodded the crowd to part.

Moira frowned as she watched EMTs exit the ambulance and jostle a stretcher up the steps. The crowd parted as if Moses had struck the ground with his staff, allowing the men and the stretcher to pass. They disappeared into the building.

This wasn’t a contingency in her plan. Still, Moira forced herself to remain calm. Drawing in deep, even breaths, she continued her circular sweep of the grounds with her binoculars, noting where the undercover security agents had positioned themselves, extra surveillance cameras had been placed, and coming back to the library entryway.

A woman exited the library and stepped to the podium. She fiddled with the microphone for a moment. The window was open and Moira could hear the tone of the woman’s voice, but not all of the actual words as they echoed and died in the distance. What she could make out was the groan of the crowd. It was a groan of disappointment.

Disappointment meant only one thing.

The king wasn’t coming out.

Was he sick? For an ambulance to arrive, it had to be serious. An injury?