by Kim Baldwin
“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.
Without a channel guide, she had to flip past several sitcoms and soap operas before hitting any sort of news broadcast. A local TV channel was showing a live broadcast of a police chase. The video, taken by a news helicopter, tracked a stolen truck speeding along a highway, with several cruisers in pursuit. Though the report contained no relevant information about her abduction, she stayed tuned long enough to hear the station’s ID: WBAL. She was being held somewhere in, or near, Baltimore. Shocked that she was being held captive so near D.C., she viewed the development nonetheless as good news. Surely that would make it easier for authorities to find her.
She surfed some more channels and stopped when she hit CNN. They were in the middle of a sports wrap-up, showing highlights of last night’s NBA games. After a couple of minutes of clips, the sports anchor threw back to the news desk, where the anchor team teased some of the stories that would be reported at the top of the hour following the commercial: the latest on a massive, late-season snowstorm that had buried the Rockies, the search for a missing murder suspect in Philadelphia, and details about the Argentine president’s upcoming visit to the White House.
Thomas sat on the bed, puzzled, as a series of advertisements for laundry detergent, dog food, and diapers played out on the screen. Not only had she heard no mention of her abduction and the investigation to find her, but she also couldn’t imagine why the Argentine visit would be proceeding as scheduled.
Surely, she thought, she’d just missed some earlier update on the kidnapping. She got her answer ten minutes later, after sitting through the reports about the snowstorm and murder suspect.
“Argentine President Juan Carlos landed this morning at Andrews Air Force Base,” the anchor reported as video of Carlos emerging from his plane and being greeted by an American welcoming committee was shown on the screen. “His three-day visit to the nation’s capital will include a speech this afternoon before the U.S. House of Representatives and an evening reception at the Argentine embassy attended by key congressional and military leaders. President Carlos is seeking support for his initiative to hold joint military maneuvers with U.S. Forces this fall, among other issues. Tomorrow, he’ll be welcomed by an official state dinner, and the next day he will meet privately with President Thomas in a closed-door session at the White House.”
Thomas stared at the monitor, thoroughly confused.
The anchor came back on. “President Thomas will be spending the morning meeting with the joint chiefs of staff to get their reactions to the proposal,” he said. Video showing Elizabeth Thomas—at least she could have sworn it was her—started playing on the screen. “Yesterday, Thomas delighted a group of Australian and French tourists taking the White House tour with a surprise appearance as their guide led them through the Red Room. This video was provided by one of the Aussies, who said Thomas stayed for ten minutes to chat with the group, sign autographs, and pose for pictures.”
The sound on the clip was turned up as the video zoomed in on Thomas’s face. “I hope you all enjoy your visit,” the president told the group. “I’m afraid I need to get back to work.”
“In her press conference following the attempt on her life,” the anchor said as he came back on screen, “President Thomas vowed to carry on with business as usual, and this surprise appea
rance, along with the Argentine president’s visit, are clearly intended to reinforce that message. There have been no developments, meanwhile, in the investigation to determine who was behind the well-orchestrated attack that killed her five Secret Service agents, buried earlier this week, and no group or individual has to date claimed responsibility.”
She was too stunned by what she was seeing to even register whatever story came next.
It wasn’t her on the screen. But whoever had taken over for her was a perfect double in every way. Even the voice was the same.
Her heartbeat accelerated. An imposter was running the country, apparently very convincingly, too.
And no one was looking for her. They didn’t even know she was missing.
The realization was chilling. Who was behind this? Why was all this happening? And what the hell did her captors plan to do with her?
*
Houston, Texas
TQ snatched up the phone impatiently when the caller ID informed her that her contact in Vietnam was calling back, hopefully with something she could use to lure Jack into meeting her on her own terms. “Yes?”
“The man you asked me to see was very happy to take your deal,” the contact reported. “He was anxious to get a private cell with better food and his own guard who will see to his needs.”
“Only if he had something worthwhile,” TQ snapped. “And?”
“He said that this Jack was not alone when they came to his home, first posing as a skin-trade dealer and later to take Walter Owens. She had her girlfriend with her, a woman named Lauren Hargrave. Owens kidnapped this Lauren woman when she went snooping around his hideout, and it made Jack very, very angry. Before he died, Owens asked Jack if she would ever feel worthy of Lauren, and she said no.”
“Go on,” TQ said.
“It was Lauren who cut off Owens’s head, and the two of them together gunned down all of this man’s associates, so she was not the naïve mistress she pretended to be,” the contact replied. “The man is blind, so he could not tell me what either woman looked like, but he said his associate described Lauren as blond, young, and very beautiful, and Jack has a scar on her face.”
“Give him what he asks for,” TQ replied, and hung up.
So Jack did have a weakness—a woman, though Lauren Hargrave might not be her real name if the two of them were posing as skin traders, which they obviously were not.
She sat bolt upright. A young blond woman had also been involved in the whole affair that had killed her brother and resulted in the death of Andor Rózsa in France. She hadn’t paid much attention to the woman because she’d been too focused on trying to find Jack.
Typing a few keystrokes on her computer brought up news stories and images from the event. The unidentified blonde had been held captive by Rózsa and was taken to a hospital by helicopter after her rescue on Rózsa’s boat. The media reports said the feds were claiming credit, but TQ knew that Jack and a friend named Brett had been responsible both for saving the woman and for her brother Dario’s death.
She sent the news reports and a few stills she found of the blonde, all of her being loaded into the helicopter, to one of her contacts in France and told him to bribe whatever hospital officials necessary to get all he could on the mysterious kidnap victim.
