by Lis Wiehl
“All right, Erica, I will. But I have learned something that might interest you. While I haven’t been able to get into their second system, I have been able to discern a location for a lot of its activity.”
“Is it in China?”
“No, it’s in northern Marin County.”
Erica hangs up with Mark, opens her laptop, and pulls up the Ortiz campaign schedule provided to the press. The candidate and his wife are flying out of town first thing in the morning, and they’ll be crisscrossing the country all week. Lily Lau is listed as accompanying them.
Next Erica finds a helicopter rental agency and gives them a call.
“Hi, this is Erica Sparks. I’m interested in real estate in northern Marin. I’d like to do a flyover to get a good look at several properties.”
“We can certainly accommodate you.”
“Do you have a copter available tomorrow morning?”
“We do, yes. We leave from the Signature Flight Support Terminal at SFO.”
“I’ll be there at nine.”
CHAPTER 62
THIRTY THOUSAND FEET IN THE sky above Florida, the Ortiz campaign jet is slicing through the ether on its way to a fundraiser and rally in Miami. Celeste is in the plane’s salon room having her hair done by Sylvie, who is the only woman she lets touch it and who travels with her everywhere. Celeste looks at herself in the mirror as Sylvie works. She’s never looked better and it goes beyond Botox and La Prairie; she is just radiant and glowing—and she knows why. Because she has never felt so alive, so full of energy and drive and excitement. She smiles to herself. How brilliant it all is. If only the world knew. That beneath each guesthouse at Eagle’s Nest is a secret bunker in which a select few are toiling. In the first house, information is mined 24/7 from the Pentagon, the CIA, the FBI, the whole dark beating heart of American intelligence. Codes are broken, movements are tracked, the unseen is made visible. In the second house, preparations for the transition are being made—demonstrations and even civil unrest might ensue, but Lily will always be two steps ahead. To those who say America has never used its military on its own people, she answers—“And?” In the third building is the propaganda machine, ready to twist the tiny minds of the masses until they think black is white, up is down, and that the new administration cares about their pathetic little lives.
On the surface the Ortiz administration will be as Go-Go-USA as every other presidency. Everything will be methodical. Ordered. Patient. First the warming of Chinese-American relations, the cultural exchanges, academic alliances, business partnerships, leadership visits, the ever-growing reach of China’s tentacles into every aspect of American life. Then the trade agreement between the two countries. And then, perhaps two years into President Ortiz’s first term, the historic military pact between the two great nations, the pact that will make NATO look like the wimp on the beach, that will usher in the most powerful alliance the world has ever seen. One controlled, of course, by Beijing—and Lily Lau from her perch by the president’s side in the Oval Office. She and Celeste will ascend to the fiery Parthenon.
“All done,” Sylvie says.
“Thank you, dear,” Celeste says.
She gets up and walks down the hall and into the plane’s private office. Lily, Mike, a speechwriter, and a speech coach sit around the large table. Celeste knows they’ve been prepping for an interview with Anderson Cooper, with the writer standing in for Cooper. Mike does well with large crowds and at fundraisers, and he’s surprisingly good at debates, where he can slot in his prepared answers as called for. But he tends to falter at town halls and in one-on-ones, where he has to think on his feet and make direct human contact. He’s not great at human contact. But, honestly, Celeste thinks, human contact is so overrated.
Celeste sits down just as he stumbles on an answer to a question about pre-K education, and he looks at her sheepishly. She loves the look of supplication, although right now she wishes he’d just rise to the occasion. Tending to her candidate is becoming a bit of a bore. She reminds herself that it will all be over in a matter of weeks. Mike just has to keep his mojo going. He’s really doing awfully well. She’s proud of him. Poor thing.
Celeste is more worried about Lily, who is definitely distracted. She has her face buried in her phone and her shoulders are hunched. She barely acknowledged Celeste when she came into the room. Celeste isn’t sure she has ever seen her this out of sorts. There’s something black and icy in Lily’s eyes. She seems coiled and ready to strike. They haven’t had a chance to talk privately, but they will as soon as this tutorial is over. Still, it’s disconcerting. Celeste lives and dies by Lily’s moods—and this one is ominous.
