CHAPTER 3
I arrive at the Taj hotel a few minutes before nine, and there are already two Secret Service agents waiting for me. You can spot these guys from a mile away. The movies get them exactly right. Short hair, dark suit, sunglasses, big old earpiece, standing around and staring in the most conspicuous way possible. Unlike the CIA, the Secret Service doesn’t want to blend into the background. They want you to know they’re there, and they want you to know you’d be an idiot to mess with them.
It smells like floral air freshener in here. I’m getting a headache. I walk up to the two guys standing by the curved staircase that leads to the ballrooms.
“Iris,” I announce myself.
The bigger of the two nods. “Miss. We’ll escort you upstairs.” The three of us pile into the elevator, and we make our way to the presidential suite. I think I’d be insulted if I was the vice president and hotels kept putting me in the presidential suite. It’s like a constant reminder that you are not, in fact, the president.
There’s another agent stationed outside the double doors. He’s enormous—his biceps are so big, I don’t think he can touch his shoulders—and his neck is the same width as his jaw. He looks down at me and nods. “Miss.” That’s another thing that drives me crazy about most government agents. The “miss” thing. I’m not eight years old, and this isn’t the nineteenth century. Just call me by my code name. “You’re expected.”
“Well, I would hope so,” I say with a smile as the agent opens the doors for me.
The suite is huge. Easily bigger than my whole house back in Vermont, which immediately makes me feel out of place. I walk into a light-blue, carpeted living room–dining room combo with massive, gold-curtained windows. A man stands with his back to me, gazing out over Arlington Street and the Public Garden below. He’s wearing a navy suit, has salt-and-pepper hair, and could really benefit from logging a couple of hours in the hotel gym downstairs. Also, he is very clearly not the vice president. He turns to greet me.
“Amanda!”
“It’s Iris.”
“Oh right, right, of course,” he says as he extends his hand and grabs mine in a weak handshake. “It’s been, what, a month since I last saw you?”
“I’m sorry, I thought I was meeting with the vice president.”
The man smiles. “And indeed you are. My wife is running a bit behind schedule, but she should be along here any minute now. Until then, you’ve got me for company. How’s that sound?”
About as good as a bullet in my brain. I sigh. I’ve learned in the past few months that “running a bit behind schedule” to a politician means “running about six hours late” to the rest of the free world. The first time I met the vice president one-on-one, I was so nervous I didn’t care that she kept me waiting for hours on an empty stomach. But now the allure has completely worn off. I think I’d rather opt for dental surgery than meet with another politician.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Caldwell, but if the vice president is going to be really delayed, I think I’ll have to reschedule. I have a meeting at ten thirty I have to get ready for.” I start for the door. The VP’s husband holds up his hand to stop me.
“Nonsense. Caroline is only a few minutes away. She had a breakfast speaking engagement this morning downstairs in the Adam Room.”
“So she’s in the building?”
“In the building,” he repeats.
I inhale through my nose. The breath is long and exaggerated and meant to let this man know I’m annoyed. This certainly is not the first time I’ve met Joe Caldwell, husband to the most powerful woman in the country. He’s a Texas transplant, born into a New England family that had money to invest in a small oil company that hit the jackpot back in the eighties, when everyone was obsessed with drilling, shoulder pads, and TV shows that featured both. I don’t think he’s had a real job since. According to his official White House bio, he’s spent the last twenty-plus years working as a “consultant,” whatever the hell that means.
I think what’s really throwing me is that I can’t figure Joe Caldwell out. I don’t know if he’s consciously being a douche bag or if he’s just one of those people who means well but completely lacks any sort of self-awareness. The more time I spend around him, the more I think it’s the latter.
The doors open and I exhale a sigh of relief. Maybe I won’t have such a time crunch after all. I turn, but it’s not the vice president. It’s a guy maybe a few years older than I am. He looks like a trim mini version of Joe. With the same fake smile tinged with an air of superiority.
