Category 7

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  The general perception from the outside was that Davis Lee was window dressing, maybe the son Carter never had, a golden boy who could provide small-town Carter with the social and political connections and polished image that Carter himself could never achieve. It wasn’t particularly flattering, but few people other than Carter and Davis Lee understood the reality: Carter was a man with secrets. And Davis Lee knew most of them and how to protect them.

  There were the obvious ones, like the calm, slow voice that hid a hatred for the president as deep and unforgiving as that godforsaken Iowa mud they’d had to slog through last week, and the careful and deceptively simple language Carter used to cloak an intellectual vanity swollen beyond all reason. But there were other secrets, deeper, darker secrets, and the only way to learn them was to continue to learn the man.

  Davis Lee had discovered that Carter Thompson was insanely ambitious. Highly disciplined and with the mechanical patience of a trained scientist, Carter had held those ambitions tightly in check until his companies turned seriously profitable, until they hit the Fortune 500, and then the 400. But it wasn’t money that Carter was after. The man barely knew what to do with it. He gave a lot of it away.

  No, money didn’t drive Carter. Carter wanted power.

  Specifically, he wanted the presidency.

  The latter had only become apparent to Davis Lee after Winslow Benson had taken office nearly three years ago. Life had changed then. Carter had become a man with a mission. His philanthropy had become ridiculous while his companies’ profits surged. Both occurrences enhanced his public profile and now he wanted to call more of the shots. All the shots.

  Davis Lee had every intention of doing what he had to do to get Carter into the White House and himself into the West Wing. Chief of staff, maybe. Sounded good.

  He put his feet up on the windowsill and lifted his drink to Lady Liberty. Sounded real good.

  CHAPTER 21

  Friday, July 13, 7:45 P.M., Upper East Side,

  New York City

  Win checked the time as he slid the heavy Rolex around his wrist and fastened it. Three hours before he needed to be back in D.C. and thirty minutes before he had to be across town to put in an appearance at some supermodel’s birthday party. He glanced over at Elle, who was still in bed, the sheets modestly tucked under her arms but outlining every long, lean inch of her.

  “Sorry I can’t take you to dinner. I’m late as it is,” he murmured as he slipped a cuff link into place.

  “When are you coming back?”

  Her voice held no emotion. She was good at that, playing everything cool. Even though she’d been anything but cool ten minutes ago. She’d been biting and clawing, acting a little crazy, as if it was the last time and she knew it. Not that it necessarily was. He tried never to walk away from a good thing, especially if it was free.

  He swallowed a satisfied grin before it made an appearance. It didn’t take much to get underneath that ice princess exterior of hers and turn her into something hot and dirty. At least, it didn’t for him, and he really didn’t give a damn how long it took other guys. If there were any. She was insanely loyal, and it had probably never occurred to her that loyalty was an option, like everything else in life.

  “I couldn’t say. This trip was spontaneous.” He didn’t bother looking at her as he smoothed his shirttails flat and gathered his pants around himself. “I’m heading to Paris at the end of next week for those trade talks. I’ll be gone about ten days. Too bad you can’t get away for a long weekend over there. I know I’ll be in the mood for some R and R at the end of it all.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t.”

  He glanced at her again and flashed her a smile. “You have a big job to do right here, Elle, and I can’t afford to have you gone for four days.”

  She shifted from her side to her back and leaned against the pillows, sliding that silky hair away from her face. “I might be done by then.”

  “By when?”

  “A few weeks from now.”

  “You won’t be.”

  Her face tightened, but her voice remained even. “How do you know?”

  “Because you’ll be done when I say you’re done, that’s how,” he said without skipping a beat.

  “What’s the real point of what I’m doing, Win?”

  Other women would have gone pouty by now, but not Elle. She really would be a great asset once she got over that trusting streak. It was the only unsophisticated thing about her. And it was so unprofessional.

  “You don’t know?”

