by Radclyffe
“Well then, we’ll just have to find him and make sure he’s not a problem.”
Cam smiled grimly. “I have a feeling if we don’t, he’ll find us.”
Chapter Three
“Ricky, why don’t you bring us up to speed on your frontrunners,” Cam said, addressing the newest member of her team. Ricky Sanchez, a thirty-year-old with curly, dark hair, an olive complexion, and bedroom eyes, had most recently been stationed in the Southwest with the ATF. He’d run a number of operations with the DEA when their territories overlapped. Drugs and firearms often went hand in hand, and both were popular commodities with the paramilitary groups for use in financing their operations. The patriot organizations served as conduits between drug runners from Mexico and South America and dealers in the States, and the money they made brokering the goods went for guns. The guns were valuable assets when negotiating with foreign terrorists, who very often had money but no ready access to weaponry. Sanchez was as close to an expert on the patriot organizations as could be found, and when Cam offered him the opportunity to come over to her team, he jumped at it. Married with two kids, he’d been urged by his wife to get out of the field, and every agent knew that antiterrorism was the hot place to be now.
“The patriots have no central organization—no ruling hierarchy,” Ricky said, lounging back in his chair. He wore boot cut jeans, a wide leather belt with a hammered silver buckle, and scuffed hand-tooled Tony Lamas. “These guys have too much ego to actually work together. They all want to be in charge.”
He leaned forward enough to push several keys on a small laptop computer and an image projected on a wall-mounted monitor. Head shots of three men, ranging in age from late twenties to early fifties, appeared. All were clean-shaven, with short, military-style haircuts and flinty stares.
“From left to right—John Jamieson, Robert Douglas, and Randolph Hogan. The White Aryan Brotherhood, the Soldiers of God, and the Homeland Liberation Front. These three are the most radical of the patriot leaders—they like to make noise about taking back America for the Americans, meaning white men—but we haven’t been able to put them anywhere close to the guys who took down the Towers.”
“What about Matheson?” Cam asked. “Any connection to him?”
“We’re looking for one.” Ricky shrugged. “These guys are camera shy, and they rarely communicate by anything other than disposable phones or face-to-face meetings. Even then, they usually send their second or third in command.”
Savard cut in. “On the other hand, the hijackers weren’t particularly careful about covering their movements after they entered this country. The FBI has a fairly complete picture of where they lived, where and when they took their flight training, and the routes they took to get to the airports. Somewhere along the way, they crossed paths with the team that hit the Aerie. There’s no way it could have been coordinated the way it was without someone organizing it here. We just need to find the intersection point.”
Cam nodded. “I agree. We know Matheson sent that team to Manhattan to hit Blair. They were his hand-picked boys. Which means he knew the timetable for the hijacking. I can’t believe he would have let anyone else orchestrate this thing. We need to backtrack his movements.” She looked to Felicia. “Somewhere, he left a bit of paper. He used a credit card for gas, paid for dinner, spent the night in a Motel Six. Got a parking ticket. He might be elusive, but he’s not invisible. Find out where he’s been in the last four months and put him with one of Ricky’s guys. Or one of the hijackers.”
“I’m on it, Commander,” Felicia said. “If he so much as took money out of an ATM, I’ll find out when and where.”
Cam swept her hand toward the screen. “All of these guys. We need to know everything there is to know about them. Yesterday.”
A knock on the door caught everyone’s attention, and Cam walked over to open it. Stark stood in the hallway.
“Sorry to interrupt, Commander, but I just got a call from Egret. She informed us she’s going to DC.”
Cam frowned. “First I’ve heard of it.”
“Lucinda Washburn was mentioned.”
“Ah, that explains it,” Cam said with a sigh. Lucinda Washburn was Andrew Powell’s chief of staff and also a close, longtime friend of Blair’s family. When Lucinda called, everyone jumped. “When?”
“We have a flight scheduled in two hours, so I thought you’d want to know. I assume you’ll be accompanying her, and we’re leaving for the airport in forty-five minutes.”
