by Vicki Hinze
“We’re doing our best, sir,” ET Three said. “Conditions are slowing down the process, but we’ll find them.”
“You’d damn well better—before your next report. I want—”
“Excuse me, sir,” ET Three interrupted. “Just a second.” Gregor paused. Maybe if the morons who hadn’t been able to find their asses with both hands had found West-ford’s path, they could—
“Sir,” ET Three transmitted. “We’ve located one of the chuters.”
“And?” Gregor stilled.
“He got hung up in the trees. He’s dead, sir. Broken neck.”
“Who is he?”
“Captain Dean, sir.”
So the captain was dead. Gregor grimaced. If PUSH wiggled loose from blame, the United States could tag Dean a traitor. “Leave him hanging, and have ET report as soon as he hits the ground. In the meantime, your top priority is finding out if Liberty is dead or alive.”
Gregor removed his headset and poured himself a glass of milk. Dean being dead put a wrinkle in his plan. He had anticipated that the captain might lose his resolve, which was why he’d had the family abducted. But dead men can’t cooperate, so now Faust didn’t need Dean’s family. His widow and children were useless, and they could be a liability, depending on how much Mrs. Dean knew about her husband’s activities. Questioning thus far had proved that the woman had commendable stamina under torture, and she was totally ignorant of her husband’s activities. Gregor supposed he should have her and her children eliminated to free up Bravo Team, which was guarding her. But Lance probably had no idea she was even missing… yet.
Watching the A-267 monitor, Gregor took a long swallow of cold milk. A group of frantic engineers were discussing possible actions they could take to halt the crisis. He felt a pang of sympathy for them. They were lost souls, too analytical to accept it, and Commander Conlee resolutely refused to bring in the system designer.
Smart man, Conlee.
On the monitor to the immediate left, locals tromped through the swamp, wearing miner’s helmets with lights that cut streaks through the moonless night. A man’s scream snared the others’attention and the observers stood mesmerized, watching an alligator clamp its powerful jaws around his left leg.
The man wasn’t a Ballast member. He was American. Gregor harrumphed. Stupid bastard should have known it was feeding time. Their briefing had covered native wildlife.
These Americans were as weak-stomached as they were weak-willed. Gregor set his glass down on the desk. But David Lance wasn’t weak-willed, and a diversion that divided his focus could prove beneficial. Gregor picked up the phone and dialed the Washington Herald.
When a woman answered, he affected an American, southern drawl thick enough to cut with a knife. “Evening, ma’am. I apologize for disturbing you, but is Sam Sayelle still there? I have some urgent information for him.”
“He is in the building, sir, but he isn’t at his desk. May I take a message?”
“Naw, I don’t think Sam would appreciate hearing this in a note, but thank you kindly for the offer. If he isn’t available, I’ll just phone a friend of mine over at the Post.”
“Wait,” she said in a rush, clearly worried about sending someone with a hot tip to the Herald’s chief competitor. “Let me try to page Sam for you.”
“Why, thank you so much. That would be very kind of you, ma’am.” He smiled to himself and waited.
“Sam Sayelle. Line two. Urgent. Sam Sayelle. Line two. Urgent.”
On his way to the parking garage, Sam heard the page and nodded at Sniffer. Fresh out of college, the kid was working double time, trying to make a name for himself. He had the nose. A little seasoning and he would be a helluva reporter. The Herald’s own Jimmy Olsen; only Sniffer wasn’t stifled by ethical red tape or innocence. He didn’t have Jimmy’s innocuous appearance, either. Sniffer was built like a Mack truck: barrel-chested, well over six feet, dark coloring, and a face full of sharp angles. Not the kind of guy you want to meet in an alley late at night. “Can I use your phone, Sniffer?”
“Sure.” At the desk, he turned to face his computer screen and give Sam a little privacy.
He propped the receiver with his shoulder and punched down line two. “Sayelle.”
“Hey, buddy, I’ve got a hot one for you. You know the veep’s plane went down, right?”
