The End Game (28 page)

64

PAWN TO B5

Georgetown

M
ike stuck her face in the shower stream of the hot water. She was angry, but she knew it was no use getting into another fight with Nicholas. In the morning she'd present her case to Dillon, maybe Mr. Maitland, that she would be the best at playing Vanessa. It wasn't like she was helpless—no, she'd have her Glock. She was fast and smart. She was a professional.

She fumed and fretted as she towel-dried her hair, combed it out, and pushed it off her face, hooking it behind her ears. She pulled a pair of yoga pants and a T-shirt out of her go-bag.

The bed looked nice and firm, the way she liked it. She had to admit she was dog-tired, and the bruises were singing out loud and clear. She cursed Nicholas one last time and pulled back the covers.

There was a knock at her door.

“Yes?”

Nicholas opened the door, closed it behind him.

“We need to talk.”

She eased out of bed and stood facing him, hands on her hips. “There is absolutely nothing to talk about, unless you're ready to stop being such a lamebrain about me taking Vanessa's place. I am a professional, Nicholas, I've played bait before, not a problem. I'll be armed, not helpless, like Vanessa. And I'd—”

He waved his hand in front of her. “Pay attention, Caine. This is a CIA op. Bait will be a CIA operative. Hang it up.”

That stopped her mid-rant. She should have come to that obvious conclusion, which went to prove how tired she was, even her brain was operating at twenty watts. It hurt to say it, but she did. “Very well, I suppose you're right. It's too bad, their mistake. What did you want to talk about?”

“About what didn't happen today, between us. I think we should, don't you?”

She took a step back. “There is nothing to talk about, since nothing happened. How many times do I have to tell you that? You're like a dog with a bone. And isn't that fitting? No talk, do you hear me?”

“Is a dog with a bone better than a bad dog? Never mind. Since you're shouting again, of course I can hear you. I like those pants and that shirt—what does it say?”

She looked down at her chest. It was one of her favorites:
FEEL SAFE, SLEEP WITH A COP
.

“So you can read. Bravo.”

He grinned. “Yes, okay, I want to feel safe.”

She stared at him. He was wearing pajama bottoms that came low on his hips and a T-shirt, black and snug, and she kept staring.

In the next instant, she ran those six feet across the room and he grabbed her up in his arms, brought her long legs around his waist, and pulled her tight against him.

“Mike—Michaela.” The words sounded magic in her mouth and in her brain, and she was kissing him like there was nothing else in the world but the two of them.

Her hands were in his hair, pulling his face to hers so she could kiss his nose, his cheeks, his forehead, but it wasn't enough. She yanked and pulled on his T-shirt as his hands went under her bottom, stroking up her back beneath her shirt, feeling the soft flesh, smelling the jasmine in her damp hair. She carried her shampoo in her go-bag? Of course she did. He was losing his mind and didn't care. He butted her head back to kiss her neck, felt her tighten her legs around his waist. His hands found the smooth, stretchy band at her waist, and he wanted to jerk them down even as he moved to the bed.

“Uncle Nicholas?”

They froze.

“Uncle Nicholas? I woke up when you left our bedroom. Is Aunt Mike okay?”

He touched his forehead to hers, managed to grab a breath. “Sean, sure, Aunt Mike is fine.” Was that his voice, all deep and gravelly, like he was in pain?

He felt her heart pounding, cleared his throat, gave her a final fast kiss, then felt her legs loosen at his waist. He lowered her feet to the floor but didn't let her go. He wanted to cry, maybe howl. He called out, “Sean, I always have to say good night to her or she doesn't sleep well. And I forgot.”

“Are you telling her a story? Do you want me to sing to her? I know lots of words to Papa's songs.”

Mike cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sean, but that's okay. I'm really tired and Nicholas already sang me ‘Soft Kitty'; it's one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Sean said, and both of them pictured his small hand on the doorknob.

Nicholas took a fast step back. “Good night, Mike, sleep well. What's ‘Soft Kitty'? I don't know that one.”

She waved him away. He was nearly back to the door. She saw his pajama bottoms were riding even lower and his lovely tight black T-shirt was ripped. How had that happened? Surely she should remember. She stood perfectly straight.

“Good night, Nicholas. I will sleep well, as will you. We will have nothing to speak about tomorrow. This did not happen, do you hear me? This. Did. Not. Happen.”

He gave her a grin and was out the door in the next second. “Hey, Sean, let's go back to bed.”