“Thanks, Chief. Let me finish up here, and I’ll be with you.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Cam closed the door, thinking the dog-and-pony show was about to begin. She would have minded the public exposure a lot more if she wasn’t looking forward to getting married. Love had a funny way of changing one’s outlook on things. She turned back to her team. “So, let’s go over it again. What do we know, and what do we need to know. And how are we going to find it out.”
Cam found Blair in the studio section of the loft where Blair painted. The 4x5 foot canvas on the easel in front of her was a riot of bright red, glaring purples, and garish yellows. Blair had applied the paint thickly, in wide swirling swaths, and Cam felt almost dizzy from the motion as her gaze tracked over the surface. Blair didn’t usually paint abstracts, but she had been for the last few weeks. As Cam took this one in, she realized it wasn’t as abstract as she’d first thought. She recognized what she was looking at. A fireball. She’d seen something like it time and time again in the replays of the jetliners crashing into the North and South Towers. She wondered if Blair had consciously depicted the inferno that had resulted, and didn’t know if she should ask. After growing up with a mother who was a world-renowned painter and being surrounded by her mother’s friends, Cam had learned that artists drew from deeply personal, often painful emotions to infuse their art with power and passion. Perhaps this was Blair’s way of exorcising the horror, and Cam wouldn’t take a chance of hurting her by asking.
In her usual work attire of paint-streaked jeans and T-shirt, with her hair tied back by a red bandanna, Blair looked young and vulnerable. Cam’s heart swelled and she wished with everything she was that
Blair’s life could be as simple as other people’s seemed to be—that her days could be filled with friendship, and with the work she craved, and with the love they shared. Jazz played on the stereo in the corner, and Blair didn’t turn as Cam approached.
“Baby,” Cam called softly.
Blair looked back, a question formed in her eyes. “What is it?”
Cam smiled. “Nothing.”
“No. You sighed. What’s bothering you?”
“You’re scary, you know that?” Gently, Cam kissed Blair and put her arms around her waist.
“Cam, I’m covered with paint,” Blair said, trying to pull away. “Your suit.”
“Forget my suit,” Cam murmured. “I love you.”
Blair stilled and her eyes softened. She looped her arms around Cam’s neck and kissed her back. “I’m all right.”
“I know.” Cam held her, running her hands lightly up and down her back. “Stark told me Lucinda requested our presence.”
“She called after you left for the briefing. I told her we were both too busy, but she insisted we talk face-to-face.” Blair rolled her eyes. “At least this time she didn’t play the national security card.”
Cam grinned. “She’s probably holding that in reserve.”
“Lucinda never holds anything in reserve. She doesn’t need to. She’s always got plenty of ammunition.”
“True.” Cam released Blair and checked her watch. “Do I need to pack? Are we staying overnight?”
“I think it’s an in-and-out thing. Besides, I’m not staying in DC. We just got home.”
Cam glanced around the loft. It was home. At least one of them, she thought with satisfaction. They had just completed the purchase of the house on Whitley Point where they’d been staying intermittently for the last
two months. That house above the windswept dunes was their refuge, and at least a dozen times a day, she wished she could just send Blair there with a security detail until some kind of sanity was restored to the world. Except that wasn’t likely to happen soon, if ever, and Blair would never submit to being sequestered. Even for her own safety.
“Let me get some work together for the flight, then,” Cam said.
“I need to shower and change.” Blair brushed her fingers over
Cam’s cheek. “I expect this will be about the wedding, and I know how much you have on your mind right now. Thank you for doing this.”
Cam caught Blair’s wrist and brushed her lips over Blair’s fingertips. “I’m doing this for me too. I’m fine.”
“Say that in a week.” Blair kissed Cam’s cheek and walked away.
Cam watched her go, thinking that a lot could happen in a week.