Who was this? The man talked as if Sam should know him, but he didn’t. Yet he wasn’t about to ask his name and blow a hot tip to hell and back. “I’ve heard.” Who hadn’t? It had been on the wire and plastered on every news channel around the world.
“They’re saying she’s dead, but who knows? Either way, that’s not relevant.”
Sam frowned. The second most powerful person in free-world government, and this genius claims her death isn’t relevant? Sam hated the woman because she was a fraud pulling a snow job on the public, but hated or beloved, her death was noteworthy. “What is relevant?”
“It’s connected. You’ll have to put together how on your own. Ken Dean was piloting the plane. Word is, his wife and kids have disappeared. You might want to check that out.”
“Disappeared—how?”
“Check it out, Sam. You’ll be glad you did.”
Now that he had been told the tip, Sam felt free to ask. “I’m sorry. I know I should recognize your voice, but I don’t. Who is this?”
“What? You mean you don’t even know who’s talking to you?” The guy huffed, blowing static through the line. “I shoulda called my buddy at the Post.” The line went dead.
Thoughtful, Sam bit his lower lip and hung up the phone. The PUSH caller. That’s who he’d been.
Sniffer looked up at him. “You okay, Sam?”
“I’m fine.” He could ignore the tip or call Conlee, but his sixth sense warned him not to mention it until he had checked it out himself. Not if he wanted to know if there was anything to it. When Sybil Stone was involved, only an idiot would take anything at face value or for granted. “Actually, I could use a little help. You busy?”
Buried neck-deep in files, Sniffer looked Sam straight in the eye. “No, sir.”
“Find a home address on Ken and Linda Dean.” Sam dialed police headquarters and spoke to Detective Karla Costillo. “Karla, it’s me, Sam.”
“I’m still pissed off at you.”
He’d broken their last three dinner dates. “I’m sorry, and I’ll eat all the humble pie you want to shovel my way later. Right now I need help.”
Karla’s reprimanding tone disappeared. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” Sam admitted. “Anyone file a missing report on a family named Dean?”
“Hold on and I’ll check.”
“Thanks.” This situation bothered Sam. Why had PUSH called him?
Karla came back on the line. “Nothing’s been reported, Sam. If you want us to take a look, I need more info. Dean’s a common name here.”
He made the decision split second but didn’t know why. “Probably just a crank call.”
“Saturday night?” she asked, trying to set up their next dinner date.
“Eight o’clock.”
“You’d better not break this one, Sam. Remember, I’m armed.”
He smiled at her sass. He loved a little spunk and sass in a woman. “I won’t.”
Sam hung up the phone and looked at Sniffer. “Got that address?”
“Working on it.” Scrolling through the Herald’s accounts directory, Sniffer turned the subject. “I’ve picked up something interesting on Sybil Stone. You know how she used to walk to the Vietnam Wall every morning she was on the Hill?”
“Half of Washington walks by there, Sniffer. Get to the point, man.”
“Half of Washington doesn’t meet the same old man or give him white, number-ten envelopes. He wears a black rumpled coat even when it’s hot, Sam, and someone else is watching them and me.”
Sam’s stomach lurched and his curiosity slid into high gear. “Who’s the old man? And
what’s in the envelope?”
“Working on both. I’ve noticed something weird that’s made me more suspicious.”
The entire envelope-passing affair was weird and suspicious. Was she disseminating classified information? Paying a blackmailer? “How long has she been meeting this guy?”
“About four months. I didn’t give it any weight because the Secret Service had been right there with her. She’s not hiding the meets or the envelopes from them.”
“So what’s weird that’s made you more suspicious?”
Sniffer leaned closer. “When she’s not on the Hill, the old man’s a no-show, too.”
“He knows she’s going to be gone,” Sam speculated. Strange. The Secret Service would have a fit at anyone having that kind of advance notice on her activities. She was setting herself up for a terrorist attack in a big way. “Who else is watching and following you?”
“A foreign guy about thirty. He’s just started tagging us.” Sniffer dragged a blunt fingertip down the computer screen. “Kenneth and Linda Dean, 2257 Hillside Drive.”
“Let’s go.”
