The Gemini Deception (17 page)

Shield also couldn’t remember when she’d decided it was proper to stare at Thomas’s kissable mouth. What was she doing? This woman was the American president and was also apparently involved in some scheme.

“May I…” Thomas’s hoarse voice brought her back.

“Yes…if you know how.”

Thomas paused a long moment before replying in a soft voice, “Teach me.”

Shield shivered involuntarily at the words. Damn it, this was insane. Was she actually flirting with Thomas? And more insanely, was the president actually flirting back? “Take a small sip and keep it on your tongue. Give it a chance to mix with your saliva. It decreases the acidity and enhances the flavor.”

“How long?”

“You’ll know.”

Thomas slowly brought the glass to her lips and, her eyes still fixed on Shield’s, took a small sip. The setting sun had created a green hue in the president’s deep-brown eyes, and her lips shone from the maroon liquid. Thomas closed her eyes to swallow and let out a small groan.

Shield’s whole body reacted to the sound, every muscle tensing involuntarily, and she had to stop herself from moaning as well.

“Your wine is…delicious.” Thomas’s voice was barely audible.

Unable to trust her own voice, Shield smiled and looked out the open doors to the balcony.

The situation was becoming more unprofessional by the second. Flirting on the job, and never mind with Thomas, was against her every taught and self-imposed code of ethics. Shield cleared her voice before she spoke.

“I…” they said simultaneously.

Shield gestured for Thomas to go first.

“I was going to say, I think it’s time I turned in,” the president said.

Shield immediately stood. “You have a busy day tomorrow.”

“Indeed. What were you about to say?”

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask.”

“Oh?”

“Do you really not remember me?” Shield asked. “Or is there a reason you won’t acknowledge having met me?”

“Remember you from…?”

“Greece. The summit. I know you saw me, because you looked right at me and nodded.”

“The global-warming summit? I…I don’t, I’m sorry.”

Shield felt oddly disappointed she’d not made more of an impression. “It’s okay. I was just curious.”

The president got up and faced her. They were less than a foot apart. “Thank you for the wine and the lesson.”

Shield took a step back and looked away. “It was my pleasure, I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

Thomas headed out and Shield followed silently a pace behind. She opened the door for the president and Thomas stepped into the foyer.

As she opened the door to her bedroom, with her back turned, the president said, “Good night, Kennedy.”

“Sleep well, Elizabeth.”

Ryden dropped on her back on the bed and covered her face with a pillow. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What just happened? What did I just do?” She had little to no experience with flirting, but even
she
knew what had just taken place, and for the first time in her life, she had flirted back.

Not that guys had ever swamped her with flowers, romantic dinners, and heated insinuations, but her limited practice had been one-sided and uninteresting. In her forty years she’d had three relationships, although that term was overrated when trying to characterize what they’d really been. Not one had lasted longer than a few months, and all had involved infrequent, uneventful, physical obligations. The men were nice enough but had done nothing for her libido. Hell, the only reason she knew about the existence of the G-spot was because she’d accidentally read about it when she clicked on an evidently dubious website called Fun With Candles.

Ryden might have carried on with the men for the sake of having someone in her life, but the prospect of having to endure the occasional sex was unbearable. They weren’t rough or indifferent to her needs; they would try everything short of performing circus acts to satisfy her but never could. And in the end, they’d all call her frigid and leave, blaming her for making them feel incompetent.

Seven years ago, she’d concluded that her loveless childhood had made her incapable of feeling what she was supposed to feel and had stopped dating altogether. She had no desire to put herself through that kind of disaster again.

But if she was indeed frigid, why was her body aching? How did Kennedy, a woman, make her feel more desire and desired than she had ever imagined possible? No man had ever looked at her the way Kennedy had, and no one had ever made her feel the need to scream
I want you
. There was no doubt Kennedy had flirted with her, was there?

“I’m going through a stress-induced mid-life crisis,” she muttered to herself. “Give me a break. That’s obscene. That’s impossible, not to mention crazy. What’s wrong with me?”

Maybe, she mused, the attraction came from the fact that Kennedy had been adopted, was an orphan like she was, a kindred spirit.
But since when does empathy produce bodily fluids?
Ryden looked in the direction of her crotch. “God. I’m a total mess.”

And Ratman would have a stroke if he found out. She’d almost laugh if she wasn’t scared shitless of him. “There’s the silver lining everyone talks about.”

She got up and paced the room. Could Kennedy be playing around just to have something extra to blackmail her with? “No, that can’t be.” Kennedy had seemed sincere and almost uncomfortable with herself during their flirtatious banter.

Although the evening was chilly, Ryden felt like she was on fire. She opened the window and hung her head out. “What’s happening to me?” she asked the stars. Once she’d cooled off a little, she shut the window and turned to stare at the door. It had never looked more appealing. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have the guts to run.”

The ringing phone interrupted her monologue.

“Yes?”

“You sound breathless.” Ratman.

“So?”

“Is something wrong?”

Not if you consider me wanting to run the hell away from this place normal.
“No,” she replied instead.

“I was told you were in the Yellow Room with Kennedy.”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing?” he asked.

Oh, you know me. I love to wine taste with attractive women and wish to hell they’d kiss me.
“Nothing much. I had a glass of wine.”

“And Kennedy?”

“She doesn’t drink on duty.”

“I meant,” he snapped with irritation, “did she say anything?”

“Like what?” What was up with the interrogation? “Kennedy talked about wine.”
And I hope to hell she doesn’t say otherwise.
“Why are you asking about Kennedy?” Did the Rat hear something? Had Kennedy just spoken to him?

“Just want to make sure she’s taking good care of you.”

You have no idea how good.
“She’s very professional. Doesn’t talk much and is quite boring.”