“Remember to maintain eye contact,” the coach says.
“Yes, darling, eye contact,” Celeste seconds.
“When you get an education question, talk about children, mention that they’re the future. Bring up Tajari, the six-year-old homeless girl you met in Detroit. Or Michael, the ten-year-old foster child in Denver,” the speechwriter says.
“Children. The future. Tajari. Michael,” Mike repeats.
“Remember how they touched you, darling? How you want them to have the same chance every other child in America has?” Celeste says.
Mike nods.
The writer repeats the education question, and Mike looks at Celeste before leaning forward and making eye contact with his questioner. “You know, Anderson, children are more than statistics; they’re our future. I’ll never forget the look in the eyes of Tajari, a six-year-old homeless girl I had the privilege of meeting in Detroit. She was living in a shelter. I asked her what she needed most of all, and she answered, ‘A desk to do my homework on.’ I was deeply moved by her plea. If I’m elected president, I will not rest until Tajari and every child like her has a desk.”
In spite of everything she knows, Celeste is moved by Mike’s words. She’s really done an amazing job, hasn’t she, molding him into this presidential figure. She knows how Michelangelo must have felt, taking a lump of marble and turning it into a brilliant work of art. It’s immodest of her to think that, but modesty is for losers. She looks to Lily for her reward, but all she sees is a set jaw and those burning eyes. Something is terribly wrong. In spite of Mike’s progress, Celeste feels her anxiety level skyrocket.
She stands and crosses to Mike, leans down, and kisses the top of his head. “That was marvelous, darling.” Mike beams. “Do you feel like a nice workout?” Mike nods. “Wonderful. I’ll join you in a few minutes. We can have a private spinning class.”
Mike needs his daily workouts. It’s the only way he can work off all that excessive energy. Well, there is one other way, Celeste thinks with a little smile. But she’s been withholding that—just once a week, when the man wants it three times a day—with the promise that they’ll make up for lost time after he wins the election. It’s the proverbial sex on a stick.
As soon as they’re alone, Celeste asks Lily, “What’s the matter?”
Lily stands and starts to pace. “Erica Sparks is wrong, for one thing.” Even as she says the name, Celeste can hear grudging respect in her voice.
“And after we agreed to let her moderate the final debate! We may have to pull that plug. What has she done now?” Celeste asks.
“I think she knows too much.”
“Knows or suspects?”
“Either way is bad news. She was very aggressive in questioning me before the filmed interview. She told me that she’s looking into Mike’s days as a hostage. She brought up China. And she brought up hacking. Our people have detected suspicious activity.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
Lily turns on her. “I’m telling you now!”
Celeste feels a terrible pang of hurt. She can’t handle it when Lily gets short with her. All she said was one simple sentence and Lily bit her head off. “Were we hacked?”
“Didn’t I just say they have detected suspicious activity? If we were hacked, wouldn’t I have just come out
and said we’ve been hacked? Honestly, Celeste, sometimes I think you’re as slow as your husband.”
Celeste can feel hot tears welling up behind her eyes. Lily knows how hurtful she’s being; she knows.
“I’m only trying to be helpful.”
“By asking me a lot of third-grader questions?”
“How am I supposed to know what’s happening if I don’t ask questions? You’re being horrid to me, and it’s not fair!” Celeste is quivering and she can’t stop herself.
Lily laughs in derision. “Horrid? I’m being horrid to you? ‘Oh, Mummy, Mummy, Lily is being horrid to me. Make her stop it, Mummy. Make her stop!’ ”
Since the day they met, Lily has teased Celeste about her upbringing, needling her mercilessly at times, imitating her country club manners and speech. But before it’s always been in fun. This isn’t in fun. Something has shifted.
And then it hits Celeste like a thunderbolt: Lily is afraid. She’s never seen her afraid before. Erica Sparks is getting too close for comfort. And Lily can’t handle it. She needs help. She needs Celeste, more than she’s ever needed her before.
Celeste feels a combination of succulent warmth and gushing empathy. Poor Lily. Poor dear, vulnerable Lily. Celeste calmly takes a breath. “We’ll get through this,” she says in a smooth soft voice. Then she goes to Lily and squeezes her hand. “The same way we get through everything. Together.” She smiles in reassurance.