Sniffer grabbed his jacket. “I guess it doesn’t really matter what the veep was doing at the Wall anymore. I mean, she’s dead now, so what’s the difference? The old man and the foreigner won’t be back.”
“Is she dead?” Between the PUSH caller about the Dean family and Sybil Stone’s standing rendezvous with the old man in the rumpled coat, Sam had his doubts. The veep could be alive and well and up to her armpits in espionage or something equally sinister. She could have staged her death.
It wouldn’t surprise Sam. Add Commander Conlee’s transmissions to the equation, and she could be pulling anything.
Sam and Sniffer piled into Sniffer’s van. It still had that new-car smell. Hell, Sam had no proof what he was doing for Conlee carried the weight or knowledge of the President. Conlee could be crooked, too.
Twenty minutes later they located Hillside Drive. It was a lazy winding road lined with old oaks, manicured lawns, and stately homes on wide lots. The Dean home was a three-story gray Victorian with forest-green trim. Lights from inside shone through sheer drapes on the first and second floors. The third floor was dark.
Sniffer pulled up to the curb and parked. “Should I wait here?”
“No, go watch the back door and make sure no one comes out.”
“What if someone does?”
“Stop them from leaving.” Sam got out of the van, walked up the bricked path to the front door, and then rang the bell.
No answer. He tried again. Still no answer.
Sayelle looked around and saw no one. Bushes rustled at the corner of the house. He stepped over and saw Sniffer’s shoulder scraping against the shrubs.
“Sam, come with me to the back.”
The high-pitched strain in Sniffer’s voice had the hair on Sam’s neck standing on edge. “What’s up?”
“Something bad.” Sniffer sucked in a sharp breath. “Back door’s wide open.”
“Did you see anyone?”
Sniffer shook his head. “But I think Mrs. Dean left in a hurry”
Sam walked inside, into the kitchen, then turned on the light. “Mrs. Dean? Anyone home?” He called out, but he didn’t expect an answer. The house felt empty. A half-cooked meal stood on the stove. Pasta in a pot filled with water. Broccoli positioned on a cutting board, the knife set down beside it. A cookbook on the counter and an entire shelf packed with others under the cabinet.
“It looks like she turned the fire off on the stove and just walked out.”
Sam tested the pasta pot for heat. The noodles had already been dropped into the water, but the pot felt cold. “Appears so.” From all signs, she had left some time ago.
Sniffer checked the entry hall. “Uh-oh, really bad sign, Sam. Her purse is in here.” He ducked back into the kitchen. “You know any woman who’d leave and not take her purse?”
Sam walked in and Sniffer pointed to a black handbag on a mahogany table. “Check the garage. See if her car is here.”
He went out the back door and was back before Sam finished searching the downstairs. Nothing else seemed disturbed.
“Two cars in the garage. A Volvo and a Jeep.”
Hers and Ken’s, Sam figured. He walked through to the stairs. A boy’s white sneaker was on the third step, and black scuff marks marred the wall. Linda Dean kept a clean house; she wouldn’t tolerate scuff marks on her wall.
A bad feeling gelled in Sam’s stomach. He left the stairs and moved down the hall. A doll with a frayed yellow dress that looked as if it had been wagged around a while lay facedown on the carpet. Not purposely positioned, but dropped. In a little girl’s room—judging by the decor, maybe she was six or seven—the sickly feeling in his stomach melted and burned with dread. The bedspread was missing from her white canopy bed. In a room next door, obviously belonging to a boy a little older, Sam ran into the same thing—no bedspread.
He moved on to the master bedroom. Nothing disturbed there, but if this had been an abduction—it sure as hell felt like an abduction—and Linda Dean had been downstairs in the kitchen preparing dinner, there wouldn’t be anything disturbed in the master bedroom. Burglary clearly wasn’t the motive here. He lifted the phone. Dead. Whoever had done this had wanted the Deans, not their VCR and silver.
On a nightstand beside the bed, Sam spotted a family photo of Kenneth, Linda, and their two kids. His stomach churned. He didn’t really know the man, but he had seen him around and he had briefly talked to Linda at a Christmas party once. Looking at that photo, the Deans looked like the all-American family, but Sam had an unshakable feeling they wouldn’t be posing for any more photos.