“Sean, Nicholas?”

All he needed. Slowly, Nicholas turned to see Savich standing in the doorway of his and Sherlock's bedroom. Unlike Nicholas, he wasn't wearing a T-shirt, only pajama bottoms.

“Papa, everything's okay. Uncle Nicholas had to sing Aunt Mike a song, like you do me, so she could go to sleep.”

“I see,” Savich said, and Nicholas knew he saw very well, particularly the tear in his T-shirt. “Both of you sleep well. Sean, don't keep Nicholas up. He's had a very long day.”

You don't know the half of
it.

Wednesday

6 a.m.–
Noon

65

PAWN TO H4

Georgetown

M
ike woke to a quiet knocking at her door. She rolled over to see Nicholas standing in the doorway, already dressed in one of his crisp handmade white button-down shirts, and, oddly, a pair of jeans. Tight jeans. He looked like a prep school boy gone rogue. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she liked him better in the low-slung pjs, but she didn't. But it was close.

He was all business. “Get dressed. We leave for a briefing in ten minutes with Vice President Sloane.”

“You're wearing jeans to the White House?”

“We're heading to her place. And they've requested we dress down.”

“What in the world is going on?”

“I don't know, but you need to hurry. I'll see you downstairs.”

•   •   •

Five minutes later,
Mike presented herself in the Savich kitchen, her hair in a ponytail, dressed in jeans and motorcycle boots, a short
lightweight black leather jacket over a boatneck black-and-white-striped shirt. Without a word, Nicholas handed her a cup of coffee.

Savich was sitting at the kitchen table, two laptops open in front of him. She recognized magic MAX, wondered what in the world was happening.

He looked up from one of his computers. “Good morning, Mike. You slept well?”

“Yes, yes, thank you.”
Was there something in his voice?
Nah, she was imagining it. She had to stop it.

She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. A dollop of milk, nothing else.

“The lord and master of the coffee universe made it,” Sherlock said, and smiled. “Enjoy.”

“Five minutes,” Savich said, “and we'll need to hit the road.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I'm sorry, sweetheart, but with Gabriella down with a cold, you're elected to take Sean to school.”

“Yeah, yeah, curses on all of you,” Sherlock said. “Good luck to you guys.” And she immediately left the kitchen when Sean's voice came loud and clear from upstairs: “Mama, where's my special Batman shirt?”

Mike said, “Do I need to know anything in particular?”

Savich packed up MAX. “The vice president set a plan in motion last night and has decided to bring us in.”

Mike stared at him. “So the vice president is behind the leak about Vanessa? I guess it makes sense, after all, she was in the CIA.”

Savich nodded. “Yes, a planned leak. If you're all set, we can go.” He called out as they went out the front door, “See you later, Sherlock. Sean, have a good day.”

They piled into Sherlock's sturdy Volvo and headed toward the Naval Observatory. Mike knew the vice president's mansion was on
the grounds, and it must be close to Savich's home in Georgetown. She was right.

Savich drove straight up Wisconsin, turned right onto Observatory Lane. They were checked through a tall gate, then wound around the circle to park in front of an impressive white Victorian mansion. She wished she weren't so nervous, so on edge, to fully appreciate it. The vice president's house, and wasn't that something, Mike from Omaha visiting the VP? She tightened her ponytail, then checked herself to make sure she was put together.

But still, meeting the vice president of the United States wearing jeans and biker boots and no makeup, it would make her mom cringe. So unlike Nicholas, curse him, who looked very cool, she felt like she should be going to a bar to drink beer and line dance.

She said to Nicholas, “Savich didn't tell you what was going on?”

He shook his head. “I think this is a command performance. He woke me, I threw on some clothes and grabbed you.”

She saw half a dozen Secret Service agents patrolling the house, each of them focused, each of them ready for anything, and she wondered how they could keep up the edge day after day. A tall, fit gray-haired man who looked like he'd never taken crap from anyone in his life came down the steps to greet them.

“I'm Tony Scarlatti, no relation to the dude who wrote all that cool music for the harpsichord back in the day. I'm the vice president's lead agent. Thanks for coming to us this morning. Come meet Vice President Sloane.”

They all shook hands, introduced themselves, then trailed after Tony into the house. Mike immediately wanted to whisper, it was so quiet inside. It was also more modern than she'd expected, all cool grays and creams with a few sprinkles of pale green. There
wasn't much time to admire the house; Tony herded them through the round entrance foyer toward the back of the house.

