Frozen Fire

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  She jerked back in her seat as if he’d pushed her and then everything about her froze, except her eyes, which widened considerably. “One of our planes? You’re mistaken.”

  “To the contrary, it’s confirmed. And if you check into it, I imagine you’ll discover the trip was arranged courtesy of Wendy Watson.” He paused. “But let’s get back to Blaylock’s operation, shall we? He recruited most of his babe-alicious army in the U.K. and Western Europe, but now they’re scattered around the globe. They’re one-woman sleeper cells, collecting information and passing it on. It’s a pretty brilliant scheme. These foot soldiers are essentially invisible, even to security forces. No one expects beautiful, intelligent women to be terrorists.” Tom shrugged.

  When Victoria didn’t respond, he continued, “His women are all highly educated, not the type you would expect to fall for that kind of green, flowery, universal life force crap, and every one I’ve seen pictures of is pretty damned hot. He seems to prefer blondes, but he doesn’t discriminate. And he does a hell of a job recruiting them. They’re tightly meshed with him through emotional and, more often than not, sexual bonds and they’re absolutely loyal. They believe everything he tells them and will do anything he asks. Despite, or perhaps even because of, her ‘integrity,’ your stoic, sexless Wendy would have been a meager challenge for him.”

  He watched Victoria simmer.

  “Mr. Taylor, let’s leave Wendy and her alleged involvement out of this for the moment. Why would Garner Blaylock target Taino this way? President Cavendish has a long and illustrious record of fostering the environment—”

  She stopped talking as he shook his head and let out a heavy breath. “Ms. Clark, let me be the first to tell you that you lie like shit and you can’t do ‘disingenuous.’”

  Her eyebrows flicked upward but she said nothing and didn’t drop her gaze.

  “We both know Dennis Cavendish is as much of a narcissist and possibly as much of a sociopath as Garner Blaylock, and he’s doing just as good a job creating his own bizarre little reality. Cavendish might own lots of mountains and forests and pretty meadows around the world, and a beautiful Caribbean island, but he has never saved or fostered anything unless he could make lots of money doing it. And Blaylock has targeted your projects before.”

  Victoria had relaxed somewhat, but kept her eyes on him, her hands loose in her lap. “In small ways.”

  “Think of who was on that plane and what industries they represented,” Tom continued harshly. “Between their primary businesses and their subsidiaries, they included agribusiness, aviation, manufacturing, banking, paper, biopharmaceuticals. And where were they headed? To the private island of the man the greens love to hate because he’s stolen their platform and profited hugely from it. Why were these titans of industry headed to Dennis Cavendish’s island paradise, where no industry is allowed to exist?” He paused and gave her a smile designed to chill rather than warm. “That wasn’t rhetorical, Vicky. Don’t be shy about filling in that blank.”

  “Please, Mr. Taylor, feel free to call me Secretary Clark,” she said easily. “And the answer to your question is Taino state business.”

  “Eight of the people on that plane were American citizens, as are you, Ms. Clark.”

  “My status is immaterial. And their citizenship doesn’t play into this situation, either.”

  “Don’t delude yourself.”

  “I never do.”

  “Where’s Dennis Cavendish?”

  The change in subject caused her pupils to dilate suddenly, an involuntary action immediately disguised with a slow, controlled blink.

  As they crossed the Potomac, Victoria turned her face to the window and squinted at the sunlight splintering the river’s dark surface. “Mr. Taylor, this conversation is over.”

  “Ms. Clark, this conversation has barely begun. Was he on that plane?”

  “That’s classified information.”

  “Unclassify it.”

  “We’ll release the passenger list when the search-and-rescue operation is complete.”

  Tom leaned back against the leather seat, not taking his eyes off her. “You don’t strike me as the type to believe in fairy tales, Ms. Clark. We both know no one survived that crash.”

  She looked at him and said nothing.

