by Andrea Kane
“A great deal. We just came from his house.”
By now, Mercer was clearly on guard. “And?”
“And it wasn’t pleasant. Nor did we get very far. All we found out is that Paul Everett was aboard Fenton’s private yacht a short time before he disappeared.”
Mercer’s eyes widened. “You suspect Lyle of having something to do with Everett’s disappearance?”
“Do you?”
“No, of course not. Lyle Fenton is a friend of mine.”
“Yes, we know.” Marc just pushed right on. “He subsidized your campaign. And now he counts on you to help him out.”
This time, Mercer’s eyes narrowed. “What are you implying?”
“Nothing that isn’t true. You’re in Fenton’s pocket. We know it. And frankly, we really don’t care. But you do.” Marc waved away Mercer’s oncoming protest. “Don’t bother denying it. We don’t want your head. We want leverage. We intend to use it to save a child.”
“What kind of leverage?” Mercer was starting to get angry.
“Anything you know about Fenton that might help us find Paul Everett. As I said, we don’t give a damn about nailing anyone to the wall. All we want is information.”
“So you’re blackmailing me.” Mercer stared from one of them to the other. “With what? The fact that I share the same goals for my district as Lyle Fenton, and that I use my influence in Congress to promote those goals? I think I just described every politician I know.”
“Except for the fact that, in your case, the reason you promote Fenton’s goals is because he’s your father.”
Mercer started as if he’d been struck, all the color draining from his face. He said absolutely nothing.
“We’re talking about a whole different level of scandal,” Marc continued. “So, before you answer, decide what’s most important to you.”
“Who else knows?” Mercer asked bluntly.
“We haven’t gone public. We don’t intend to—not unless you force our hand. Just tell us everything you can about Fenton, the people he associates with, any illegal activities he’s involved in—anything that might lead us to Paul Everett.”
Mercer blew out a weary breath. “I purposely separate myself from Lyle’s outside life. Frankly, I don’t want to know the answers you’re looking for, so I’m careful not to ask questions. Which means I have nothing to tell you. Does that mean you’re going to announce my paternity to the world?”
“No.” It was Claire who spoke up. “You don’t deserve that.”
Both Marc and Ryan turned to look at her.
“He’s telling the truth,” she said simply. “He’s weak and Fenton uses that to his advantage. He has a good idea what his biological father is capable of, but he divorces himself from it. So, as I said, he’s a weak man, but he’s not a bad man. Most important, he’s completely in the dark about what happened to Paul Everett or where he might be. We’d have nothing to gain by ruining his career. He can’t help us.” She rose. “Let’s go.”
Marc hesitated, then gave a tight nod. “You’re very lucky I have so much faith in my colleague, Congressman,” he said. “I wouldn’t be walking away so readily if she weren’t as certain as she is.”
“She’s right.” Mercer was visibly grateful and relieved. “I’ll turn a blind eye to a lot of things, but not to violence or murder. Plus, I’m a parent myself. I love my children. I’d never stand in the way of Amanda Gleason’s search for her baby’s father. Especially not under these circumstances.” He paused. “Do you really believe Lyle had something to do with Everett’s disappearance?”
“More and more, it’s looking that way, yes,” Marc replied.
“Then I’ll keep my ears open. If Lyle says or does anything that I think you should know, I’ll call you.”
Again, Marc glanced at Claire, and again, Claire nodded.
“Then we won’t keep you any longer,” Marc said, coming to his feet. “Thank you for seeing us, Congressman. Good night.”
* * *
Casey sat up in bed to take Marc’s call.
She listened carefully to everything he had to say. “So let’s cross Mercer off our suspect list. Back to Fenton. You think that Paul figured out he was involved?” she asked cryptically, and quietly, so as not to awaken—and alert—Hutch. “And that, as a result, he had to be disposed of?”
“Or he disposed of himself,” Marc replied. “It’s possible that Everett disappeared off the grid out of fear for his own life.”
