Mesmerized

by Gayle Lynds

  Jeff muttered, "I'll go into the men's bathroom and assemble the pistols."

  Beth nodded as she anxiously examined faces. How was she going to know Berianov? She strolled toward a side buffet where waiters were serving punch and cookies on napkins decorated with an etching of the White House. She nodded and smiled pleasantly at everyone who made eye contact. Justin caught her attention, and they exchanged a wave.

  She paused to survey the festivities and suddenly realized she was seeing with different eyes, and she had been for several days. In the past, her gaze would pick out an arresting facial feature here, an interesting shirt there, and then move on, forgetting and discarding, not really registering any of it or the people themselves.

  But now, right at this moment, as her gaze roamed over the throng, she recognized most of those who had stood in the entry line on the outside sidewalk with her—perhaps ten people in front, and another ten in back. She remembered them. An entire twenty people, and she even recalled snatches of conversations and the first and last names she had overheard.

  As she continued to scan the crowd, she found herself analyzing and easily remembering postures, gestures, strides, complexions, faces, hairstyles and colors . . . but perhaps strangest of all, she was noting and recording in her mind the angles of each person's neck, and the relative positions of shoulders and heads. For an odd instant, it seemed as if some internal knowing told her they could be a signature as distinct as a fingerprint or DNA. No two people's shoulder-neck-head postures and shapes were identical, and although they could be disguised, they could not be completely erased. Is that your idea, Mikhail Ogust? Part of your training perhaps?

  As she thought about Alexei Berianov and what he had looked like at the Jefferson Memorial, she made herself move on. She held his lean, muscled frame in her mind as she continued to look around. She recognized some of the guests: The secretaries of State, Justice, and Defense. The mayor of Washington. Plus there was a sprinkling of movie, sports, and business celebrities. Then she spotted Zach Housley from her old law firm. Her throat constricted. Despite her changed appearance, there was always the chance he might place her. She turned away.

  That was when she noticed a man with graying red hair. He was standing at the top of the steps in front of the West Wing. Her attention was riveted. He wore dark sunglasses and had a medium build. Most importantly, he wore an FBI lapel pin. From behind a flowering crabapple tree, she studied him as his alert eyes surveyed the crowd like a predatory hawk peering down from its lair. She studied him and his attitude.

  He looked familiar. All her senses screamed that she knew him somehow. She frantically searched back through her memory, trying to reassemble images from her old life, when she had paid so little attention . . . and then she knew that was wrong. He was not from the distant past at all; he was recent. In fact, he looked exactly as Jeff had described Bobby Kelsey. Graying red hair, medium build, the traditional FBI sunglasses, the upturned Irish nose, the cocky attitude. Alarm rushed through her. He was the mole. The traitor. If Kelsey were here, then Alexei Berianov surely was, too. But where?

  50

  In a stall inside the men's bathroom, Jeff assembled the hand-crafted pistols. They were precision made, each small piece sliding into the other and tightening silently with the miniature tools that were also in the cane. As he worked, he pictured the Rose Garden. He isolated sections of it. Analyzed the geography and activity. Considered where Berianov—if he were here—would most likely take up position to kill President Stevens.

  Someone banged on the stall's door.

  He flinched. He was too jumpy. "Be right out."

  "What in hell are you doing in there? Setting up camp?"

  "I said I'd be right out." The pistols were finished. He dropped them into his suit jacket pockets, one on each side, and quickly snapped the cane together. The one good thing about White House security was once you were past the initial check, none of the guards would bother you again . . . unless you tried to wander where you did not belong or made some kind of threatening move. He pulled open the stall's door. A red-faced man with resolve in his gaze was about to pound on it again.

  Jeff put on an innocent smile even as he studied the man carefully. "Nice day, isn't it?"

  The stranger appeared momentarily taken aback by Jeff's good cheer. He looked at Jeff and at the cane. Was he looking too long at the cane? Had he been alerted by the gate guards?

  Then the man snorted and pushed angrily past into the stall, slamming the door and muttering, "Foreigners!"

  Jeff breathed easier and headed back to the Rose Garden.