  “We could have another pissing match over whose footage is better, but I’d win, Ms. Clark. We were watching your little banana republic this morning, as we have been, twenty-four/seven, for a long time. Other than the cockpit, which, well, you saw what happened to that—other than that, the largest thing we saw hit the water was a strut from the landing gear. That’s what I thought it was, anyway. Someone else thought it was the lower half of a woman’s leg.” He shrugged. “Your ‘search-and-rescue’ operation is approaching twelve hours. Small plane, small scatter, small number of bodies to find. If there were anyone to be found, you would have found them by now. Why are you delaying any announcements? Why so secretive?”

  He paused to let her reply, which she didn’t, so he sighed and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re the security expert, Ms. Clark. The computer wizard, the princess of paranoia. Here I was thinking we were going to have a real insightful conversation, a meeting of the minds. But I have to say that your silence on some of these topics is mighty interesting.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it.”

  “So why were those people on that plane?”

  She gave him a tight smile. “You’re getting tiresome.”

  “And you’re getting closer to being denied diplomatic or any other kind of immunity if the attorney general decides to open a criminal investigation. There’s no question that we have jurisdiction. That plane took off from Miami.”

  She actually smiled at him then. “Your threats aren’t very subtle, nor do they frighten me, Mr. Taylor. But I’ll tell you this; the passengers on that plane were personal acquaintances of President Cavendish. He had invited them to his home for a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Why not?”

  “There’s no golf course on Taino, no spa, no fishing boats, no luxury hotel. No swimming pool. No tennis courts. Just a few ungroomed trails to the volcano’s rather lush crater. In fact, there’s nothing for wealthy, hard-driving visitors to your island to do other than visit your very well-equipped dock, which is home to a small fleet of state-of-the-art submersibles, including the one you climbed out of one minute and twenty seconds after the plane exploded. So I’m thinking that perhaps President Cavendish wanted to show his ‘acquaintances’ the rather large structure he’s built on the seafloor. You know the one I’m talking about. The one that’s situated near the largest methane-hydrate deposit in this hemisphere, if not in the entire world.” He paused and let the weight of his knowledge settle into her brain.

  Although her face had gone a bit pale, her expression became steely and her eyes chilled to something measurable in degrees Kelvin.

  He continued his revelations in a casual tone. “Even the scope of conversation among the locals is rather limited, I’d imagine. What could thirty or so of the foremost experts on hydrogeology, underwater mining, deep-sea habitats, and a few other narrow field specialties have to discuss with nine people who control a very large percentage of the world’s wealth? Perhaps the group would also include the thirty or so other experts who arrived on the island a few months ago and then promptly disappeared—the ones who were last seen by us as they climbed aboard your largest submersible. That wasn’t a Disney ride you were taking them on, was it? One that would give new meaning to the title Pirates of the Caribbean?”

  Throughout his recitation, her expression had not changed. Those blue eyes remained icy and calm.

  “Is your silence my cue for applause?” she said after a long pause.

  “Not at all, Ms. Clark. It’s your cue to start providing some answers.”

  She said nothing, just turned her head to the window.

  Victoria knew that Tom Taylor’s conversation wa
s meant to shock her, to confuse her into revealing what he wanted to know, which was everything. He was good at it, and the effort to keep their multilayered dialogue functioning on her terms was nothing less than exhausting. She was glad that they were nearing the embassy’s compound.

  As the limousine turned the corner of M Street in Georgetown, Victoria took one look out the window and felt her already battered spirits plunge. Fighting her way through the crush of television vans, camera crews, and reporters swarming in the street outside the embassy was the last thing she wanted to do. But if she didn’t exit the car outside the gates, she’d have to either throw him out of the car or bring the uncharming Mr. Taylor inside the gates. The latter was an action that could arguably be considered an invitation and she knew better than to invite a federal agent onto sovereign territory. He’d be like kudzu in a garden; she’d never be rid of him.

