The Gemini Deception

by Kim Baldwin

  He’d met with her earlier to tell her the Secret Service had appointed a new special agent as her primary bodyguard, one who would be with her at all times—even within the White House, where the Uniformed Division usually provided security. He didn’t say that this new bodyguard was in on their conspiracy, but he implied as much when he pointedly reminded her that several other entities within the White House were watching her and would report back to him any slips or attempts to reveal the deception.

  Ryden jumped when the phone rang. She swiveled around and answered. “Yes?”

  “Your appointment with the Secret Service is in five minutes,” Ratman said. “Meet me in the Cabinet Room.”

  Ryden straightened her clothes before she opened one of the four doors leading out of the Oval Office. Though it was her first visit to the adjacent Cabinet Room, where the president routinely met with her cabinet secretaries and advisors, she knew which seat was hers. Not only was each leather chair around the large oval table outfitted with a small plaque designating who sat where, she’d been supplied with floor plans, virtual tours, and pictures of all the rooms in the White House during her training.

  Ratman and the two people present stood when she entered. One was a pleasant-looking middle-aged man she recognized from her briefings with Tonya as Frank Alexander, the Secret Service director. The other was an attractive woman probably in her mid-thirties—four or five years younger than Ryden, and at five-seven or so, a couple of inches taller than she was. She had blue eyes, full lips, high cheekbones, and shoulder-length light-brown hair with blond highlights. With a lean, athletic build and skin bronzed from long hours in the sun, she was a striking woman in her classically tailored black suit.

  “Good evening, Madam President,” the man said.

  Ryden shook his hand. “Good evening, Director Alexander.”

  “We’re all very sorry about what happened.”

  “Please.” Ryden lifted her hand to stop him. “I’m sorry about your men. They gave their lives to save mine.”

  “It’s what we do, but yes, we were very sorry to lose our friends and colleagues.”

  “I can’t imagine how their families must feel.”

  “It’s always hard to break such news.” He looked away, still clearly upset. “Their families will be well compensated and looked after.”

  “A small but necessary comfort, I’m sure.”

  “Indeed.” Alexander turned to his right. “Let me introduce you to agent Harper Kennedy.”

  The agent took a step forward and extended her hand. Ryden reached for it guardedly as the Ratman’s words rang loud and clear in her ears. She could be one of them.

  “It’s an honor to meet you, Madam President.” Kennedy’s hand was rough and firm, more the hand of someone who did manual labor than a woman who stood guard. She looked Ryden in the eyes as if trying to see past her.

  Tonya had taught Ryden to never look away during introductions, and so far she’d done a good job even with those closely associated with Thomas, but the intensity of this woman’s stare made her feel exposed, susceptible to the lie she was living. The woman furrowed her brow and for a second Ryden swore she saw her sniff. Had Kennedy met the president in the past, and did she somehow smell different? Ryden finally pulled her hand away and the woman let go.

  “I will be your SAIC—Special Agent in Charge—from now on,” Kennedy said. “That means I will be with you at all times, including the places men aren’t allowed.”

  “Isn’t that a bit extreme?” Ryden asked.

  “With all due respect, Madam President, your attackers proved to you, us, and the world that organized terrorism is a real threat, one that can strike at any moment. We want to ensure you are constantly protected.”

  “But I was protected when these people attacked. I’m alive because your people made the ultimate sacrifice. Because they did their job.”

  “Yes, and now your attackers know that. They also know what to do differently. These people…” Kennedy paused, and those intense blue eyes bore into Ryden again, “got past our security, which means we failed. Maybe next time you won’t be so lucky. Our men saved your life, but they failed at their job. We will not allow that to happen again. If that means twenty-four-hour protection, regardless of the situation or location, then that’s what I will do.”

  “What makes you so sure you can handle a situation like that on your own?”

  “Because I have thirteen years of experience with similar situations.” Kennedy sounded arrogant and Ryden didn’t know if she liked that. She sure had a lot of overconfidence for someone who looked like she belonged in the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition.

  “Madam President,” Alexander said, “Kennedy here is indeed one of the best in her field. She is highly trained and skilled in surveillance, guarding, martial arts, and various forms of combat. Her instincts are unparalleled. She comes highly recommended.”

  “Recommended by whom? I thought she was one of your people.” Ryden knew she was pressing her luck. Ratman had said to stick to the script so that she didn’t say something stupid or unconventional, but she couldn’t help herself.

  “We have contracted her,” the Secret Service director replied.

  “In other words, she’s on loan,” Ryden concluded.

  “From a very prestigious private organization. I presume you’ve already been briefed about the EOO—the Elite Operatives Organization?”

  Ryden hadn’t, but the tone of the question made it clear that Thomas probably had been, so she nodded. “Why doesn’t she work for you if she’s so good?”

  Ratman shot her a warning stare before he jumped in. “The president is understandably still very shaken up. She wants to make sure her new guard is qualified for this job.”

  “I would want that, too,” Kennedy said. “I’m…on loan, Madam President, because I’m not for sale.”