  Beth was circling the white folding chairs. She had picked up a glass of punch at one of the white-skirted tables and made her way between the back row of chairs and the high platform on which TV camera crews worked. She was now returning up the far side, facing again the podiums where the presidents would talk. Ahead was Zach Housley. She bent her knees to make herself shorter and looked straight ahead. He was talking with two other men, both expensively dressed. Zach wore his traditional misshapen suit.

  He seemed to be staring at her. She pouted her lips, which was something she never did. She hoped it would alter her face enough that with the different hair color and big round sunglasses she would trigger no memories of the old Beth Convey he was accustomed to using. Then she almost laughed. She had not taken into account Zach's self-absorption. He was not looking at her or anyone else. He was gazing off into the distance with that all-knowing expression that announced he was holding forth, oblivious to everyone but himself. As she passed, she could hear him instructing his audience of two on the latest squabble among the American Bar Association board.

  With every step, she studied people and their myriad characteristics, particularly the way they held their upper bodies. It had quickly become easy, as if she had been trained for it, just as she had felt when she discovered what a fast driver she could be. Still, she was beginning to feel claustrophobic, near panic. Which one was Berianov? As she reached the front of the Rose Garden again, Jeff appeared. He gave a slight inclination of his head, a signal the pistols were ready.

  Aides were moving through the throng, urging guests and the press to sit down.

  "I'd like one," she told one of the harried staff members who was handing out head sets.

  "Sure. Channel one is Russian, and channel two is English."

  "Thanks." Beth took the head phones and tried them on as she strolled past the steps above which the podiums stood. Bobby Kelsey had disappeared.

  "Excuse me!" Jeff bumped into her.

  She felt her purse abruptly grow heavier. He had dropped the pistol inside.

  She took off the headphones and said brightly, "Oh, I'm sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going. My fault."

  "No problem," he said. Then quietly: "Anything?"

  "I think I saw Bobby Kelsey up on the walkway," she whispered. "Be careful."

  "Just what we need." His gaze swept the crowds. People were choosing chairs and sitting. It was almost ten o'clock. "You stay on the left, I'll stay on the right."

  "There's Kelsey," she breathed.

  Jeff followed her gaze up to the colonnaded walkway to where the podiums waited.

  Bobby Kelsey was feeling good. His face itched, but that was a minor concern. From his handsome suit to his FBI identification and the pistol in his armpit holster, he was in his element. He enjoyed the bustle of activity, the freedom to move through it, and the power that came with his position on the inside of government. He had a small detail of agents with him, and he had placed them from here all the way to his car, which was parked in the lot between the White House and the Old Executive Office Building. They would help him leave, since he had warned them he had an important meeting and would have to exit unobtrusively and quickly, shortly after the press conference got under way.

  Now he stood again at his self-assigned post near the doors to the Cabinet Room. He surveyed the merry crush in the garden below and watched
the guests find chairs. The confusion was settling into order. In minutes, the two heads of state would emerge through the French doors and stride to the podiums. Already TV cameras were turned on, and CNN and other networks were airing prespeech coverage. The eyes of the world were watching.

  Then he had a nasty jolt. A large man with a cane was walking to the sidelines, apparently looking for a seat. Bobby studied him, alarmed. There was something he recognized about him. . . . Six-foot-five in cowboy boots. No one could hide that height. And he was no thin rail either, but a man of muscle and substance. The hair color was different, and so was the shape of the face. But his activity was revealing: He was covertly watching all around.

  Bobby Kelsey was not absolutely positive, but he had been told when he entered the grounds that there was concern Jeffrey Hammond might show up. The security guard had insisted he look at a photo, even though he had told the man he had worked with Jeff until 1991. He spun on his heel and hurried to the nearest Secret Service agent. He talked urgently. Persuasively.

  "Mr. President, I don't advise this." It was President Stevens' chief of staff, Linda Patton. "We should call off the press conference at least. You can have the luncheon still, and you both can make your remarks there. The press pool will cover it. It'll have almost the same impact with the public but with far fewer risks."