“Colton!” Joe greets him with a clap on the back. “I’d like for you to meet Amanda.”
“Iris,” I growl, and now I’m back on the douche bag side of the fence. I doubt Joe would be playing so fast and loose with sensitive information if I was a forty-year-old CIA operative. But no. I’m just a seventeen-year-old girl. He clearly doesn’t get that I can think of at least seven different ways to kill him with my bare hands. I glance at the doors again.
“Iris,” Joe says, “this is my eldest boy. Colton is going to be a sophomore at Harvard.” His tone is more than proud father. It’s obvious I’m meant to be impressed.
I look at Colton, and he’s still smiling that canned smile at me, and I wonder what the hell I’m doing here.
“Did you hear me? I said Colton is a sophomore at Harvard.”
“Oh, well . . . good for him. I really think I need to reschedule if Vice President Caldwell isn’t available.”
“Nonsense!” Joe turns to Colton. “Why don’t you run down to the Starbucks and get Iris one of those pumpkin coffee things all the girls are crazy about?”
I hold up my hand. “No, that’s—”
“Iris, you’re probably thinkin’ to yourself, ‘But, Joe, it’s the middle of summer. They don’t have those pumpkin coffees until the fall!’ And you’d be right, except that there are a few perks to being the vice president that aren’t available to the general public.” He winks at me.
Except that you aren’t the vice president, you total, total tool.
“I don’t need any coffee,” I say. I look at the clock. It’s 9:15. Not yet time to start panicking about missing the McLean appointment, but every minute definitely counts.
Then the door opens a third time, and the vice president sweeps into the room. She unloads an armful of papers onto the edge of the dining table and turns to us. Caroline Caldwell is a very petite woman. I probably have six inches on her. She has on a pale-pink skirt suit with three-quarter length sleeves. Her ash-blonde hair is coiffed in a neat bob with blunt bangs, and her makeup is flawless. Not too much but certainly enough to mask a few of her fifty-some years.
“Iris!” she greets me. At least she got that right. “I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. So many photo ops with Congressman Durrin’s constituents. I was not expecting the turnout we had.”
The vice president kisses her husband on the cheek. “And I see you met our son Colton. He goes to Harvard, you know.”
“Yes, as do a lot of people.” Damn, that came off a little ruder than it sounded in my head. I clear my throat to try to cover it. “What can I do for you, Madam Vice President?”
She motions to the dining room table before turning to her husband. “Joe, darling, the daffodils in the Public Garden are truly breathtaking. And the Globe is downstairs in the lobby. I’m sure their photographer would love to get a picture of you strolling through the scenery.”
Yeah, I’m pretty sure a professional photojournalist is not actually clambering to get a picture of a grown man out strolling through the daffodils, but I’m grateful Joe is being dismissed. He smiles and bids me a “good day,” and then clasps Colton’s shoulder.
“Nice to meet you,” Colton says in a soft Texas drawl, and I don’t buy his polite niceties for one second.
“Yeah, you, too,” I say, even though I’m not sure if I actually met Colton. This morning is very weird. And it’s ticking away. After they leave, I put my hand on
the back of a silk chair, the only cue I can think of to show the vice president that I want to sit and start this meeting already.
She obliges me and lowers herself into the opposite chair. “So, Iris, you’re probably wondering why you’re here today.”
“Yes.” I drop down into the chair. “I assure you, Madam Vice President—”
“Call me Caroline, please.”
Well, that’s a bit awkward. And also not going to happen. I clear my throat again. “I assure you . . . ma’am . . . that I don’t have any more information than I had a few weeks ago. If I did, you certainly would be among the first to know.”
Caroline smiles. It’s warm, but it’s a politician’s smile. All pizzazz and no meaning. “Oh, I know. Trust me, I’m kept very up to date on the inner workings of your agency.” She’s still smiling. What is this?
“O-kay.” I drag the word out.