  Using the intercom, she asked the driver to circle the block, then turned to her companion.

  “Can my driver drop you off someplace, Mr. Taylor?”

  “I was hoping to hang around with you for a little longer.”

  This is getting old. She smiled coolly. “Thank you for the compliment. Unfortunately, I have pressing matters to attend to, as you can imagine. The driver will drop you off at your office, your home; wherever you wish.”

  “My office will be fine, thanks,” he said after a short pause, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card, which he handed to her. “Feel free to get in touch with me any time you want to have another chat, Ms. Clark.”

  The card provided only his name and a phone number. No title, no agency.

  She met his eyes again. “Of course. And you know how to get in touch with me, should you want anything.”

  He nodded once and then they both looked away, falling silent as the driver fought his way once again through the scrum of reporters. The embassy gates opened slowly. Steel-jawed, impassive, and openly armed, the embassy’s security staff stood along the fence line, keeping their eyes moving over the crowd and occasionally murmuring into the slim microphones hugging their cheeks.

  When the car came to a stop, Victoria looked at him.

  “Just tell the driver where to take you, Mr. Taylor.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Clark. Keep in touch.”

  She didn’t wait for anyone to open the car’s heavy, armored door for her, but a phalanx of security personnel surrounded her the moment her feet touched the brick driveway. They hustled her beyond the boundary of the gate and through the elegant porte cochere that fronted the building.

  Leaving the noise of the street and the protective swarm of agents behind her, Victoria passed through the doors of the mansion and across the threshold of the ten-thousand-square-foot, immaculately renovated Georgian mansion. The ornate front door closed behind her with a muted thud.

  The building exuded the calm hush of a bank vault though she knew the tension levels were well beyond high. The young woman who had opened the door had to hurry to keep up with her, and ushered Victoria into the elevator and up to the elegant third-floor bedroom suite that was always held in readiness for her.

  At the doorway to her suite, Victoria turned to the aide. “Please tell Ambassador Deen that I’m here. I’ll be available to meet with him in about half an hour. Have my luggage brought up as soon as it arrives.”

  Safely inside her room, Victoria stood with her eyes gently shut, acknowledging the first moment of solitude she’d had since early morning. It was then, in the artificial calm, that the accumulated weight of the day’s tragedy and tension reached a critical mass with no warning, and she had no chance to buffer herself against it.

  Fifteen people dead, torn apart and incinerated. Making Dennis inert. Spawning Micki’s hysterical accusations and Tom Taylor’s grim assertions.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she could turn off the voices shouting in her head.

  The Benson administration’s hateful leaks. The media’s desperate, craven need for information, for scandal, for images of bloodied bodies.

  “Meanwhile, I still have hundreds of people to protect, including thirty-six on the ocean floor. I don’t know their vulnerability, and I can’t ensure their safety,” she said out loud in a harsh whisper. “And I don’t know who I can count on anymore, or who I can trust.”

  Slumping against the closed door, she felt tears well in her eyes and spill over as a hard, cold mass of hated emotion bloomed in her chest, constricting her breath and forcing her to double over.

  Fifteen people. I failed them. I let them die.

  Tearing at her sleek suit, she pulled it off with clumsy hands as she stumbled to the bathroom. Turning on the shower, she stepped in as soon as she was naked, not bothering to wait until the water was warm. She needed to clear her mind. She needed to hide her tears.

  She needed to wash the blood from her hands.

  CHAPTER

  11

  7:30 P.M., Saturday, October 25, Taino

  Micki moved into the open doorway that led into Dennis’s office. She had to clear her throat twice before he looked up. He looked like hell. A five o’clock shadow had begun to stubble his chin and cheeks, and his face, usually handsome and full of energy, was dull and slack.

  “When did you get back from the bunker?” she asked, moving into his office.

  “I never went. I was in Victoria’s bungalow for a while, then I came here.” He paused. “I’ve been calling the families.”