  President Stevens was dignified in a conservative gray suit and muted red tie. Still, he had the kind of appealingly handsome face that attracted voters and had gotten him into more trouble with women than he cared to think about. But now he was happily married and the father of an infant daughter, and he had every intention of winning reelection.

  He said calmly, "Take it easy, Linda. This is a big event. How would I look if I cowered every time there was a threat?" He nodded to President Putin, who understood English, although he preferred to use translators at official functions. "What do you think, Mr. President?" Vladimir Putin was not the best leader he could imagine for New Russia, but right now he was the best available.

  "We should brave the bear, Mr. President," Putin said without hesitation. "In my country, it is wise to not appear the coward, especially in these uncertain times."

  Putin was smaller than Stevens, with a bland, weary-looking face notable only for the eyes, which were sharp, intelligent, and missed nothing. President Stevens thought about this little, nondescript man and the country he led, the teetering giant that was Russia. Stevens had never liked his predecessor, Boris Yeltsin. In fact, he had considered him scheming and selfish, a blustery type who could jump up on a tank and wave his fist but would not discipline himself to see the long-term costs of the cruel decisions he was making. Worse yet, perhaps Yeltsin had simply not cared.

  Putin, however, was a thinker. If Putin could finally wrest himself from the mire of Russia's ubiquitous corruption and violence . . . if he could develop a clear vision of a Russia with a Western sensibility of democracy . . . and if he could stand more firmly against those who shamelessly raped Russia's resources and economy . . . he could be the leader Russia needed. In Stevens's opinion, Vladimir Putin showed signs of all this, and Stevens's plan was simple: Ignore all the naysayers and the chronic dyspeptics, and do everything he could to propel Putin forward on the path.

  He thought about all this as they stood in the Cabinet Room, their wives nearby as well as a dozen aides. Above the long oval table, busts of George Washington and Benjamin Franklin looked down. The room was hushed, uncertain.

  "That does it," President Stevens announced. "President Putin and I are agreed. We're going out there."

  "Sir! We've identified an intruder—"

  As soon as he saw Bobby Kelsey talking with one of the Secret Service agents, Jeff knew he was in trouble. He turned and moved away through the thinning crowd to put as much distance as possible between him and Kelsey as well as between him and Beth. But it did no good. The Secret Service came at him from every side. There was nothing he could do short of shooting one of them.

  "Mr. Hammond, please don't move." The agent had a crew cut. His pistol was pressed into Jeff's side. His voice was deceptively polite.

  Jeff said tensely, "Look, this isn't what it seems at all. Bobby Kelsey's the—"

  "We'll talk about it inside."

  There were six agents, and atop the West Wing two sharpshooters aimed their sniping rifles down at him. Near him, people froze, terrified. Television and still cameras moved in. From the corner of his eye he could see Beth about twenty feet away. Fortunately, none of the agents showed any interest in her.

  His voice low, he started talking. He let them usher him around the West Wing to a side entrance. They barred the media from following. And the whole time he described as convincingly as he could what had happened over the past few days. But the agents said nothing. Their faces were stern, immobile. Impervious. As soon as they had him out of sight of the Rose Garden, they slammed him up against a stone post and frisked him. They were not gentle.

  One of them said excitedly, "He's armed!"

  If they had heard a word he had said, it was all meaningless now. To them, his concealed weapon proved their assumptions.

  He said desperately, "I've been undercover for ten years! I've been waiting for this moment. I always knew Alexei Berianov was up to something. He's here, I tell you! You've got to find him and stop him!"

  The agent with the crew cut snorted. "Right, sports fan. And this little toy in your pocket's a grape-flavored lollipop. We're going to lock you up and lose the key!"

  Just then they heard a woman's voice behind them. "Let me through, dammit. Here's my identification. Millicent Taurino, deputy AG. Justice, for God's sakes. Don't look at me like that. I know Dean Jennings told you to cooperate with me."

  Before Jeff could speak, the agents yanked him from the stone post, turned him, and pushed him toward a door that would lead to a swept room where they would interrogate him.

