Radclyffe - (Honor 5) - Honor Reclaimed

by Radclyffe

  Blair circled Cam's shoulders and pulled her down against her body. "No one. Go back to sleep."

  "You do realize that was my phone."

  "Be quiet, Cameron, and go to sleep."

  "It might've been Lucinda, or the president."

  "I don't care if it was the pope. You need some sleep."

  Cam kissed Blair's cheek, then heaved herself up and over her body. She stretched an arm down and felt around on the floor until she found her phone, then rolled back into bed. She opened it and pushed recall.

  "You just won't quit, will you," Blair said.

  "Roberts," Cam said when the phone was answered. "No, I accidentally disconnected it. What's up?"

  "Disconnected it, my ass," Blair muttered. "I'll disconnect it."

  Cam instinctively curled her body around the phone, fearing that Blair would snatch it from her grasp and toss it across the room. "I'm sorry- Repeat that?" As she listened, Cam swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood up. She walked to the chair where she'd left her clothes and grabbed her pants in one hand, awkwardly stepping into them as she held the phone between her ear and shoulder. "I'll be right there."

  Blair sprang from the bed, naked, and stalked over to Cam. "It's four thirty in the morning. You didn't come in until two. What's so important?"

  "Valerie has a lead." Cam kissed her quickly. "Do you think you could find me a clean shirt while I wash up?"

  "How's your headache?"

  "What?"

  "The headache, Cam."

  "It's fine."

  Blair found a clean shirt in the top dresser drawer, pulled off the protective plastic, and shook it out as she walked into the bathroom. She held it out to Cam with one hand and opened the medicine cabinet with the other. She extracted the aspirin bottle. "Take two of these before you go back over there. And promise me that you'll catch some sleep later on today."

  Cam shrugged into her shirt, dry swallowed the aspirins, and kissed Blair again. "Promise. I love you."

  "Yeah, yeah." Blair snatched her robe from the bathroom door and walked with her through the house, knowing she wasn't going to be able to sleep. She contemplated waking Diane for company, and then realized that she was at the guesthouse too. Feeling abandoned and out of sorts, she contemplated another walk. It was pitch black and still storming. She contented herself with making coffee, and as she watched the pot brew, heard footsteps behind her. Turning, she saw Stark in the doorway. "Do you have the night shift or can't you sleep either?"

  "Night shift."

  "Good. Go get the cards. I'm going to teach you how to play pinochle."

  Cam walked into the dining room, which was lit by three desk lights and the computer monitors. The overhead chandelier had been turned down to a soft glow. Felicia and Valerie each sat at a keyboard. "What's up?"

  Valerie pointed to the printer, where a page was just sliding out. "Grab that, Cameron. See what you think."

  "Where's Savard?" Cam asked as she extracted the page.

  "Asleep at the main house. I thought we could call her if this turns out to be anything," Felicia said. "I just thought..."

  "No, you're right. Somebody might as will get some sleep." Cam frowned at the image from the color laser printer. It looked like a patch from a military uniform, but she didn't recognize the insignia. The resolution was poor and some of the markings indistinct. But what was very clear were the two crossed rifles above the American flag in the upper portion of the shield-shaped design. "What is this?"

  "It's a shoulder patch," Valerie said. "We copied it from a web site image and blew it up. That's the tattoo those four guys had on their arms, don't you think?"

  "Certainly looks like it." Cam pulled a chair out and sat down, placing the paper carefully on the table next to her. "Where is it from?"

  Valerie slid a foot away from the computer monitor and pointed to the screen. "NCMA—North Carolina Military Academy. David Foster was a student there from the age of nine until he graduated at the age of seventeen."

  "What's that site?"

  Felicia answered, "It's the home page for the school. The commandant is in full uniform, and we pulled the patch off the picture of him."

  Cam was quiet for several moments, then she stood and walked closer to the computer, squinting at the images. "We need to know everything there is to know about that place. How long has that guy been the commandant?"