The answer apparently satisfied him because he changed topics. “Have you checked your schedule for this week?”

“I’m prepared for tomorrow. I’ll read the rest of this week’s schedule tonight.” Ryden glanced over at the folder, which she’d tossed on the bed earlier. She’d apparently lain on it when she came in and hadn’t even noticed; it was crumpled and folded at the edges.

“Good.”

The only thing
good
, creep
, she thought,
is that the phones are tapped, because it means you refrain from saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.”

“Well then, get some rest for tomorrow.”

Fat chance since my body feels more wired than a guitar.
“I will.”

“Good night, Elizabeth.”

I hope you slip in the shower and break your neck. And FYI,
Elizabeth
only sounds good when Kennedy says it.
“Good night,” she replied, and hung up.

Kennedy even makes
Elizabeth
sound sexy.
“Yup, time for a shower,” Ryden told herself as she headed toward the bathroom, still tingling from the interaction with Kennedy. “A bucket of ice and tranquilizers wouldn’t hurt, either.”

*

Houston, Texas

TQ watched the maid pour her nightcap—bourbon, neat—and set it on her desk atop a coaster. She smiled. “The eye patch becomes you. You finally look interesting.”

The young woman bowed. “Thank you, madam.”

The phone rang and TQ sighed when she saw the number on caller ID. “Get out,” she told the maid before she answered the phone. “And?”

“She asks a lot of questions,” Yuri Dratshev replied.

“I’m sure.”

“My men say nothing.”

“Your family’s life depends on it, after all. Is that everything?”

“She is asking for a TV. She wants to hear the news.”

“Good. It’s time we gave her one.” She reached for her bourbon and took a sip. Disciplining the maid had ensured no further problems. The amount in the glass was precisely to her specifications, and the glass had been placed exactly where she wanted on her desk.

“But she will find out,” Dratshev said.

“Yes, Russian genius.”

“You want her to.”

“The president has to be prepared, for when the time comes.”

“When the time comes?”

“Were you listening at all while I outlined this operation? I honestly don’t know how someone who needs to be reminded to blink can be so successful.”

“I pay people to remind me.”

“Don’t get cocky. I can have your family wiped out before someone has the chance to remind you.”

After a long silence on the other end, Dratshev came back on the line, his voice much more subdued. “I also talked with Jack.”

TQ sat up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Yes?”

“She will see you.”

“You told her who I am?”

Dratshev hesitated.
“Da.”

“I don’t recall asking you to do that.”

“You did not say I should not,” he hurriedly explained. “I told her you want to talk. That’s all.”

“What did she say?”

“She never says a lot. She said she does not know you and to give her your number.”

“So she wants my number,” TQ said, amused.

“Do you have a job for Jack?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

“She asks for big money, but she is good. She is the one who brought me Owens’s head. You know—the serial killer.”

TQ had read about the Headhunter being caught and killed in Vietnam a couple of years back. “They said the feds found him.”

“No,” Dratshev replied. “His ugly head is buried in my garden. She asked for three million, I gave her half in front.”

“Up front.”

“She never accepted the rest after she personally delivered his head.”

“I wonder why.”

Dratshev laughed. “Maybe because she liked killing him. She’s a very good killer and she can find anyone. You will be happy with her work.”

“Tell her to call me at 713-555-2457.”

“Good.”

“And get the president a television.”

“Da.”

TQ hung up and leaned back in her chair.
So you’re that good, are you, Jack? Let’s see how long it’ll take to make you scream out my name for mercy.

Now she just needed a way to force Jack to come to her, and Dratshev might have given her some ammunition. The death of Walter Owens had been all over the news, and she recalled something about the leader of a Vietnamese skin-trade organization being captured in the same assault that had brought him down. Perhaps he could shed some light on Jack and her involvement.

TQ had good contacts all over Asia, particularly in prisons, because that’s where she procured many of her black-market human organs. She telephoned her primary contact in Saigon and asked him to personally visit the skin-trade chief. If the man could provide her with Jack’s Achilles’s heel, she had the means to make his confinement much more comfortable than it probably was.

*

Southwest of Baltimore, Maryland

Next morning, March 2

Elizabeth Thomas restlessly paced the perimeter of her comfortable but claustrophobic confinement, wishing like hell she knew what was going on in the outside world. Without a watch or window, she had to rely on the number of breakfasts served to measure how long she’d been here, and she knew more than a week had passed now since they’d abducted her in the elevator.

Cleanshaven had come to take away her breakfast tray some time ago, so it was probably mid-morning. Apparently they had decided to ignore, yet again, her pleas for a television or radio so she could keep up with what was going on and pass the long hours with something other than the books they’d given her, none of which could hold her interest.

Was the Secret Service having any luck tracking her down? Did they believe her dead? Had her kidnappers made ransom demands? And how and what was the vice president doing in her absence? She’d selected her running mate largely because, as a popular Southern governor, he could deliver the block of votes needed to win the election. He also, fortunately, supported much of her agenda, but not all of it. He’d been frank in opposing her health-care plan and energy-alternative initiative when they’d both been campaigning for the Democratic nomination. Would he use this opportunity to forestall some of her key directives?

She paused in her pacing and tensed when she heard the sound of the key in the lock. From her reckoning, it was much too early for lunch, the next time she would usually see one of her guards.

Cleanshaven stuck his masked face through the doorway and motioned for her to move to the farthest corner of the room.

She complied. “What’s happening?”

A few seconds later, Beard carried in a flat-screen television and set it up on a table opposite the bed. Cleanshaven plugged a cable from the wall into the back, while Beard handed her the remote.

“Thank you,” she said as she flicked the set on, eager to find out what was happening with the investigation into her kidnapping.