Lily pulls her hand away. “Of course we’ll get through it. You don’t think I’m worried, do you? Please. I could crush that Erica Sparks like a bug if I wanted to. Just like I crushed all the others. Like little bugs underfoot. I love that sound they make as their shells shatter and you grind them into oblivion.”
Oh, how touching!—Lily can’t admit that she’s afraid. It’s her fierce pride, of course. The Chinese are so proud. Celeste is so sensitive, so attuned to Lily’s every mood and inflection. What Lily needs most is a concrete plan—she’s always best when she feels in control.
“Has there been any more suspicious activity on the system?” Celeste asks.
Lily shakes her head.
“It sounds as if the suspected breach may have simply been a false alarm.”
“Perhaps,” Lily says, somewhat begrudgingly.
Oh, she’s coming around, poor thing. “As for Erica Sparks mentioning China, and even Mike’s time as a prisoner, she was just on a fishing expedition. There’s nothing there. We made sure of that. And China is on everyone’s minds these days. Sparks is just a clever reporter looking for a way to make news in a campaign that—thanks to your brilliance and that insipid Lucy Winters—doesn’t seem to be holding any surprises.”
“The latest polls are good,” Lily says.
“Better than good when you look at the electoral college. We worked hard with Mike today. That’s the best path forward. Heads down, do the work, keep our eyes on the prize.”
Lily nods, her jaw relaxes.
Then Celeste says, almost casually, “There is one other thing we should do.”
“What’s that?” Lily asks, a little too quickly. She just revealed that she’s hanging on Celeste’s every word.
Celeste takes a long pause to savor the dynamic. She’s taking care of Lily, protecting her, mothering her. What a beautiful thing.
“I’m angry at Erica Sparks too,” Celeste says. “She was disrespectful to you. Who does she think she is? She grew up in a trailer. She’s a common drunk. Arrested for reckless endangerment. Sometimes this country gives opportunities to people who shouldn’t have them.”
“She really has overstepped the bounds, hasn’t she?” Lily says.
“She has.”
“I think it’s time to deal with her once and for all,” Celeste says.
“But we have to be very careful. She’s a public figure. There will be a lot of interest if something unfortunate should happen to her. And we don’t have much time.”
“Can’t we just turn it over to the team? They’ve been so effective so far.”
“They’re extraordinary. But we’re mere weeks from bringing this whole thing home. We want to be very smart,” Lily says.
“You’re right, of course. The final solution could cause unwanted attention, be a distraction. And we don’t know who she’s been talking to. They could come out of the woodwork.”
Lily stands up and starts to pace again, but she’s no longer anxious or distracted. She’s thinking, focused, that razor-sharp brain of hers is at work—clicking-clicking—it’s thrilling to see. Then she stops cold. A little smile plays at the corners of Lily’s mouth, her beautiful, perfect mouth, and she says, almost casually, “I’ve got it.”
Their eyes meet and ignite and they sit down next to each other at the table and lean in, shoulders touching, their voices bare whispers—fevered whispers charged with malice and electricity.
CHAPTER 63
THE HELICOPTER BANKS OVER THE sweeping hills and valleys of northern Marin County. Inside the chopper Erica is filming with her iPhone—it’s a stunning landscape, but she wouldn’t care if it looked like Gary, Indiana. She’s only after one thing.
“You thinking of buying a place?” the pilot—handsome, starstruck—asks.
Erica nods.
“A lot of celebrities have places up here. You can have real privacy.”
“You could almost hide away in these hills,” Erica says.
“A lot of people do,” he says.
Then Erica sees the long, low wood-and-glass house that swoops out over the ridgeline, its infinity pool seeming to float on air. And there’s the courtyard surrounded by the three guesthouses.
“Let’s take a look at that place. But don’t get too close, I don’t want to disturb anyone.”
“Sure thing.”
The pilot is expert and he hovers a distance away from the compound while Erica films, zooming in, making sure she gets the periphery, the wooded hills that surround the estate.