  "Checking," Felicia muttered. "Twenty-seven years."

  "Then we need to know everything on him too. Starting with his name."

  "General Thomas Matheson."

  "A real general?" Cam asked. "Because sometimes these guys bestow their own ranks that don't come from any recognized branch of the Armed Forces."

  "We don't know that yet," Valerie said. "We're about to start running him through databases now."

  "You'd better wake Savard. That's her area," Cam said. "I'll make some coffee. The next thing you need to do is get the student records from the years that Foster was there. Let's see if we can pull some faces that match our dead guys."

  "We'll have to...extract...that information from their internal computer systems," Felicia said carefully.

  "Fine. Hack into them, Davis. Just don't let them know."

  "Yes, ma'am," Felicia said smartly, a small smile of anticipation softening her elegantly remote features.

  As Felicia turned to the keyboard, her fingers already flying, Cam signaled for Valerie to accompany her to the kitchen. "Nice job with that. How'd you tip to it?"

  Valerie recalled the sensation of Diane's skin beneath her lips, the scent of her, and her heart raced. "Just luck. Someone mentioned getting a tattoo of a school mascot, which made me think of school crests." She opened the cabinet door and passed the coffee canister to Cam. She crossed her arms over her chest, belatedly realizing that she'd forgotten her underwear in her haste to dress earlier.

  Cam followed her motion and hastily averted her gaze. "It's the first lead we've had, and it's solid."

  "You're thinking that Foster met these men, or at least one of them, at school and then later reconnected with them?"

  "Seems like a good possibility."

  "God," Valerie murmured. "Why?"

  "That's something we may never understand. I'll be happy just to know how."

  "If this really turns out to be true," Valerie said, "it's going to be a media nightmare. We can't let this get out."

  "I imagine that's why you're here, isn't it?" Cam spoke without rancor, watching Valerie's face. "To control the flow of information?"

  "Even the CIA can't do that, Cameron. You know that."

  "But the CIA is very good at making embarrassing situations disappear, when it's necessary."

  Valerie said nothing. She couldn't refute what they both knew to be true.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Friday, September 28

  C am found Blair working on a canvas as the last rays of a cloud-dampened sun faded on the horizon. She'd tied a rolled red bandanna around her forehead to hold her hair out of the way. She wore loose khaki chinos and one of her favorite Grateful Dead T-shirts, paint-stained and holey. A slash of iridescent blue crossed her right forearm where she'd evidently brushed against the corner of her palette when reaching for something. Cam kissed the back of her neck.

  "You look terrific."

  Blair grinned. "I'm a mess. Don't come too close, I'll ruin your suit."

  Obediently, Cam stayed still as Blair moved a few feet away.

  "Did you eat anything at all today?" Blair asked distractedly, her focus wandering back to the painting and a problem area she had been trying to correct.

  "We had pizza."

  "Mmm. That's right. Stark got us some too."

  "Can I interrupt you for just a few more minutes?"

  There was something in the tone of Cam's voice that immediately captured Blair's attention. She set her sable brush aside and picked up the rag she used to clean her hands. Turning her back to the painting and putti
ng it from her mind, her expression cautious, she said, "What's the matter?"

  "Nothing." Cam took her hand, ignoring her vigorous protests about paint stains, and led her toward the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door. "We've identified the members of the assault team who hit the Aerie."

  Blair took a quick breath and backed away. "Who are they? Do I know them?"

  Cam took one step forward and, when Blair backed up yet again, she stopped moving and shook her head. "No, as far as we can tell, they have nothing to do with you personally. We cross-referenced their names with every bit of information in your security files. Nothing turned up. You've never met them. They never communicated with you. They've never been known to make a statement about you, your father, or anything remotely political."

  "Then why?"