  She let out a breath that revealed some of her exasperation. “Look, I know there has to be more to it than just finding whatever dirt is out there on Carter Thompson. He’s a Midwestern businessman and a tree and cloud hugger in his spare time, and the public loves him. I understand that you want to neutralize a potential threat, but what is it you want me to find? There are no women to unearth, no bad business deals, no dishonorable actions, no criminal activity. The guy has never smoked a cigarette, looked at porn, or drunk anything stronger than coffee.” She shrugged, displaying annoyance that was probably much greater than the gesture indicated. “Knowing what you want to know would help me synthesize things and fashion them into a big picture. Right now I’m just collecting facts and impressions, Win. Give me enough information so that I can arrange what I’ve got in some semblance of, I don’t know, coherency.” She tossed the sheet away from her and swung her legs over the side of the bed in a smooth motion that he found elegant and erotic, and he knew he could be persuaded to forgo the birthday party.

  Still sitting on the bed, Elle bent from the waist to pick up her dress from the floor and slipped it on, then smoothed her hair together, flipped it around a few times, and clamped some sort of a clip around it.

  She walked toward him, not a hint of playfulness or desire on her face, just taut irritation. Barely out of arm’s reach, she stopped and leaned one sleek shoulder against the closed bedroom door. “So? Are you going to tell me what’s the real fascination with Carter Thompson? He’s a big contributor even though he’s an outspoken critic of your father. Why is he worthy of so much of my time and your money?”

  Ignoring her questions, Win just said, “I want to fuck you again. Right now.”

  She lifted an eyebrow and her mouth tightened, turning slightly down at the edges. “What a charming sentiment. Thank you, Win. Unfortunately, I have plans for this evening and have to be somewhere in half an hour. Are you going to answer my question?”

  He took a step toward her, then reached out and slid a finger down her bare arm. “No, I’m not. Figure it out on your own. You’re a smart girl. Come on, Elle. Once more.”

  “No.”

  “Where are you going?”

  She glanced away and waited one or two breaths before answering. “The Union League Club.”

  His hand stilled. “For only being here a month, you sure are moving in the right circles.”

  She said nothing and a distinct sense of unease settled into the back of his mind.

  “Who are you meeting?”

  She remained silent for another moment, returning her eyes to his and holding his gaze with one that was as cool as the air blowing down on them from the ceiling vents. “Davis Lee, actually. We’re going to have a drink. Perhaps you’re right, Win. Maybe I can find out on my own what your fascination is.”

  After a split second of holding his breath in surprise, Win’s reaction was to laugh. She’s threatening me.

  Stepping back from her, he finished buckling his belt, slipped on his Ferragamo loafers, and reached for his jacket. “I have no doubt you’ll be able to do just that, Elle, in your own thorough, and thoroughly enjoyable, way.” He cupped one of her breasts in his hand and brought his face close to hers. “Just keep one thing in mind, darling. Remember who’s paying your salary.”

  “It’s always on my mind, Win. You both are.”

  Little bitch. He was so God-damned hard— He brought his mouth o
nto hers, pressing her back to the door, grinding his hips into hers as his free hand snaked up her dress to grab her tight, naked ass.

  She didn’t participate and she didn’t push him away, but her eyes were spitting cold fire at him when he lifted his head. He didn’t give a damn. “I like your games, Elle,” he said, catching his breath. “They’re very sexy, and so are you. And I still want to fuck you.”

  He took a step back and reached for the door handle next to her hip. She moved away.

  “The feeling’s entirely mutual, Win,” she said softly, giving him a cold smile.

  CHAPTER 22

  The storm had remained in place for nearly thirty hours, spinning at a constant speed and gaining breadth. The marine wildlife that could move away from all the turbulence below the storm did so, leaving the coral and the less mobile creatures to be battered by the relentless action of the waves and the debris that got caught in the vortex and then flung out or forced down to crushing depths.

