by Misty Evans
A noise from behind a pile of bricks brought Brigit’s head up. She scanned the area over her right shoulder and saw a woman emerge from the stack, flashing a badge at her.
“FBI,” she said, raising the hand with the gun. “Put your weapon down.”
Brigit drew in a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh. She tossed the gun into the car through the open window and raised both hands. Just her luck the FBI was here. She’d figured since the U.S. was in bed with the Israelis, the Feds might be focusing on groups that worried them more, and she hadn’t seen any evidence they were there.
Brigit pointedly scanned the woman’s pink jacket. “Who are you? Agent Barbie?”
The dark-haired, dark-eyed woman fought a smile. “Agent Julia Torrison actually.”
An FBI agent doing Pretty in Pink while keeping tabs on Israeli terrorists? If Truman had been with her, he would have been clapping. “I have a badge in my back pocket.”
“I figured you did.” Torrison drew closer. “Cop?”
Brigit caught sight of a second agent, this one blonde and every bit as Barbie-gorgeous, off to her side. She tucked what looked like a camera into her coat and held her stomach as she approached.
Torrison spoke to her without taking her eyes off Brigit. “I told you, I’ve got this, Zara. Go sit down before you get sick again.”
The blonde shook her head as she circled Brigit’s rental, and up close, Brigit could see she had circles under her eyes and a flush to her skin. “I’m fine.” She met Brigit’s gaze. “Who do we have here?”
Brigit played difficult because she didn’t feel like being nice. “Department of Homeland Security.”
The Barbie twosome exchanged a look, neither of them pleased. Torrison took one hand off the butt of her gun and rippled the ends of her fingers at Brigit. “Show us.”
Brigit eased her hand into her trench, removed her badge and handed it to Blonde Barbie.
The woman looked it over and nodded at Julia as she handed it back. “Dr. Brigit Kent, DHS.” She held out the badge. “Zara Morgan.”
Torrison lowered the gun. “Sorry about that. We didn’t know DHS was involved with this.”
Brigit snapped the badge out of Morgan’s hand and tossed it in the car on top of her gun before opening the door. Time to cover Tory’s backside. Again. “Are you investigating the Irish Women’s League?”
The blonde shook her head as she sidled up alongside Torrison. “Palestinian Sisters of Liberation. Those were Israeli terrorists handing over the hostage to your sister. Your sister affiliated with IWL as well?”
So they’d heard enough to uncover her link to a terrorist organization. Brigit glanced away. She wouldn’t tell an outright lie, but then usually she didn’t need to. “I would appreciate your discretion about what you saw here tonight, ladies. Neither the hostage exchange you witnessed nor my sister involves the FBI at this point. When it does, we’ll talk.”
She dropped into the car seat and gunned the motor. Morgan took a step forward to try and stop her, but Torrison grabbed her arm.
As Brigit backed up to turn her car around, Morgan suddenly grabbed her stomach and bent over. Brigit glanced in her rearview once and saw Torrison rubbing her partner’s back as the woman threw up.
From his vantage point a hundred yards away, Conrad swore under his breath and lowered his miniature, nonreflective night-vision binoculars as Julia walked Zara into the shadows. If there were two women in his life who could screw everything up, it was these two.
Zara, a counterespionage operative in his secret army of spies, had been tracking members of the SOL in London and must have followed one or all of them to the States.
As an operative working for the CIA, she had no jurisdiction within her home country, but if she turned her mission over to the overworked and underfunded FBI, it would get put on the back burner unless there was imminent danger to American citizens.
Zara wasn’t the type to work her ass off on a mission just to see it lost in the bureaucratic mess of homeland intelligence. Hence the reason, Conrad knew, she’d called in a favor from Julia the minute the SOL group set foot on U.S. soil.
Julia. She was supposed to be home, safe and sound, getting ready to tell him he was going to be a father.
He didn’t know where Kent should be, but his gut told him she didn’t belong at this construction site waving a Glock around any more than she belonged sniffing around the Pennington kidnapping. Add a wild card like her to the Julia-Zara mix and his career could easily be over before the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.