“So thoroughly that even the FBI can’t find him?”
“It’s happened in the past. You know that. Even fugitives on the FBI’s Most Wanted list have gotten away and vanished for years. Everett could be anywhere, in hiding with anyone. Remember, Amanda only knew him for five months. He could have old friends, distant family members, even a wife that she doesn’t even know exists.”
“And the FBI is searching for him in order to get a solid case against Fenton.”
“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”
“Actually, yes, it does.” A pause as she glanced over at Hutch, whose slow, even breathing told her he was still in deep slumber. But she wasn’t taking any chances. “Uh…I think we should continue this discussion in person.”
“Hutch is with you,” Marc deduced. “How much did he overhear?”
“Nothing. He’s asleep. But I don’t want to press my luck. Are you headed home now?”
“We weren’t planning on it. We were planning on staying out here till morning.” Marc went on to explain Ryan’s findings about Everett and Morano’s mutual real-estate attorney.
“Ryan should pay him a visit,” Casey agreed. “Plus you’ll want to follow up on Fenton. See if putting the fear of God in him had any results. If nothing else, you showing up on his doorstep again will probably make him wet his pants.” Casey couldn’t help but smile. “It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve gotten that response from a suspect.”
“True.” Marc sounded more matter-of-fact than amused. “So what’s on tap for you?”
“Hutch is leaving in the morning.” Casey stated it as a fact. She knew that Marc wouldn’t ask for, nor require, any further explanation. “As soon as he takes off, I’m heading over to the hospital to check on Amanda. She didn’t take Patrick’s news too well. And, after what you just told me, it’s even more important that she not confront her uncle. She could screw up everything.”
“She can’t,” Marc agreed. “We’re right on the brink.”
Fallujah, Iraq
It was pouring—a bone-chilling, miserable day.
Rain was a common occurrence in this portion of Iraq in December. As a rule, if you got off lucky, the precipitation was light and spotty. Not so today. It was coming down in sheets, the heavy winds blowing the palm trees around. Unlike back home, the ground here didn’t absorb the water, so it turned the sand into deep, thick mud, making the ground you walked on feel like a vat of peanut butter. In an attempt to deal with the water, the military spread stones over acres of land. It did a decent job, but, between the stones and the mud, walking became next to impossible. And he could forget about his daily five-mile run. That sure as hell wasn’t happening.
He was trudging toward his barracks, drenched and ankle-deep in muck, when the military transport drove by. It stopped, deposited its sole passenger and his bag, and then continued on its way.
The two men saw and recognized each other right away. They’d both served in the same U.S. Army infantry squad fifteen years ago.
“Hey, Paul.” Gus Ludlock yelled out and waved his arm.
Paul stopped, dragging the hood of his rain slicker higher on his head to block out the rain. “Gus, hey,” he called back. “I didn’t know you were out here.”
“Me, either.” His Army Reserves friend grinned. “Do we ever?” He shielded his face against the elements. “We’ll talk later. Oh, apparently, you’re famous.”
“What?” Paul gave a puzzled shrug.
“Famous,” Gus repeated.
“I saw you on a YouTube video at the NEC. Couldn’t catch the audio because I was headed out. But some hot brunette was holding up your picture. You must’ve done something heroic you don’t know about—the video has over a million hits.”
The wind chose that moment to pick up, nearly blowing down both men.
“Let me check in,” Gus shouted. “We’ll catch up later.”
Paul stood there for a long moment after his friend had headed off. Oblivious to the pelting rain and the sludge that was oozing up his legs like quicksand, he stared off into space, plagued by a growing sense of unease. This whole trip had felt wrong from the start. Now it was beginning to feel like one ugly, well-planned manipulation. Being sent out to this godforsaken place with a line of bullshit justifying the training he was instructed to provide. Being at a Forward Operating Base in a high-threat situation. Being allowed no internet access, given the three soldiers who’d recently been killed nearby, and whose families had to be notified. Being in an area that just happened to have little to no cell phone reception—effectively cutting off all communication with the outside world.