  “I see.” Ryden had hoped Ratman’s implication about the new guard was just to scare her, but now she was convinced it was true. She was certain her mysterious employer had deliberately hired an outsider for this position to keep close tabs on her.

  Ryden turned to Kennedy. “Does that mean you start as of now?”

  “As of tonight,” her bodyguard confirmed. “I will be staying in the bedroom next to yours.”

  *

  Houston, Texas

  “And how is Madam President today?” TQ hadn’t yet contacted Yuri Dratshev since the kidnapping, presuming that if anything whatsoever went amiss she would have been immediately notified. She’d spelled out to the Russian mob boss several conditions regarding his part of the plan: he was to use only a handful of his most trusted men, who would be told to keep the president somewhere safe and secure, under heavy guard and well fed. They were not to know who had hired Dratshev or why the operation took place. And they were to keep their faces hidden whenever they were around her, not that they needed to be reminded of that. Considering who their captive was, they had to be well aware of the consequences should something go wrong.

  “They tell me she is scared and quiet,” Dratshev replied. “She tried to negotiate with money and the usual bullshit.”

  “You did a good job, Yuri. Your men will be paid well once this is over.”

  “I know, I told them. They will do a great job, you don’t worry.”

  “Oh, I’m not. I’m sure they want their boss and his family to live a long, happy life.”

  “If they don’t,” Dratshev said, “I will kill them myself.”

  “Now, concerning this ridiculous legislation against us…” TQ stopped when she heard another voice coming through the line. Irritated, she spoke louder than usual. “Who is that?”

  “Where?”

  She could almost see the idiot turn around to look. “I hear someone.”

  “Oh, I am listening to my messages.”

  TQ rolled her eyes as Dratshev let the recording drone on. She was about to tell him to turn it off when she realized she recognized the
voice, or thought she did. No. It couldn’t be. She sat up in her chair and listened more intently. “Who was that?” she asked when the recording ended.

  “Old friend. She works for me sometimes,” Dratshev replied.

  “When did she call?”

  “It is an old message. I’m not regular.”

  TQ would have corrected him, but she was too undone by the voice to even get aggravated at his lack of proficiency in basic English. “Play it back and get me closer to the speaker.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I said so!” She didn’t routinely shout, but then again, her reactions in general had been atypical since her brother’s death. So much so, in fact, she wondered whether she’d actually felt something for the inadequate fool.

  A few seconds later, Dratshev said, “Here it goes.”

  “I got your message,” the woman’s recorded voice said. “FYI, I stopped taking jobs, but curiosity got the best of me when I saw you were trying to reach me. Anyway, assuming I still care in a few days, I’ll try again.”

  That’s her. TQ was certain it had to be the woman she’d vowed to find. “What’s her name?”

  “Who knows?” Dratshev said. “No one uses a real name. This woman is mysterious but…very good. The best in the hit business.”

  “What name does she go by?”

  “With me?”

  “No, with my grandmother. Of course with you.”

  “In the business, they call her Jack, or Silent Death.”

  TQ almost gasped at the confirmation of her suspicion. “Where can I find her?”

  “You want to find her?” Dratshev laughed. “No one finds her.” He laughed again. “She finds you, if she feels like it.”

  “Are you too stupid to realize I could have you extinguished like a bug for laughing at me?” How dare he make her feel naïve or stupid for thinking she could find this arrogant bitch? TQ could find or buy whomever she wanted.

  Dratshev’s laughter ceased abruptly and his voice was appropriately apologetic. “I don’t want to offhand you.”

  “It’s offend, and you have, and this is how you are going to make up for it. You are going to find this Jack and bring her to me.”

  “But—”

  “Do it!” she shouted, and hung up. She walked to the bar and poured a glass of whiskey, downing a good measure of it in one long swallow. Returning to her desk, she idly tapped the glass with her finger. The mere voice of that woman had brought back feelings of helplessness and anger. The first was a feeling long foreign to her and one she’d promised she’d never allow anyone to make her feel. The second was what sustained her.

  She was going to find Jack, no matter what or whom it took, and she was going to make sure the bitch knew just how badly she reacted to being made to feel vulnerable.

  She snatched the letter opener off her desk. She was going to personally torture that— Someone knocked on the door. “What?”

  One of the two maids entered. “Your bath is ready, madam.”

  “You’re two minutes early.”

  The maid’s eyes widened in horror as she checked her watch. “My mistake, madam. My watch is running fast.”

  “Come here.”

  The young woman approached cautiously and stopped in front of her desk. Without hesitation TQ stabbed her in the eye with the letter opener. “And that’s nothing compared to what I’m going to do with you, Jack,” she whispered as the maid fell to her knees and screamed in pain.

  Chapter Eight

  Shield waited outside the Cabinet Room while Elizabeth Thomas and Special Advisor Kenneth Moore met privately for a half hour after her introduction to the president. When the two came out and went in different directions, she fell into place a couple of steps behind Thomas. Even here, she was on high alert to any hint of danger. During the journey to D.C., she had studied blueprints of the White House, so she knew they were headed to the second-floor private quarters, where the president’s bedroom occupied the southwest corner.