And then Caroline laughs this throaty laugh, and I squirm. “Iris, I know this investigation hasn’t been easy on you.” Understatement of the millennium. “I know you’ve learned a lot about your . . . er . . . family dynamic that I’m sure you were unaware of previously.”
Like that my father is a corrupt murderer who I don’t think ever told the truth one day in his life?
The VP drums her fingers along the chair’s arm. “I’m sure you’re aware that I didn’t exactly have the most . . . er . . . normal of upbringings.” I guess this is true. She comes from a very old political family. Her grandfather was a senator. Her father was secretary of state. “When you’re raised in the political climate I was raised in, you learn to play by different rules.”
An electronic version of a classical song I’ve heard before (but couldn’t name if my life depended on it) fills the air. The vice president lunges for her phone and her eyes go wide when she sees the screen. “Sorry,” she mumbles as she leaps out of the chair and heads toward the bedroom. “Have to take this.” The door slams shut, and I hear a terse “Hello?” from the other side.
I sigh and stand up. The VP has dropped her voice so low that all I can hear is a whisper. I have no idea who she’s talking to or how long this call will take. I glance at the clock. Still plenty of time, but ugh.
I pace back and forth a bit, but it’s clear this call isn’t going to be a short one. One more glance at the clock. 9:30.
9:40.
9:45.
9:50.
Dammit.
You have to come first sometimes.
Screw it, I’m leaving. I’ll jot a quick note to Vice President Caldwell, and she’ll have to understand. On the desk by the window, I find a cheap hotel pen but no pad of paper. I open the top drawer of the desk. There’s a hotel information binder but no paper. Great.
Then I look over at the table, where the VP dropped that stack of papers. Maybe there’s a notebook or memo pad. The top stack of documents has a cover sheet from the Office of Management of Budget. It’s a Statement of Administration—something about coal miners. Looks important, and I probably shouldn’t tear off the front page to scribble, Call me!
I don’t mean to snoop, I really don’t, and I could just tell the Secret Service guy waiting outside the door that I have to leave, but instead I flip to the next stack of documents. And then my gut does a somersault. This one also has a cover sheet.
IN RE: MATTER OF JULIAN ELLIS
Julian Ellis. A name I didn’t know until four months ago, but one I’ve heard way too many times since then. Alpha’s real name.
There’s a subheading under that.
Testimony of Noah Masters
Masters. Also a name I’ve gotten to know very well these past few months. Elizabeth Masters. Yellow. Nick Masters. Indigo. Noah must be their father. This is Zeta’s testimony before the closed-door Senate committee analyzing every little thing that Annum Guard has ever done. I glance at the date. He gave this testimony only two days before he disappeared.
“CONFIDENTIAL” must be stamped across the cover page at least a dozen times.
This is playing with fire. And I’m pretty sure it’s also illegal. But damn me if I don’t flip open to the first page. It looks like hearing testimony, where a senator asks questions and a court reporter copies down Zeta’s answers word for word. I know this because I had to read through the transcript of my own testimony and sign off that I actually said what the reporter wrote down.
I take a deep breath. I really should close this, tell the Secret Service I have another appointment, and bolt. But instead I pause and strain to listen. Vice President Caldwell’s hushed voice is still audible from the bedroom. And so I whip out my phone, open the camera, and snap a picture of the first page. Then I flip to the second and snap again. And again and again and as many times as I can until the vice president’s voice becomes louder. The call is ending.
I flip the testimony shut, toss the coal-mining report on top, then straighten the pile into a neat stack.
Is that too neat?
But I don’t have time to fix it as the door opens and the vice president walks into the living room, holding her phone to her chest with a pained expression. She sees me standing by the table.
“I’m sorry,” I say before she can dwell too much on what I’m doing over here. “I have a very important personal appointment that I’m going to be late for unless I leave right now.”