There were way too many coincidences.
And now this odd piece of news.
Whatever charade he was being forced to live was over.
* * *
As a military veteran who knew how the system worked, Paul had no trouble calling in a few favors. When the bad weather temporarily subsided, a military buddy of his picked him and his bags up in a crummy Humvee and drove him to the helipad located on the FOB. The sergeant responsible for the flights was stationed in a tent right on-site. He was expecting Paul and arranged to put him on the first flight out. Someone would be pissed off at being bumped.
Paul didn’t give a damn.
It was a fifty-mile trip. A little over an hour later, Paul was back in Baghdad.
He waited awhile, the sergeant having made arrangements for a trusted buddy stationed at the New Embassy Compound to pick him up. A beat-up SUV eventually arrived, driven by Private Kenny Robinson. Fifteen minutes after that, Paul was back at the Embassy.
He didn’t waste time. He went into Kenny’s office cubicle and used his computer to log on to YouTube. He searched for the name Paul Everett, and the video popped up.
He watched it three times before the impact of what he was viewing fully sank in. He went from shocked to numb to livid in rapid succession.
Culminating in an urgency he’d never before possessed.
Everything that happened next was a frenzied blur.
He grabbed his BlackBerry and tried to call out. The storms in the area refused to make that possible. Well, they weren’t going to stop him from getting home.
He used Private Robinson’s computer one more time—to send an internal email. He knew that the message would furiously keep trying to leave the local email server, waiting until the storms let up. But eventually it would find its mark.
His boss would cringe. Not at his profanity. Nor at his threats. But rather at the thought of who had been CC’d: the head of the Review Committee.
The email was clear and straight to the point:
I’m done being jerked around. I now know everything. I’ve seen the video and I’m flying back to the U.S. When I land, I’m going straight to Sloane Kettering to see Amanda and try to save my son. If anything happens to him, I hold you and every other fucking bureaucrat responsible. STAY OUT OF MY WAY!
Paul knew he was racing the clock, not only to get to his son, but to thwart any efforts to prevent him from getting home. He turned to Kenny, asked for his help in getting to Baghdad International Airport. From there, he’d talk himself onto the next military flight to Kuwait. He’d get from the airbase to the airport. There’d be waiting time—a lot of it. But he’d wait for days if he had to. He was heading home.
To Justin.
The emergency meeting took place in a small, nondescript conference room.
The group—and the subject matter—were classified: the head of the entire office, the team leader and the Assistant U.S. Attorney were all there.
“He left the Forward Operating Base,” the team leader reported. “No one at the New Embassy Compound has seen him.”
The Assistant U.S. Attorney scowled. “Which means you have no idea where he is.”
“We’ve got key personnel searching the whole embassy. We’ll find him.”
As they spoke, the phone in the conference room rang. The team leader picked it up. “Yes?”
A long moment of silence, and then the team leader hung up.
“He left the embassy. He’s already on a flight to Kuwait.”
“Shit.” The AUSA slammed his fist on the table. “We can’t let this happen. We’ve got to stop him.”
The phone rang again.
“Yes?” was the impatient response. Then a pause. “Thank you.” A few quick clicks on the team leader’s laptop. “He emailed us.”
Everyone listened as the email was read aloud.
“He’s not coming to D.C.,” the AUSA realized aloud. “He’s going straight to JFK.”
“Then we’ll have him detained there.” The office head paused. “In the meantime, we’ve got to wrap up this investigation. One day. That’s all we’ve got.”
“If we have that,” the AUSA replied. “What happens when he tries to contact Amanda Gleason by phone? You know he will. And there’ll be no weather to screw up his cell service.”
“We’ll take care of that.”