Dread knotted its fingers into his chest. He tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel of the Jeep and wondered which bomb he should trip first.
Chapter Five
D.C. suburbs
Brigit sipped a cup of Earl Grey and stared out the window of her apartment, watching the first pink rays of sun streak the gray sky. A garbage truck clanged and banged on the street below as it lumbered from one corner to the next. Pigeons pecked at crumbs, happy to own the sidewalk for a few more minutes before the morning rush convened.
Except for the pigeons, Washington D.C. was very different from New York City, where she’d lived for the past five years. Fashion and real estate were all anyone cared about there. Two hundred miles south, power was the name of the game.
Why does the kidnapper want power over the Penningtons? She glanced at her watch. It had been more than ten hours since Ella’s kidnapping. What was I thinking the morning after Peter tricked us into the bathroom? What was I feeling?
Scared. Abandoned. Still hungry. We drank water from the sink, but Tory and I nearly starved to death before Mum came and rescued us.
Tory. The thought of her sister sent a familiar wave of anger and grief washing over her.
During the seventy-two hours of their capture, Brigit had entertained Tory by playing games. Tory’s favorite had been a hand-squeezing game. Creating their own childlike version of Morse code, they assigned letters and common phrases different types of squeezes. One short squeeze meant yes, two, no. A long squeeze meant stop. Three short squeezes meant I love you. As the hours wore on and Tory became bored with the hand squeezing, Brigit had changed the code to taps. They tapped on the countertop, the wooden planks, the mirror and tub, creating musical notes as well as coded messages.
When Tory had hugged her at the construction site, she’d tapped Brigit’s back three short taps right between her shoulder blades. I love you.
Her sister was playing her again. All these years, all the heart-breaking betrayals, Tory still wanted Brigit to believe in—and look the other way because of—their blood bond.
After their mother’s death, Brigit traded in the carefree thoughts and dreams of childhood for gut-wrenching sorrow and overwhelming guilt. She tried to protect Tory and become a mother to her, but everything she did after the fire only made the situation with Tory worse. While her father reassured Brigit her mother’s death was Peter’s fault, Tory tortured her with her version of the truth. You killed her. You caused the fire. She burned to death because of you.
Brigit drew into herself in order to deal with the grief and guilt, and Tory acted out in order to do the same.
Once their father accepted a new post with the British government and moved them to America, he insisted both girls see a psychotherapist. The woman’s impartial air and kind eyes breathed life back into Brigit’s soul, but when the therapist’s office burned to the ground by an arsonist, Brigit stopped going. It was Peter. He did it.
She had no proof, and now, with the logic of an adult, Brigit could chastise herself for jumping to that sort of conclusion. Deep in her psyche though, she still believed the fire was Peter’s handiwork.
The same illogical but nevertheless deep conviction that Peter was behind the Pennington girl’s kidnapping drove her now. Finding Tory last night at the scene of the hostage exchange confirmed Brigit’s fears. Peter and his group would never let the war die. Some of his followers still craved the
conflict between English and Irish, Protestant and Catholic, but most just wanted something to fight against, to fight for. They needed the drug of pride and patriotism to give their life meaning. They found it in Peter’s words.
His lies were monumental, but most of his followers didn’t care. Clear thinking went out the door when a man with Peter’s abilities to inspire spoke about blood and bullets, God and tradition.
The alarm on Brigit’s watch beeped softly. Twelve hours since Ella’s kidnapping.
She grabbed her mobile and rang up Truman. “What’s the latest?” she asked when he answered.
“Good morning to you too.” His impatience at the interruption of his morning routine rang clearly through the connection. “Another call from the kidnappers.” Brigit could see him standing in his bathroom, only a towel around his waist as he examined himself in the mirror, tousling his wet hair with one hand and holding his mobile with the other. “Only the kid again. She claims she’s not hurt, only hungry.”
“No demands?”