His objectivity slipped and, distancing himself, he went back downstairs, avoiding looking at the doll and the tennis shoe.
Sniffer stood waiting near the kitchen door. “They were snatched.”
“Yeah.” The muscles in Sam’s neck coiled into knots. He rubbed at them, pulled out his cell phone, and got Karla on the line. “The call wasn’t bogus.” The PUSH claim was credible. He had to warn Conlee—after Karla claimed jurisdiction.
The shelf of cookbooks caught his eye—one brown book in particular. He pulled it out. “Journal” was written on its front. Highly unlikely anything written in a woman’s journal would give him any insight. He shoved the book back into its place on the shelf.
Sniffer looked at Sam. “This is what your hot tip was about, right?”
“Yeah.” A bad taste filled Sam’s mouth and a bad feeling came with it that Linda Dean and her kids were in serious trouble. If this was a typical abduction, there would be damage, signs of a struggle. There would be some evidence of serious resistance by Linda, and there wasn’t. So she had either known her abductors or she had been blindsided. The alarm system was armed; the red light still glowed. So why hadn’t the monitoring service called the cops? They would have… unless someone had circumvented the system.
Fear shot up his backbone. Pros staged the abduction. “Sniffer, check the box and see if the phone wires on the alarm were cut or bypassed.”
“You got it.”
Minutes later Sniffer was back at the door. “They were—hey, you okay, Sam? You look a little green around the gills.”
Stone herself could have done this. Maybe Dean knew too much. Maybe snatching his family was Sybil’s insurance. Maybe Conlee was doing her dirty work—
“Sam? What’s wrong with you, man?”
He was pissed. Disillusioned, and cynical as hell. “I’m fine.” Sam walked outside, toward the van. “You know, Sniffer, sometimes this job really sucks.”
“Sometimes every job sucks.” Sniffer stuffed his fists in his pockets, stared down the street. “Do you think somebody was bleeding the veep?”
Blackmail was a possibility. So was treason. “Maybe.” Cap Marlowe needed to know about this. The caller had said there was a connection. Maybe he could shed a little light for Sam. “What have you gotten so far on
the old man at the Wall?”
“Nothing.” Sniffer snorted his frustration. “It’s like he comes out of nowhere. I’ve tried shadowing him. Usually I’m good at it, but he’s better.”
“But you are working on it.” Sam leaned against the van’s front fender.
“Yeah. I hired a skateboarder to track him. I figured he wouldn’t notice a kid. But the veep’s gone now. When she’s gone, he never goes to the Wall.”
He was a pro. Being good kept him alive. “Find out who he is and what’s in the envelopes, and I’ll see to it Edison moves you upstairs.” Sniffer wanted that promotion in the worst way.
“You got it.” He looked so young Sam thought he could pose as the skateboarding teen. “This Dean abduction is wired into the veep, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” How, Sayelle didn’t know… yet.
A cop car drove down the street, heading toward them. “Let’s move.” Sam crawled into the van and let his mind drift. Since her divorce, Sybil Stone had appeared to be squeaky clean, but she had to be leaking critical information. When the news broke on whatever it was, Cap would feel vindicated. Lance bypassed me for a woman, and she’s a damn traitor.
That bothered Sam. He’d made no bones about not liking the veep, but he’d watched her closely for the past year. She had lied about her medical condition, but she played straight on her job. Even a fool had to admit that she loved her country. Her committing treason just didn’t fit. Her Secret Service guards knew she met the old man at the Wall; they were with her when she did it. Yet the odds of her passing inconsequential, personal correspondence were about zip. So she had either duped the Secret Service, or they were in on whatever she was doing.
If Westford were still guarding her, Sam could buy into that. He was a straight arrow, but he was also nuts about the woman. Problem was, he wasn’t guarding her anymore. Yet she could still be a traitor. It was possible. Hell, in the past five years on the Hill, Sam had seen it all. Anything was possible. But to levy charges, he needed proof.