Three hours later, he sent back an e-mail reply.
Her name is Cassady Monroe. She is twenty-eight years old, five feet seven inches tall, and weighed one hundred sixteen pounds when she was rescued. Her hospital records do not list a home address or phone number. The night nurse who tended her said a woman named Jack stayed at her bedside. Jack was tall, five-nine or so, with dark hair and a scar from her cheek to her lip. The two women talked frequently about going home to Colorado. They also talked about Cassady Monroe’s work as a violinist. Apparently she was going to miss a concert she was supposed to perform in.
A simple Internet search for Cassady Monroe violinist got TQ one step closer to finding the woman who dared challenge her.
Chapter Fifteen
The White House
Shield sat in her usual chair by the window as the president had her breakfast in the private dining room. If she was confused about Thomas before, she was completely baffled after last night. Any doubts she might have had about whether Thomas had been flirting with her were erased by what she heard after the president retired to her room.
The bug Shield planted while Thomas ate dinner had picked up the president’s monologue and thoughts about her. But none of this made sense. Every news and tabloid report throughout her political career and presidential campaign had portrayed Thomas as a very happily married woman, one who was now mourning the loss of her beloved husband. The intel she’d gotten from Pierce even seemed to confirm that.
Could it be the marriage was a sham, covered up to make her more palatable to the conservative, pro-family electorate? It had happened before—similar rumors existed about the Clintons, among others.
Clearly a lot was going on, and as much as Shield wanted to take a peek at the truth behind the curtain, part of her hoped she wouldn’t find anything. Yet whoever was on the phone with Thomas last night, and Shield was convinced it was Moore, had sure taken a lot of interest in what Shield had to say to the president. What was Moore afraid of?
Shield had spent the night reviewing her conversation and evening with Thomas. She was no stranger to sexual attraction and fulfillment of physical needs, but she couldn’t remember ever having had a more erotically charged encounter, and definitely not with a straight woman. Matters had only gotten worse when she found out the feelings had been mutual. She’d spent the late-night hours dwelling on her unprofessional behavior and the early-morning ones wondering what would have happened if she’d kissed Thomas.
Sleep had been elusive; she hadn’t gotten more than a couple of hours. Thomas’s words, Oh, my God. What did I just do? kept ringing through her head, and although she felt the same way, she couldn’t help getting flustered over the fact that this beautiful, yet cold and powerful woman, had cracked.
Thomas, nevertheless, was different this morning. She had barely nodded her good morning and was now sitting with her back turned to Shield while she had her breakfast and watched the news. It was all for the best, Shield thought. It was how it should be.
Still, as she watched the president eat, shoulders tense and with no one to talk to, Shield couldn’t help but feel for her loneliness. Thomas had selected a demanding and accountable life for sure, but having no one to share the weight of her choices and give her strength only made the burden heavier.
Thomas alternated her attention between the various news channels broadcasting from three flat screens mounted on the wall in front of her. She currently had the sound up on MSNBC, which was replaying stock footage of the president as it announced there had been no new leads in the investigation into the assassination attempt. The video included older shots of her giving speeches during her presidential campaign and ended with the press conference she’d held announcing she was all right and would continue business as usual. Shield noticed that the more recent footage showed Thomas looking almost younger and a bit thinner. People lost weight all the time because of loss of a spouse, or stress, but that still didn’t explain her fresher, more appealing appearance now.
Shield turned her attention back to the president when she saw her fumble with the remote, muting MSNBC and turning up the volume on CNN, which was broadcasting a report on a fugitive wanted for the murder of a divorced couple. The suspect was a forty-year-old florist. Thomas listened closely, almost frozen, except for the slight tremble of her hand. She dropped the remote when the picture of the wanted woman came on the screen.
Definitely not what you expected a murderer to look like, Shield thought. The suspect was more the cute bookworm type, with her long brown hair and warm green eyes behind thick myopic glasses.
“Authorities in Philadelphia are asking the public for help in finding Ryden Wagner, indicted by a grand j
ury yesterday in the stabbing deaths of Tim and Rhonda Lauden. The divorced couple was found murdered nearly three months ago, in the home they once shared on the northeast side,” the anchor reported as photos of the couple replaced the mug shot of the suspect. “Detectives who went to Wagner’s apartment to take her into custody say she’d not been seen there since she was questioned following the deaths. She’d also not reported for work at the flower shop where she’d been employed.”
The next video on the screen showed a diminutive, older woman with olive skin and dark hair, in front of an establishment called The Bloom Room. “I’m sure Ryden didn’t do this,” the woman said, as a title identifying her as MAGDA PAGONI, SHOP OWNER appeared beneath her face. “It has to be a misunderstanding. I’ve known her for years, and she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She probably left town because she’s scared, that’s all. She’s innocent. I just know it.”
A photo of two young boys on bicycles appeared on the monitor as the anchor said, “The Laudens left behind two sons, who are being taken care of by their maternal grandparents.” Then the mug shot of the suspect came back on. “Ryden Wagner is forty years old and has green eyes and light-brown, shoulder-length hair. She is five feet five inches tall, weighs approximately a hundred and twenty, and wears thick glasses. Her car, an older Subaru Outback, was found parked outside her apartment. If you see the suspect, you are asked to call Philadelphia homicide detectives at the number on your screen.”
*
Ryden opened her mouth, gasping for air. She had forgotten to breathe when her old-self mug shot appeared on the news. How would she ever forget that horrible picture of her, with WANTED FOR MURDER written under it? And the picture of those poor orphaned kids, and the footage of Magda in the shop, who kept repeating Ryden was innocent.