  The sea around the storm rose in response and pushed out from the core in surging concentricities. Thrust forward by the heavy winds, some of the waves would travel great distances and diminish on their way to somewhere or nowhere. Others retained their full power as they reached nearby island shores and pounded beach and reef, which relented without a fight and allowed themselves to be reshaped or simply destroyed. Palm trees swayed and bent, some giving way with sounds as loud as thunder, others holding fast, releasing their fronds and fruits as missiles. Islanders huddled in suddenly puny man-made structures, waiting for respite as they listened to the violent changes taking place around them and praying the wind and the water would spare their lives and their livings. Others, seeking danger or feigning courage, faced the storm unarmed, challenging its superiority, questioning its strength, as they waded through surging streets to tempt their fate. One by one they would learn the lesson of a lifetime.

  An electrical power line, freed by the wind and excited by the water, arched and coiled in mid-air, snapping to the ground and up again with the erratic, violent chicanes of a freshly beheaded snake. Mesmerized by the sight and the sparks, one of the rain-soaked men watched the wire’s fevered dance as he clung to the metal pole of a flailing street sign. Attempting to remain stationary in the face of the terrifying wind, he reacted too slowly when the hissing, fire-spewing black serpent reached for him.

  Searing pain and paralysis seized him as the unleashed force of Vulcan threw him into the air and then smashed him to the ground. Retching, writhing, screaming as his soft tissues cooked slowly, he finally tore free of its angry, convulsive grip and lay twitching in the street, barely breathing. The wire, a thin black whip against the furious sky, lashed forward again, hurling his limp body like a child’s toy toward the grasping fingers of the encroaching sea.

  Nearby, speechless with disbelief and terror, the man’s friends watched the surging waves push his body along the roadway until it was thrust again and again with increasing urgency onto the sharply splintered carcass of a fallen tree. Spurred by belated courage and sheer foolhardiness, one man broke from the dazed pack and ran to his friend, intent on saving if not his life, at least his body from the anonymity of a watery grave.

  The wind screaming in his ears and the rain pelting him like gravel shot from beneath an angrily spinning wheel focused his attention as it had never been focused before until he reached the smoking, lifeless corpse. Grasping the collar of his friend’s favorite now-charred and sodden shirt, he meant to drag the body toward a safer haven. He no sooner turned than he stopped abruptly to watch in fascinated horror as the severed heads of his other two friends bounced down the street as if part of a macabre wind-driven game of boules. Their decapitated bodies were still standing, propped against the ravaged building by the bloody, twisted length of galvanized steel roofing that had sheltered them all just seconds before.

  No longer able to comprehend the Hell surrounding him, the man fell to his knees and wept for himself, for his friends, for the world that was ending before his eyes. There was nothing else he could think to do.

  Far offshore, the water beneath the storm had become exhausted by the churn and relinquished the last of its heat. As the cooler water rose from the depths, the vortex, hungering for more heat and finding none, began to shift minutely, the stability of its core wobbling as if to begin its death throes. The slight action moved it incrementally forward to warmer, shallower waters, and thus encouraged, Simone began to grow again.

  CHAPTER 23

  Sunday, July 15, 9:00 A.M., Campbelltown, Iowa

  As he always did, Carter sat at the very end of the first pew of their small church, holding his wife’s hand, his head bent, his eyes closed, as the pastor led the congregation in prayer. It was his long-established habit to block out the words and let the familiar, reverent cadence of the pastor’s voice serve as a backdrop to his private thoughts.

  The fact that Simone had stalled hadn’t pleased him. He’d been watching the storm carefully, keeping his impatience under tight wraps. He knew taking additional action too soon would have been too risky. It had worked against him nine years ago with Mitch, and the results had been suboptimal. As it turned out, this time his patience had paid off and Simone had started to move on her own yesterday afternoon. And of all the directions in which she could have gone, she had begun moving in the right direction. No corrections were necessary. He couldn’t help but consider it a vindication of his plans.