“Nope. No ransom either.”
But proof of life. And proof to Brigit that Peter or one of his lieutenants was behind the kidnapping. Just like a hand squeeze or the tap of a fist between her shoulder blades, the two calls were a code. A code that could help her save Ella.
“I’m sending a car for you,” Truman said. “I’ll pick you up in twenty minutes.”
“I can drive myself.”
“This is Washington, Gidget. Nobody who’s anybody drives themselves to the White House. Besides, I don’t want you to be late.”
“Stop calling me Gidget.”
“You’re right, you’re no Gidget. She was much nicer. See you in twenty.”
She hung up and thumbed through the files stored on her BlackBerry. Buckets of information existed about Thad and Ruth Pennington, and luckily Truman had cut out most of the common knowledge facts before sending her the rest.
On the surface, most of it was textbook, pre-politician type stuff. Law degrees, Rhodes scholarships, city government stepping stones. Combing through even the more unusual details had not caused Brigit’s mind to lift an eyebrow in question. It was all too neat, too pat, just like the supposed political motivation behind the kidnapping. But Ruth Pennington had shown up on Brigit’s radar screen when she was still Ruth Stone. Otherwise, Brigit would have missed the barest thread of a link to Peter.
Her watch alarm sounded again. Fifteen minutes until she had to leave. Setting the BlackBerry down, she went into her bedroom closet and pulled out her single dress suit. Powder gray, it was the only item in her closet she hated with a passion besides the matching sensible gray heels.
Suck it up, she reprimanded herself. You don’t meet the president of the United States dressed in chinos and a Green Day tee.
Chapter Six
Oval Office
7 a.m.
Still reeling from Ella’s kidnapping, Michael nodded to the Secret Service agents and presidential staff as he made his way through the West Wing on auto pilot. President Jeffries took his breakfast in the small dining room adjacent to his office every morning where he reviewed the PDB, or President’s Daily Brief, a Cliff Notes version of current intelligence situations around the world. This morning, instead of a junior director delivering the PDB, Michael was answering the president’s invitation to deliver it in person.
The president had been on the road campaigning to extend his squatting rights at the White House for another four years. Today, however, he’d suspended his public campaign in deference to his opponent’s family situation. The kidnapping was probably one of the only things that could possibly stop the politicking. Michael knew the president’s campaign advisors hadn’t stopped working behind the scenes, but no one wanted an unsympathetic president who would use such a tragedy to further his run for the Oval Office. The moment they found Ella, however, all bets were off. Even while Thad and Ruth went crazy with worry, Jeffries was sure to use the situation to his advantage. Before the day was over, the president would hold a press conference and make sure the world knew he and Thad were both strong family men.
On the first floor, Michael entered the dining room under the concerned eye of President Jeffries’ executive assistant. Helena asked about Ella, Thad and Ruth. Michael gave her the vague answer he’d been repeating to himself all night. “The FBI’s on top of things. They’ll break the case today.”
Helena got him seated and poured him a glass of orange juice from a nearby service cart. “Would you like breakfast?”
Michael sipped the juice and shook his head.
Jeffries always made him feel comfortable, even though his archrival, Michael’s brother-in-law, was a Republican. The president subscribed to the old adage of keeping his friends close and his enemies closer. To this day, Michael didn’t know where Jeffries had pigeonholed him.
To Michael, people were complex, and dividing them with labels like Democrat or Republican couldn’t encompass such complexity. However, that morning, he suspected the president had ulterior motives for the invitation.
The door to the private quarters opened and Jeffries entered. A balding man in his sixties, his massive bulk dwarfed his height. Even with the expensive jacket and tie he wore loose around his neck, he appeared more suited to a boxing ring than the Oval Office. “Michael, you look like hell.”
Rising from his seat, he accepted the president’s handshake. “Feel like it too.”
“That’s understandable.” Jeffries removed his jacket, tossing it on an empty chair while ordering breakfast from Helena. “Any news about Ella?”