  The realization that Victoria had deliberately lied to her struck Micki like a blow, and her body responded with a surge of anger. The lie was a first. It would be the last.

  “Trust is critical, but proof takes precedence.”

  How many times had Victoria said that? Thousands, over the years. Well, those words were about to bite her. Micki would make sure of it.

  Looking at Dennis, Micki raised her eyebrows and kept her voice even. “Does Victoria know that you’ve been calling the families?”

  “No. And I don’t give a rat’s ass, either. How are things going?”

  “I’ve been getting hourly reports from the boats. They’ve picked up a lot of debris, but they haven’t found any survivors,” she said quietly, settling into a chair. “Dennis, has Victoria discussed any of her thoughts about who might have done this? Or planned it?”

  “How could she? It’s too early. We don’t know anything yet.”

  Micki nodded silently and glanced down at her hands.

  “Has she discussed anything with you?” he asked after a moment.

  Micki looked up and met his eyes. “No. Not really.” She shrugged. “Some nutty idea about ecoterrorists. It didn’t make a lick of sense to me. But when I brought up the possibility that whoever did it might have had inside help, she shut me down cold. It was so unlike her.” She pulled her brows together into a small frown.

  “With all of her layers of defense—”

  “Oh, I wasn’t implying any laxness on her part,” Micki rushed to assure him. “But I just found it so odd that she wouldn’t even entertain a conversation about an infiltration.”

  Dennis leaned back in his chair, glaring at her. “Cut the bullshit, Micki. What are you getting at?”

  “Well, I mean, she’s the one who taught me never to overlook something just because it might seem outlandish.” She paused and bit her lip for effect. She didn’t have to fake the heat that rose in her face. Adrenaline was pouring into her veins at the thought of what she was about to do.

  “This is so hard to say,” she stammered. “But I just don’t think I could rest if I don’t say it. What if—what if Victoria was part of it?”

  Dennis didn’t hesitate. “That’s preposterous.”

  Heart pounding, Micki looked at him with every shred of emotion she could summon. “I know it sounds preposterous, Dennis, but don’t you think we have to entertain every possibility, no matter how crazy? Isn’t that the foundation of our entire security platform?”

  “We might
as well suspect you or me of complicity, Micki. Victoria did not bring down that plane.”

  “Not intentionally, maybe, but what if she did something that helped someone get through—”

  “No,” he said coldly.

  “Well, why did she want to get off the island so quickly?” Micki almost shouted, pushing herself to her feet. “She’s needed here—”

  “She didn’t want to go to D.C. She was going to send you. I told her to go instead.”

  The news jolted her. “She was going to send me? She never said anything about that.”

  “It was a spur-of-the-moment decision.”

  I’ll bet it was. Filled with a sudden, cool clarity, Micki lowered herself back into her chair. “There’s something you should know, Dennis. It didn’t make sense to me until just now,” she said, making her voice eerily subdued. “After she took off, I checked my e-mail. There was a message sent from my computer this evening that I didn’t send.”

  Dennis frowned. “What?”

  “There was a message sent from my machine that I didn’t send,” she repeated. “It was signed by me but I didn’t write it and I don’t recognize the name it was sent to.”

  “You think someone broke your password?”

  She met his eyes. “Not someone. Victoria. It had to be. No one else has her level of access to the system. Even I don’t.”

  “What did the e-mail say?”

  “It just thanked someone for his or her concern and said that you were still alive.” She made herself swallow hard. “It was sent to an internal address, but I didn’t recognize the name of the recipient, so I checked the personnel records. There is no such person, Dennis, and the mailbox for that name has executables that forward all mail it receives to other mailboxes.”

  His gaze bored into her. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m saying we need to watch Victoria just like we’re watching everyone else, Dennis,” she answered after a long moment. “I don’t think she should be allowed to leave Washington until we know for sure she isn’t the mole.”