The West Wing of the White House was never quiet, but since 9/11, the activity level had escalated to the point that there was very little difference between noon and midnight. Aides worked eighteen hours straight and staffers slept on couches. Even the White House chief of staff catnapped on her sofa, which was where Blair and Cam discovered Lucinda Washburn when her assistant Emilio bade them to enter her hallowed quarters.
“Sorry,” Blair said as Lucinda lifted the arm that had been covering her eyes and glanced toward the door.
“Good, you’re here.” Instantly alert and looking completely fresh, Lucinda shifted her stocking-clad feet to the floor and slid into her pumps without looking. She walked to the credenza and poured coffee. Looking over her shoulder, she asked, “Some for you?”
“No, thanks,” Blair said. She and Cam took their usual seats side by side on the sofa. “How are things?”
Lucinda lifted her brows as she settled into the wingback chair across from them and sipped her coffee. “We’re making progress. Being able to identify the hijackers has helped things tremendously.” She shifted her gaze to Cam. “How are we doing on identifying the domestic cell?”
“We have a lot of threads, but no connecting factors yet.”
“It’s frustrating that we can identify a terrorist leader thousands of miles away but we can’t use our surveillance to find a traitor in our own backyard.”
“I think we call that preserving civil rights,” Cam said dryly.
“Of course,” Lucinda agreed. “But it’s damned inconvenient when we’re under attack from our own people.”
“We’ll get them,” Cam said.
“No doubt.” Lucinda set her cup aside. “You’re here for another reason.”
“I can’t imagine what,” Blair said.
Lucinda half smiled. “We tried to quietly slide an announcement of your upcoming nuptials into the press briefing this morning.”
Blair snorted.
“Yes. Suddenly, global terrorism is no longer everyone’s top priority.” She fixed Blair with a piercing stare. “You are.”
Blair stiffened, and Cam took her hand.
“So far, we’ve had calls from the Christian Morality Coalition, Family First, the chairman of the reelection campaign, several of our largest donors, and the National Organization for Gay Rights.” Lucinda shook her head. “Congratulations, Blair. You’re a celebrity.”
“That wasn’t my intention,” Blair snapped. She rose abruptly and took one step toward the floor-to-ceiling windows that fronted the Esplanade before realizing that she’d made that trip across Lucinda’s office in anger or frustration a dozen times before. Not once had the journey ever helped her understand why her private life was of such interest to so many, and it never changed the outcome of whatever Lucinda had decided to do about it. She regarded Lucinda. “How’s my father taking it?”
“We haven’t drafted his official statement—”
“I don’t care about the party line.” Blair hoped Cam couldn’t see her shaking. She hated that her life was something that required her father to consult with his advisers before commenting.
“I’m sorry,” Lucinda said gently. “Your father feels exactly the same way today as he did when you first told him. He supports you, and he plans on attending.”
“That’s a very bad idea,” Cam said immediately.
“As is usually the case, Commander,” Lucinda said wryly, “I agree with you. However, you may have noticed that it’s a Powell family trait to do exactly as they please regardless of what their advisers recommend.”
Blair sank down beside Cam. “I’ll ask him not to come.”
“You certainly can,” Lucinda said, “but I don’t think it will change his mind.”
“We haven’t factored a presidential presence into our advance planning,” Cam said. “Stark’s team hasn’t—”
“Tom Turner sent his people to Colorado several days ago. I suspect they’ll liaise with Mac Phillips and Ellen Marks today.”
“And Stark hasn’t been informed?” Cam said incredulously. “That’s a complete breach of protocol.”
“These are unusual times,” Lucinda said. “The president’s security adviser wanted it done this way. While in Colorado, President Powell’s security chief will command the total operation.”
“I don’t like it,” Cam said flatly.
“No, I didn’t think you would, and I imagine that Agent Stark will agree with you.” Lucinda lifted her hands. “On the other hand, it’s not negotiable.”
“Tom is a good man,” Cam went on as if Lucinda hadn’t spoken, “but he isn’t used to the kind of personal security that Blair requires. No one gets as close to the president as they do to Blair.”