This was the reason the president had asked Michael to deliver the PDB. A hard, rough pit of anxiety for his niece lodged in his stomach. When Ruth had called him at four a.m. to tell him about the second phone call, the pit had grown to a boulder. Now, explaining the latest to the president, the juice in Michael’s stomach turned to pure acid.
The president asked more questions and said a few words of sympathy before his breakfast arrived. “I’ve told the FBI and the local police to do whatever it takes to get Ella back safe and sound.”
He was generally a kind man, if still a politician to his core, and Michael respected sincere kindness. “Thank you, sir.”
“If you’d like some time off to spend with your family, Titus can arrange it.”
Titus Allen, the head of the CIA, had already made the same offer. Michael toyed with his half-empty glass of juice. “At this point, I’d prefer to keep working.”
Jeffries nodded. “When you get Ella back, I’m ordering you to take a long weekend, agreed? They’re only young for a little while, you know, and national security is always here.”
Michael forced a smile and hoped he’d get to take him up on his offer. In his mind, he pictured Ella at the park, laughing at his attempts to get a kite into the air. At the zoo, commanding him to make strange noises and wake up a sleeping polar bear so she could talk to it. “Yes, sir.”
While the president ate, Michael briefed him on the overnight workings of two terrorist groups causing trouble in China, a possible nuclear reactor the North Koreans had buried under a children’s hospital, and an ongoing conflict between Russia and one of its neighbors.
Jeffries pushed his plate away. He took the papers of the PDB and riffled through them. “That’s it?”
The briefing had truly been brief. The president wasn’t used to a short list. “Ripples from our domestic financial crisis have now reached the major terror networks.” Michael shrugged. “They’re as broke as everyone else.”
Jeffries frowned at the papers, but mimicked Michael’s shrug. “I guess that’s a good day for us, then?”
For the intelligence world, yes. Michael wasn’t sure when the last time was he’d had a good day, personally or professionally. However, it was never prudent to disagree with the president of the country to his face. “Yes, sir.”
A knock on the door interrupted them. Helena stuck her head inside. “Your eight o’clo
ck has arrived, Mr. President.”
Michael gathered the loose papers hurriedly and returned them to the PDB pouch. At the end of the day, the papers would be shredded. It was an antiquated way of disseminating information, but sending the briefs via internet, fax or phone was still too dangerous.
“Keep me posted about Ella,” Jeffries said. “And tell Thad and Ruthie they’re in my prayers.”
“Why don’t you call them, sir?” The words were out before Michael could rein in his candid thought.
A slight flush rose in the president’s cheeks, and he chuckled. “I thought about it, but figured that rascal Thad would tell everyone I conceded the election ahead of time.”
Michael accepted the joke with a nod and shook the president’s hand. The political fight for the presidency had been ugly, as most usually were, but the president was off the mark to think Thad so underhanded. “I’ll convey your thoughts to them.”
“Remember what I said about taking some time off. As the PDB proves this morning, you’ve earned it. It’s a good day for you career-wise. Enjoy it.”
On his way to the door, Michael considered his chief and commander’s order. The results of hard work and dedication were paying off, but the work of securing a nation was an ongoing and ever-growing job. The moment you let your guard down—the moment you enjoyed your success—some unlikely and unforeseen enemy would blow it all away. Literally.
As he tucked the pouch with the PDB under his arm and stepped into the reception room, Helena spoke to the president’s next appointment. A woman in a gray suit and matching heels stood at the window, a trench coat draped over her arm.
She answered Helena over her shoulder, stopping in mid-sentence when her gaze landed on Michael.
Just like the night before, his instincts went on high alert. The change in her appearance sent a jolt of unease through his stomach. Brigit Kent was not who she claimed to be, he’d bet the PDB on it. “Good Morning, Dr. Kent.” He gave her a nod.
She looked him over from head to toe and returned a small, forced smile. Her lipstick was the color of good burgundy and emphasized the white of her teeth. “Deputy Director Stone. We meet again.”