  "It doesn't matter," Cam said, wishing that she could keep all of this from Blair. Pointing out that the assault had nothing to do with her as an individual, but only with what she represented, was like telling Blair she'd always been right. That who she was wasn't important, and all that mattered was what people saw when they looked at her. Just saying the words turned her stomach, but Blair did not want or need her protection. Not from this. "It wasn't about you. They came after you to make a statement."

  "But Foster, Foster knew me." Blair couldn't hide the horror in her voice. A man she knew—a man who had sat beside her countless times in the car, walked with her on the streets, been there in the shadows as her guardian—had intended to murder her. Face-to-face. It couldn't be more personal. "Where did they come from?"

  "We don't have the entire picture yet," Cam said gently. "We identified the men through tattoos that led us to the military academy that they attended as boys. Foster was part of their group." With Valerie, Felicia, and Savard working nonstop all day, they'd been able to access school records, interdepartmental memos, letters to families, interscholastic sports records, and applications to colleges—all manner of personal and academic information that had allowed them to profile the suspects. Eventually, they found the photo archives, and they'd found the faces.

  "Tell me their names."

  "Blair..."

  "Tell me. I want them to be real. Not some ghosts, not some monsters without names or faces."

  Cam took a breath and recited the names. She wanted to hold her. God, she ached to shield her. She was afraid to go near her, and that was the hardest part of all. "We think they might have been groomed for the patriot organization while they were at the school."

  "You can't be serious. As boys? Recruiting boys to become assassins?"

  "We don't know that they were trained from adolescence to be assassins," Cam admitted, "but they may have been indoctrinated into a way of thinking that made that next step possible. Don't forget the Hitler Youth and how effective they were in recruiting for the Reich."

  Blair shook her head. It should have been inconceivable, but in her heart she knew it was a terrible reality. "Why did you come to that conclusion?"

  "It's too much of a coincidence that all four of them have nothing in the public record to identify them. They don't even have driver's licenses." Cam wouldn't have believed the men actually existed if she hadn't seen their autopsy photos. "This, or something like this, was planned well before they reached adulthood."

  Blair sat on the edge of the bed, her legs shaking. "It's horrible. I.. .What were they doing all this time? Why didn't anyone know this was going on?"

  "With the exception of Foster, they've been living normal lives as ordinary citizens, doing nothing that would call attention to themselves. Ordinary jobs, no debt, no criminal records, nothing to make them stand out." Carefully, Cam crossed the room, watching Blair's face. She squatted down in front of her and rested her hands lightly on Blair's thighs. "None of them has ever been fingerprinted or photographed for any reason, even a credit card. They've never held a government or industry job where a security check would have been needed."

  "But that could just be coincidence. It doesn't mean anything was planned," Blair insisted.

  "If that were the whole picture, I'd agree with you, but it's not. We haven't been able to find applications to military academies for any of the four—-not West Point, not the Naval Academy, not the Air Force Academy—even though they surely would have been prime candidates. Well over ninety percent of graduates from NCMA go on to careers in the Armed Forces, and almost one hundred percent apply. Foster went into government service, but these men.. .It's as if they've been purposefully flying under the radar, just waiting." "Waiting to be called to do something like this?" "That's what we think." Cam eased up onto the bed next to Blair and loosely settled an arm around her waist. Blair didn't break her rigid pose, but she accepted Cam's touch. "They probably received all of their assault training at one of the paramilitary camps."

  "Like a sleeper cell, only made up of Americans instead of... whoever?" Blair closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, they were filled with pain. "This can't be. This doesn't happen here."

  Cam didn't need to point out that what happened on September 11 didn't happen here either, because she knew they were both thinking it. "I'm sorry."

  "What now?" Blair asked.

  "We still have work to do. These men are dead, and they can't help us with much more. Hopefully, the commandant of the school they attended will have the rest of the answers. He's proving almost as hard to uncover as these guys were, even though we know his name and what he looks like."