  Shield had been given the so-called Living Room, an adjacent suite with its own bathroom. Used by several presidents and first ladies as a separate bedroom, in recent years most chief executives employed it as a private study or family living space, but Thomas hadn’t yet designated a function for it.

  Shield stopped in front of the president’s door. “Madam President, should you need to leave your room for any reason, please knock on the paneled door that joins our bedrooms or call my room.”

  Thomas brushed off the request. “That won’t be necessary. Besides, I have two men on guard at my disposal.”

  “Those men have been replaced by me. I am your primary.” Shield had already stated that a little while ago. Maybe the president was too preoccupied to recall everything that happened to her, but surely she’d remember an important mention that concerned her well-being. Perhaps she was just still too new at this to know what primary implied.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong, but you were hired to protect me during public appearances.”

  “As well,” Shield said. “Maybe you haven’t been informed, but the job of a primary involves constant security.”

  The president hesitated. She sounded strangely reluctant when she replied, “I…I am aware. I simply don’t want you to intrude on my privacy.”

  Shield observed her a few more seconds before she said, “Very well then, Madam President.”

  Only after Thomas had entered her bedroom did Shield go to hers. The room was everything she expected a presidential suite would be: luxuriously appointed and well equipped with all modern comforts, but she missed her earthy, wood-beamed bedroom. Others might have been impressed with the canopied four-poster bed, wondering which presidents or influential guests had slept in it, but she gave little thought to such matters. As a matter of fact, she found the massive thing so suffocating she felt as though she were being buried alive.

  Fifteen minutes later, she lay in bed wearing navy pajamas, which she’d purchased to wear during guard duty just in case someone barged in or she had to move fast and didn’t have time to change. At home she slept in nothing but boxers. She could only hope the ongoing investigation into the assassination attempt would lead somewhere so she could soon return to her home in Tuscany. Sitting POTUS was admittedly more interesting than most jobs she’d gotten recently, but at least with the others she was always back home within days or weeks. If nothing ever came of this investigation, she could be stuck here for Thomas’s entire term.

  And what was up with the president, anyway? Thomas didn’t appear at all happy to have a permanent private guard. If anything, she seemed irritable and distracted. Sure, the attempt on her life and five dead guards were enough to throw anyone off their game, but she didn’t even acknowledge having seen Shield in Greece. Despite her get-more-women-into-male-dominated-fields rhetoric, maybe Thomas would have preferred a male guard like most VIPs did. People were under the general misconception that men were better qualified to protect and defend. What they didn’t know was that it took a lot more than dumb muscle to prevent, predict, and secure. If an offender found opportunity for even an unsuccessful attempt, security had usually failed. It didn’t matter how big or strong you were, a bullet killed indiscriminately.

  She leafed through the stamped bundle of sheets she’d been given concerning the president’s upcoming appearances. Tomorrow’s Find Your Sport event on the South Lawn featured dozens of Olympic champions and was expected to draw twenty-five thousand people, most of them kids. Thomas would be stretched thin trying to appear at all the activities scheduled for the daylong extravaganza. Shield only hoped the president would be a bit more concerned about her safety than her privacy.

  *

  Southwest of Baltimore, Maryland

  Next morning, February 27

  Elizabeth Thomas picked absentmindedly at the tray of food that Beard, as she’d come to think of him, had delivered for her supper. Both of the men who tended to her always wore ski masks when in her presence,
but one obviously had facial hair beneath and the other didn’t, so that was how she distinguished Beard from Cleanshaven.

  Many others were likely guarding her. Whoever had managed to pull off such a well-orchestrated kidnapping—killing all of her Secret Service detail in the process, without hurting her—would certainly take extensive measures to ensure their important captive couldn’t escape or be easily rescued. A security camera in the corner of the windowless room kept constant tabs on her except when she was in the adjoining bathroom.

  She had spent many long hours trying to surmise who was behind the plot. Only one of her minders—Cleanshaven—spoke to her, and he had a trace of an accent, though she couldn’t be sure what it was. East Bloc, maybe Slovak or Russian. He was always extremely polite and respectful, but he answered with as few words as possible, and only then to benign queries. If she asked for something to drink, he’d reply, “What would you like?” but would ignore completely any questions related to where she was, who was holding her, how long she would be here, or what they wanted. He’d simply shaken his head when offered money to help her escape and shrugged when she asked why they’d taken her wedding ring.

  The food they provided her, like her accommodations, was high quality. This morning’s eggs Benedict had been accompanied by a fruit medley, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and cappuccino. Most likely it came from restaurants, or else they had a top-notch chef in their employ. Somehow they seemed to already know a lot of her favorite foods, though Cleanshaven had told her not to hesitate to ask for anything in particular she might want. Despite the excellent menu, she rarely ate much, too distraught and preoccupied by her confinement.

  Aside from that, she was probably one of the best-treated prisoners in history, but she couldn’t care less about the fancy food, comfy bed, and wide assortment of New York Times bestsellers they provided her to occupy her time. She wanted to know what the hell was going on in the outside world. Was the vice president continuing business as usual, or had everything come to a virtual standstill with her kidnapping? Had her captors made their demands? Did they leave any clues to help authorities find her?