  "Ms. Taurino," he tried. "They've got this all wrong. The president's in mortal danger—"

  "Not from you, buddy. Not any longer. You say he had a gun?" She wore an expensive knit suit open at the throat, a pony tail, and a blue butterfly tattoo that peeked out near her collarbone. "Well, Special Agent Hammond, you've done one hell of a job pissing on your badge. Get him inside, men. I'm not here to chitchat. Let's find out what this Benedict Arnold knows."

  "You say there's an intruder?" President Stevens frowned. "You've caught him?"

  He was speaking to the head of today's Secret Service team, Bill Hughes. Hughes's somber face was flushed and sweating. "Yes, sir. But I'm afraid we weren't able to do it as quietly as we'd like. The press got film. It's Jeffrey Hammond, that former FBI man who's wanted for several murders, including Director Horn's. We were tipped off by Assistant Director Kelsey, head of the National Security Division at the Bureau."

  The president swore. "How in hell did this Hammond get in?"

  "This is not good." President Putin shook his head. "But perhaps this means the problem is taken care of?"

  "Yes, I'm sure it does," President Stevens said heartily. He rubbed his hands. "Shall we go talk to the world, Vladimir?"

  "By all means, Jim. Let us show the disbelievers we are two countries united against violence and tyranny."

  "But, sir—" The security leader tried.

  "Put a stopper on it," President Stevens decided. "You've done your job superbly. Now let us do ours."

  He and the Russian president strode toward the French doors. Beyond the glass they could see the twin podiums and the mass of people eagerly waiting.

  Outwardly calm, smiling expectantly, Beth found a seat on the right aisle, near the front. She had seen agents take Jeff away, and now Bobby Kelsey had returned to stand again on the West Wing walkway above the crowd, where the presidents would speak. There was a satisfied smile on his face. For an instant she had a strong desire to smash her fists into it.

  Worried about Jeff, she desperately scanned guests, reporters, and staff, looking for s
omething to identify Berianov. Where was he? What did he look like? Mikhail, where's General Berianov? Where's the man who killed you? Her gaze moved again to the smug Kelsey, who looked as if he were waiting, too. His presence gave her a feeling of hopelessness, almost as if she were back in the transplant hospital, dying. She could not take her gaze from him. What was that all about?

  Suddenly the crowd quieted. An excited tremor swept through the seated guests. Reporters took out notebooks and turned on tape recorders. And those who had not yet donned their headphones put them on as the two presidents of the former enemy nations strode out proudly side by side from the Cabinet Room. Applause exploded. The presidents beamed and waved. They took their places behind the podiums.

  "Ladies and gentlemen. Guests and members of the press," President Stevens began. "It is my honor to stand before you today with a fellow citizen of the world and a friend for peace. . . ."

  She glanced at Bobby Kelsey, whose self-satisfied features were rapt with attention. He stood to the side, among the American and Russian security force. All the agents exhibited the usual appearance of casual alertness. But it was a lie. Just as the brilliantly colored tulips and monarch butterflies in flight gave the scene a charming innocence, the agents' informality masked deadly skills.

  Engrossed in his mission, Bobby Kelsey did not notice the tall brunette sitting on the aisle who was staring up at him. As a monarch butterfly sailed past, he absentmindedly reached up and snared it. In an expert motion, he crushed it and let it fall. And then he slid his hand inside his suit jacket and grasped the handle of the Bureau pistol. He was shielded on all sides by the Russian and American agents.

  Beth's heart seemed to stop as Kelsey's motions replayed in her mind. The angle of his neck and head. The movement of his shoulders. The idiosyncratic fluidity of it all. She remembered Berianov from earlier this morning at the Jefferson Memorial, how he had stood, the shoulders so square, the head so erect, just like Kelsey now. She remembered her recent nightmare: He straddled the powerful machine, his shoulders square, his head particularly erect. He gave a little lift to his shoulders and tilted back his head as he pulled a helmet with a metallic visor down over his face. She replayed how Kelsey had just now given a little lift to his shoulders and tilted his head back as he had reached for the butterfly. . . .