Caroline looks from the table to me, then shakes her head and drops her phone onto the chair where she’d been sitting before. “Of course,” she says, sounding frazzled. “I’m very sorry to have kept you waiting.” And then she comes over to me. “What I’m going to say won’t take but a minute.”
I hesitate. Somehow I doubt that. I glance behind the vice president at the stack of papers. They’re definitely too neat.
“Like I was saying before we were interrupted, there are certain . . . er . . . unpleasantries that come with living a life in the public eye. Times have changed, and in this era of global media, it becomes harder and harder to exercise . . . discretion.”
What is she talking about? “Okay?”
“I know that you’re deep into the investigation of Eagle Industries and other personal ventures that the former leadership of Annum Guard might have dabbled in.”
She pauses, like she wants me to confirm this. So I do. “Yes?”
“Just as I am deep into the investigation from the other side.”
Another pause. Jesus, woman, just spit it out. But then I glance at those too-neat papers again and decide riling her up isn’t in my best interest at the moment. “Right.”
“You’re a very young woman with your entire life ahead of you, Iris, and I want to make sure that the past dealings of your father don’t irreparably tarnish your reputation.”
Yeah, me, too.
“In the same vein, should you uncover any information that you deem”—pause—“sensitive”—another pause—“I ask that you exercise discretion in who you share that information with and why. Am I making sense?”
Of course she is. I raise an eyebrow. “You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”
The vice president’s face softens into a smile. “If that’s how you want to put it. I’m sorry I kept you so long. Please, I hope I haven’t made you too late to your appointment.”
I nod and turn to go. But the vice president reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Oh, and there’s one more thing.”
I look at her hand on my arm, then back at her. “Okay?”
“Colton and a couple of his friends from school are starting at Annum Guard on Monday.”
I blink. “Colton . . . your son?”
“Yes. Just for the summer. It’s never too early to start building your résumé. I wanted to place him in a more high-profile agency in the capital, but Colton protested that he didn’t want to leave his friends for the whole summer, and then Joe told me I was being too hard on him and to let him stay in Boston, and so Annum Guard was the compromise.”
Is she for real? The compromise
? Her pampered little son is being forced to work at one of the world’s most secret agencies?
“Okay,” I say again.
“They’re just going to be reviewing the documents you’ve uncovered so far, nothing too important, and of course they have no idea about the investigation. They assume they’re reviewing paperwork from previous missions and doing so under the strictest of confidentialities. But I’d really like it if you kept a close eye on Colton.”
“No problem,” I say with what I hope comes off as a sincere tone.
“I’m trusting you on this.”
She lets go of my arm, and goose bumps dot my skin because that’s a really strange choice of words. Trusting me. With what? Her son? Or her secrets?
With one final nod of my head, I’m out the door.
Secret Service escorts me to the lobby, and once I’m on the street, running back to Annum Hall, my mind replays everything that just happened. But I can’t for the life of me figure out what the vice president wants me to do. Or why.
CHAPTER 4
“Discretion?” Abe says as the government-issued Chevy he’s driving zips across Route 60. “You’re sure that’s the word she used?”
“Yep.” I stare at the clock on the dash. 10:25. No way we’re making it on time. I’ve spent the whole car ride telling Abe about my meeting. But I haven’t told him about finding Zeta’s testimony because . . . I’m not sure why. Maybe because of the XP thing I’ve been ordered to keep quiet. Or maybe because the pictures currently sitting in my phone are burning a hole in my pocket, and that’s enough for now.
“Well, that’s weird,” Abe says.
“You think?” I close my eyes for a moment and replay the scene for the twentieth time. Then I open my eyes and turn to my boyfriend. “You don’t think the vice president is behind Eagle Industries¸ do you?”
“Uh-uh. No way. Not a chance.”
“So you want to take a second to think about it, then?”
Abe cracks the smallest smile as he turns onto Olmsted Drive, which leads us to the hospital. “If the vice president had anything to do with Eagle, she’d be doing everything in her power to bury the investigation, not spearheading the whole thing.”
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