  "What happens if he's the one who...planned everything?" "Then he'll be arrested." Cam wasn't actually so sure what would happen to him, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty. She wanted the opportunity to bring him to justice. And her idea of justice was not delivering him to the FBI or the Justice Department, where he could cut a deal for leniency in exchange for information. In all likelihood, that was what the people in power would want, but their agenda was not hers. Her only interest now was Blair's present and future safety.

  *

  "I think I've got something," Savard called from the dining room, her voice tight with anticipation.

  Cam levered herself off the couch where she'd been trying to take a nap, rubbed at her eyes, which felt gritty and dry, and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "What did you find?"

  "I've been sifting through Matheson's tax records. He paid a hefty inheritance tax fifteen years ago when his father died."

  Cam peered at the screen, frowning at what appeared to be scanned copies of old documents. "You think he's bankrolling terrorists?"

  Savard shook her head. "No. I traced back his parents, and then their parents. Matheson's grandfather held a deed for what looks like half a mountain in Tennessee."

  "You don't say." Cam smiled. "And Matheson inherited the property. Do you have the precise coordinates for it yet?"

  "It's almost midnight on a Friday night, Commander. No one's going to be available at the hall of records in Memphis."

  "I'll bet their computer networks are running, because the law enforcement agencies will need access."

  "Then we need Felicia for the extraction," Savard said, bowing to Felicia's skill as a computer cracker.

  Cam checked her watch and grimaced. "She's only been asleep a couple hours, but I guess we'll need to wa-—"

  "I might have a contact who can get the location for us a little faster," Valerie said. "I'll make a call."

  "All right," Cam said. "And while you're at it, you might request a satellite image for us. You've got something up there with infrared capability, don't you?"

  Valerie smiled. "I have no idea what's orbiting the Earth, Cameron. But I'm certain we have some sort of helpful toy up there. I'll see what I can do."

  Savard waited until Valerie left the room to make her call. "You think there's a paramilitary compound on his property?"

  "Don't you?"

  "Yeah. I do. What are we going to do when we find out where it is?"

  "I imagine it'll be out of our hands then." C
am kept her face carefully neutral.

  "That's not how I want to see it go down." Savard regarded her steadily. "These guys may not have planned what happened at the World Trade Center, but they knew about it. And they sure as hell intended to kill Blair. I want to be there when they go down."

  "Yes. So do I."

  *

  Blair was still awake when Cam came in shortly after four a.m., lying in bed in the dark with only the light from the vanity in the adjacent bathroom for illumination. "What's happening?"

  Cam undressed quickly and slid into bed, reaching for Blair's hand. She threaded her fingers lightly through Blair's. "Valerie, Savard, and I need to go to Washington."

  Blair rugged her hand free. "When?"

  "Today. Later this morning."

  "Why?"

  "We're meeting with Lucinda and your father. Probably a few other people as well."

  "About what?"

  "We've located a compound in the Tennessee mountains. We've got satellite images of a number of buildings and vehicles. We suspect that's where the men who made the attempt on your life came from."

  "It's just a briefing, right?"

  "I should be back tonight."

  "I want to come with you."

  "That's not a good idea," Cam said quietly. "We've established excellent security here. We have no way of knowing how deep this may go—who in DC may be a part of it. Foster was on the inside. Maybe there are others. Unless you want to stay in the White House for another few weeks..."

  "You know I don't."

  "Then this is the safest place for you. The three of us will drive to Boston and get a flight from there."

  "And just why do you need to go in person?" Blair sat up and snapped on the bedside light. She pulled the sheet to her waist, drew her knees up, and folded her arms around them, drawing in on herself. "What are you going to do in DC? Plan the big operation? Strategize about how you're going to apprehend these guys?" When Cam said nothing, Blair went on, her voice harsh, "You're not a commando, Cameron. That's why we have Special Forces. You're not getting involved in this."

  "I'm just consulting."

  "Oh," Blair said derisively, "don't you dare give me that line. I know you. Consulting, my ass. Tell me you're not going with the strike team. Tell me that's not your plan."