Vice President Callan Sloane was in a large modern kitchen overlooking the gardens, sitting at a Carrera marble countertop, a large cup of tea in front of her,
The Washington Post
in her hands. She looked completely relaxed, at ease, as if she was used to a bunch of FBI agents interrupting her breakfast every day.

“Thank you, Tony. Hello, come in.” Introductions, handshakes, then, “May I get you coffee? Tea? Tony, could you ask Maisie to bring the trays into the dining room? And I'm sure you can smell the cinnamon buns, they'll be out of the oven in a couple of minutes. Follow me, we'll talk in there.”

The few times Nicholas had seen the vice president on TV, he'd thought her impressive, an in-charge type, probably scary competent. In person, though, he realized not only did she look like the ruler of her world, she was also a stunner—pale skin, blond hair without a single strand of gray, and a stubborn chin. Nicholas knew she was fifty-seven, but she didn't look it. Unlike them, she was wearing black silk slacks and a cream blouse with small mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, and a choker of graduated pearls around her neck.

She looked expensive and completely in charge, ready to greet the leader of a country or three FBI agents. For a moment, she reminded Nicholas of his ex-wife, Pamela Carruthers, always together, always ready to stride out on the stage, ready for any situation. He remembered the card Pam had sent him upon his graduating from the FBI Academy. Showed a dog with a wagging tail, enthusiastically digging a deep hole. She'd signed it “Your Pam,” whatever that meant—well, he knew what it meant, particularly after the dinner they'd shared in New York. He shook his head, paid attention.

They followed Vice President Sloane into the dining room, wallpapered in the same creams and grays, with draperies that nearly touched the ceiling above the windows, making the room seem taller than it was. Nicholas knew his mom would really like the rosewood table, large enough to seat twelve people, without extra leaves.

Mike sat down, wondered who else had sat in this exact chair, looked over at Nicholas. He looked like he belonged, like he assumed a servant would quietly appear at his elbow and pour him a glass of wine. And Savich, his face showing nothing but polite interest, taking in his surroundings with a professional's eye.

Once they were served, the vice president got right to it.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I decided last night to let the media know Vanessa Grace is alive. I did not use her real name, but obviously Matthew Spenser will know it's her.

“It's imperative we draw him out as quickly as possible. I'm counting on his seeing the media's announcement, and believing that the woman he believed he'd murdered had miraculously escaped. I am personally amazed she survived.”

She turned to Mike. “Agent Caine? Agent Savich tells me you wanted to be bait, but the CIA will be using one of their own agents. Do you believe as I do that Matthew Spenser will come to the hospital to try to kill her again?”

“Yes, ma'am,” Mike said. “Given what we heard Vanessa saying on the videotapes, Matthew Spenser felt something for her, at the very least he believed to his soul she was there for him, sharing his goals, sharing his missions. Her betrayal hit him very hard, sent him over the edge enough to kill his best friend, Ian McGuire, and believe he'd killed her. So yes, I believe he'll come and he'll see killing her as righteous.

“Also, Vanessa told us Spenser is a news junkie, so if he's anywhere near a screen, he will see the announcement, and then he will make plans.”

“Her uncle Carl Grace agrees,” Callan said. “Anything else?”

Mike said, “Ma'am, we also believe you need to talk the president into canceling the Yorktown event.”

“Already done. Neither of us will be there. We will announce the cancellation at noon today. The president is not happy about it, but we can't take any chances with his life, and that is an understatement. And I'd just as soon keep my own hide intact as well. What else, Agent Caine?”

Mike hadn't expected humor, and smiled. She said, “Ma'am, we don't know that Zahir Damari was planning to kill you at Yorktown. We don't even know where he is and that means we have to keep on red alert, as well as you and your protection team. Damari is a consummate professional. As you probably know, we have a photo of him at a diner in Baltimore. He looked nothing like the photo Vanessa managed to send from COE, which means he makes it a habit of altering his looks, which is why we haven't been able to identify him. He never gives up and from what we've heard and read, he always has redundancies built in.”

“So he's never at a loss,” Callan said, and nodded. “He'd make a good politician. Now, trust me, none of my people are letting down their guard. I was told it was possible he was also here to kill another, still unverified, target. Do you agree, Agent Savich?”

Savich nodded. “Unfortunately, we're not certain as yet who this other person is. Mossad still doesn't know?”

“Not yet. Take a guess, Agent Savich.”

“The president of the United States.”