At that heightened moment, the office head’s BlackBerry rang. He glanced at the caller ID and blanched. “It’s her.” He gestured urgently toward the door, ordering everyone to leave.
* * *
Minutes later, urgent instructions arrived at the desk of the head network security analyst on duty. He thrust aside his current assignment and turned quickly to the task at hand. With a few mouse clicks, he disabled the targeted cell phone, transforming it into nothing more than an expensive paperweight.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Patricia Carey couldn’t shut an eye all night long.
She was in her office, pacing restlessly about at 5:00 a.m. The current situation forced a flood of raw emotion to surface. How darkly ironic life was. As the Executive Assistant Director, she was the highest-ranking woman in the entire agency. All her life, she’d exceeded everyone’s expectations. In school. In training. In her rapid rise to a position of power. At forty-six years old, she was still successful at everything she did.
Except for the one thing that would truly have been her legacy.
Despite consultations with the most noted experts in the world, and the hundreds of thousands of dollars she’d paid them, she’d failed.
She blamed herself entirely. She’d waited too long. The rise of her career had pushed this onto the back burner. She’d climbed the proverbial ladder, all the while thinking that later would be fine. But when later came, Mother Nature had other plans. And her body refused to cooperate.
Tears. Trials. Injections. In vitro. Nothing had worked.
By the time she’d accepted the inevitable, even adoption was not in the cards. Her age, her now-greater set of professional responsibilities, and, most of all, her depleted emotional reserves—all those factors combined to rule out the prospect of adoption.
A baby was precious. But, for her, it was never to be.
So, yes, her circumstances had colored her thinking. But still she’d debated the current dilemma long and hard, forcing herself to be objective, to view things from all angles. She had the final say. And her primary responsibility was to the agency.
But at what cost?
The hours ticked by, slowly and painfully. Patricia drank her coffee and searched her soul. The decision would be hers. So would the ramifications.
Patricia’s bleary-eyed assistant, Sharon, knocked and then poked her head into the office. “It’s eight o’clock, ma’am. The contingent from New York has arrived. They’ve been driving all night to make this meeting. Everyone is a
ssembled in the conference room as you ordered. Will there be anything else?”
“Yes,” Patricia replied. “I need to see Richard before I go to this meeting. Have him come to my office now.”
“Of course.”
A few minutes later, Richard Fieldstone, the Deputy Assistant Director of the Criminal Investigative Unit, and the Chairman of CUORC—the Criminal Undercover Operation Review Committee—stepped into his boss’s office. “You wanted to see me, Pat?”
“Yes.” She waved him in. “Close the door behind you and have a seat.”
Once he’d complied, she folded her hands in front of her on the desk. “I’m about to attend a very important meeting, one whose outcome will ultimately end up in CUORC’s lap. Let me bring you up to speed on the difficult situation we’re facing. Then I’m going to lay out the way I want this handled and the outcome I want you and CUORC to achieve.”
Richard’s brows rose. CUORC was a joint entity that consisted of their own representatives and representatives from the Department of Justice. The Committee met bimonthly at headquarters, and made its own independent recommendations. It was unprecedented—although well within Patricia’s power to do so—for her to insert herself in the decision-making process.
“Go on,” he said.
Patricia told him the entire story, omitting no details. She didn’t want him to be blindsided by a single thing that might and would be said when CUORC held its emergency meeting.
Richard listened without saying a word. When she was finished, he asked, “I just want to be clear about this—are you saying that if CUORC votes in favor of the Bureau and against the individual, you’ll override our decision?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” Patricia spoke calmly and with authoritative finality. “I’m instructing you to hold the emergency meeting today, and I’m giving you the responsibility of shaping the outcome so as to avoid any confrontation. This way, the decision will be CUORC’s and no one will be the wiser. That said, if you come to me with any other recommendation, rest assured, I will overrule it. I’d prefer it not come to that, which is why I’m giving you a heads-up.”