  As if she were flexing her muscles while she debated where to go, Simone had gotten bigger. Her eye remained tight and cohesive, but her outer wind bands stretched for nearly one hundred miles and her storm surge was already being called impressive. There had even been reports of minor wind and water damage and a few deaths on some of the small islands that lay scattered around the eastern Caribbean.

  Now that she had decided on a course—the right course—the Dominican Republic and Cuba would be spared a direct hit, but the Bahamas would likely suffer as the storm moved toward warmer continental waters. Once she was past the Bahamas, though, Carter knew he would have to take control again to make sure she remained on track. The success of that dangerous and delicate operation loomed largest in his mind, primarily because Raoul was getting sloppy.

  Casualties were an unfortunate ancillary outcome of many of their operations, but the demise of those campers in that desert canyon last week had turned out to be more than unfortunate. That event had turned out to be pivotal, followed as it was by those damned boaters who’d seen Raoul make his pass over the storm.

  If that weren’t bad enough, bloggers had started making noise about some drunken pilot in Port-au-Prince who’d been telling barroom stories about using airborne lasers to create storms. No one had seen him for forty-eight hours, though, and no one knew his name, but the timing was too coincidental to his team’s presence in the region. Raoul knew better than to leave trails that could lead back to the foundation, but if that pilot had, in fact, been a disgruntled past or present member of the crew, things could get messy. Some cheap Euro-trash whore had already tried to capitalize on the story, saying that the pilot had been American and that they’d been engaged.

  The decision to retain only one crew had been strategic, but in retrospect, Carter was debating whether it had been prudent. Fewer people who knew what was going on meant fewer potential vulnerabilities. It also meant there was no backup when things went wrong, as they had been lately. It also meant there was no alternative to Raoul, and his ability to affect the outcome of the operations. Whether the issue was flight conditions or personnel changes, Carter had never had reason to second-guess the laconic Brit. Until now.

  Carter heard the shuffle of the congregation rising to its feet for the closing hymn and followed suit. The fellowship that followed the service was always a special time for Iris, and after that, they’d go home and have a quiet afternoon. Just Iris and him.

  And Simone.

  Sunday, July 15, 3:15 P.M., Santa Rita, Yucatán
<
br />   Peninsula, Mexico

  Raoul glanced up as a shadow fell between him and the sun. He shifted the warming, dripping bottle of beer to his left hand and lifted his right to his forehead to protect against the glare. His gaze traveled up the lean, no-nonsense body of his navigator, Carrie—no last name—who stood beside him with a grim look on her face.

  “It’s about bloody time you made it to the beach. Have a beer,” he murmured, then lowered his hand and looked out at the choppy sea again.

  “It’s not a social call,” she replied, and dropped into the beach chair next to him.

  He looked at her again, from eye level this time. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I want to know what’s going on.” She held out a slim, folded news sheet and tapped her finger against a headline in the lower left corner.

  He took the paper and squinted at the dark print dancing on the page in the brilliant light.

  U.S. Flier’s Dog Tags Recovered from Belly of Shark.

  Fuck. He rested the paper on his thigh and took another pull from his beer, looking straight ahead. “Poor son of a bitch.”

  “You aren’t interested in reading the rest of the article?” she asked, her voice neutral.

  “What’s left to read about? A midnight snorkling trip gone awry? ‘Please don’t feed the wildlife’ signs ignored?” He shrugged.

  “The Americans sent a team to investigate some claims being made in Haiti that he was murdered.”

  “By a shark?” He eyed the newly empty bottle in his hand and flagged down the half-dressed boy dragging a battered cooler across the sand.

  “By an Englishman.”

  Raoul completed his transaction and waited until the boy was out of earshot and the first chilled sip had flowed down his pipes before he replied. “He was a fool and a drunk. God only knows what he got up to. He didn’t show up when we were scheduled to leave, so he got left behind. I’m not a fucking nursemaid.”