“Sweet spread. I bet somebody powerful lives there,” the pilot says.
“No doubt.”
“Maybe some tech billionaire. Or it could be Chinese money. There’s a whole lot of that pouring in.”
And then Erica notices a car on the road that leads to the estate. It pulls up to the gate, and a moment later the gate swings open. The car speeds up the long drive. Maybe it’s the caretaker. But would a caretaker drive a Porsche? The car pulls into the courtyard and a man gets out. Erica zooms in as tight as she can—he’s dressed in a black suit and he looks Asian, but she won’t be sure until she studies the footage. She expects the man to head into Lily’s house, but he turns toward one of the guesthouses. Another man in a black suit comes out of the guesthouse. They shake hands and then look up toward the sky, toward the helicopter.
“Let’s head back,” Erica says.
“Will do.”
“It’s gorgeous up here.”
“God’s country,” the pilot says.
As the helicopter heads south back to SFO, Erica turns, takes a last look at the estate, and thinks, That depends on who your god is.
CHAPTER 64
ERICA IS IN HER ROOM at the Huntington the next morning. She’s wearing jeans, a blouse, a light Windbreaker, and hiking sneakers. She’s studied the footage of Eagle’s Nest and the surrounding countryside a dozen times. Her rental car is waiting downstairs. She’s keyed up, but as long as she’s moving forward her anxiety stays in check. There’s one last thing before she sets off. She sits down and writes an e-mail to Greg, Moy, and Mark, telling them what she’s about to do. If something happens to her, they’ll know where to look. She hits Send and then closes the computer before checking to see if the e-mail went through.
As Erica drives down to Lombard Street to pick up Route 101, she looks in her rearview mirror and sees a black sedan behind her. The visor is pulled down and she can barely make out the driver in the shadow. Male. Wearing dark glasses. Unshaven. She turns on Lombard, and so does the sedan. Erica changes l
anes, it follows. She gets on the Golden Gate Bridge, the sedan stays on her tail. She can feel her pulse quicken and sweat break out on her brow. She crosses the bridge and heads through the tunnel and into suburban southern Marin. She changes lanes several times, the sedan is right with her.
Erica gets off 101 at Sir Francis Drake Boulevard. So does her eager suitor. Now her heart is thumping in her chest. She follows Sir Francis Drake into the rich suburb of Ross. She’s in the middle of the shopping district, there’s a stoplight up ahead, it turns from green to yellow, and Erica sees a chance. At first she slows, then when the light turns red—at the last possible second—she swings a fast left onto Lagunitas Road. She looks in her rearview—her tail is stuck at the red light. She races up two blocks and comes to Ross Common, where she takes a left and then pulls over in front of a parked SUV, which hides her car. She sits frozen, her eyes glued to the side-view mirror, which shows the traffic behind her on Lagunitas. The black sedan drives by and she can just make out the driver’s head frantically twisting left and right. The car behind him honks. Erica executes a tight U-turn, goes right on Lagunitas, and then left on Francis Drake. She checks the rearview. There’s no sign of her tail.
Suburbia fades out as she drives through San Anselmo and Fairfax and reaches rustic Woodacre, where she turns right and heads north on Nicasio Valley Road, into the undeveloped reaches of northwest Marin. She turns right and heads up Old Rancheria Road. After six miles she reaches the gate to Eagle’s Nest. She keeps going past the gate for about a quarter of mile and then turns on the overgrown, barely visible dirt road she found on Google Earth. She drives up about a quarter of a mile, pulls in behind a copse of trees, and gets out of her car.
Erica is sweating and she’s scared. But there’s no way she’s turning back. She starts to make her way through the woods. There’s not a lot of underbrush to hide in, and she stays hyperalert for any movement or sound—the crunch of shoes on the leaves, a cough, a shadow behind a tree. She moves steadily, to the beat of her thumping heart. After a half hour she reaches the base of Eagle Nest’s hilltop. She’s approaching from behind the guesthouses, which are partially built into the slope, made of stacked stone. They look as solid as death. The whole compound has a secretive, forbidding air. Even though she isn’t moving, Erica is now sweating profusely and she feels dizzy with fear.