“Agent Stark will remain in charge of Blair’s personal detail, unless there is an emergent situation.”
“Which is exactly when Blair would need the best coverage.” Cam shifted on the sofa and took Blair’s hands. “Blair, I know what this means to you. It means a lot to me too. But I think we should postpone.”
Blair studied their joined hands, then met Cam’s gaze. “All right.”
Lucinda crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. “A month ago you would have made me very happy. Unfortunately, we can’t back out now because too many eyes are watching. Plus, we can’t have it appear as if your father is capitulating to the vocal right.”
“You can’t force us to get married,” Blair objected. She ran a hand through her hair. “This is unreal. All of a sudden, you want me to get married.”
“Don’t you?”
“Yes!”
“Good.” Lucinda rose, walked to her desk, and called her assistant. “Emilio? Is Dana Barnett here yet? Send her in, would you?”
“Dana Barnett,” Blair said. “Isn’t she—”
“A reporter for the Washington Chronicle. Yes,” Lucinda replied as Emilio held the door open for a woman of average height and build in wrinkled tan chinos, a white T-shirt, and a shapeless black V-neck sweater. She wore mud-encrusted combat boots and needed a haircut.
Her collar-length chestnut hair was shaggy and her deep brown eyes shadowed with fatigue. Despite her casual attire, she moved briskly and swept the room with sharp eyes that appeared to take in everything with one glance.
“Ms. Barnett,” Lucinda said. “Thank you so much for coming.”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “You’re welcome,” she said in a resonant alto. “I just got off a plane, so forgive my informal attire.” She nodded in Blair and Cam’s direction. “Good morning, Ms. Powell. Deputy Director Roberts.”
“Good to meet you,” Blair said. She and Cam stood, and Blair held out her hand. “Where are you in from?”
“The Middle East,” Dana said somewhat evasively. She glanced at Lucinda. “I didn’t get much of a briefing, just that you wanted to see me.”
“I told the people at the paper I’d fill you in,” Lucinda said. She gestured to the seating area. “You must be tired.”
“No, actually, I spent the last six hours sleeping on the floor in the hold of a milit
ary transport plane. I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind.”
Blair thought what Dana Barnett hadn’t said was that she’d rather be anywhere else but there. She could almost feel her bristling. From what she knew of Dana’s reputation, she was a hard-hitting investigative reporter who covered controversial topics in every corner of the globe. She didn’t doubt that Dana’s assignment in the Middle East had to do with terrorism.
“Since you’ve been out of the country,” Lucinda said smoothly, apparently oblivious to the edge in Dana Barnett’s manner, “you may not have heard that Ms. Powell and the deputy director are getting married next week.”
“Congratulations,” Dana said, her eyes wary.
“As you can imagine,” Lucinda said, “there is a great deal of media interest in the entire event. To facilitate information flow and spare Ms. Powell and the deputy director undue attention, we’ve decided to allow one reporter total access to the first daughter for the duration of the event. Exclusive coverage commencing with the preplanning stages.”
Dana slid her hands into the pockets of her chinos and glanced from Lucinda to Blair. “I can recommend several excellent lifestyle reporters who would—”
“That won’t be necessary. You’ve got the job.” Lucinda smiled.
“Luce,” Blair said, “can we talk for a minute, please?” The last thing Blair wanted was a reporter in her face twenty-four hours a day. It was bad enough to have twice a day press conferences.
“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Cam said.
Blair stared at her. “What?”
“It will limit your exposure if the members of the press realize that you’re not available to make impromptu comments, and it will allow us to determine when and how you’re interviewed.” She nodded. “It’s a good idea.”
“It’s a lousy idea,” Blair retorted.
Dana Barnett folded her arms, an amused expression on her face.
“I realize you’ve just come off an arduous assignment, Dana,” Lucinda said. “We’ll arrange transportation for you to Manhattan tomorrow. You can start then.”