by Vicki Hinze
“Fifty-two percent, Sam,” Marcus corrected him. “And he agreed under her threat of divorce. The blind trust was a deal-breaker.”
“Okay,” Carl said. “So she insists on this blind trust and then breaks it. She tells the public she can’t have kids, but here’s proof Austin was sterile before she married him. So she doesn’t discriminate, she lies across the board.”
“Compelling case,” Marcus said to Sam.
Excitement bubbled in Sam’s stomach. “How should I use it?”
“Don’t.” Marcus grimaced. “It’s bogus.”
“It can’t be bogus. It all fits. The kids, the stock—the woman’s being blackmailed for something, damn it, and it sure isn’t her love life.”
Marcus shoved the papers away. “Who’s blackmailing her?”
“We don’t have an ID on him yet.” Sam shifted on his seat. “But he’s been observed by our guys and the Secret Service. We think he’s a go-between for another source. Looking at this, I think that source might be Gregor Faust.”
“I imagine that’s exactly what Austin Stone wants you to think,” Carl said. “What’s this?” He held up a page with only two words written on it. “Flip Five.”
“No idea,” Sam said.
“It’s bogus, Sam.” Marcus stood up, grabbed his raincoat, and shrugged into it. “You do what you want, but you asked for my opinion. Now you’ve got it.” He lumbered over to the door. “If you do use it, you might want to ID your go-between first and find out what that ‘flip five’ means. It’s significant or it wouldn’t have been included.” He slid his gaze to Carl. “If you print anything using this as source support, you might want to check with legal first and make sure the liability premiums are paid.”
“Damn, Marcus,” Carl sputtered, clearly flustered.
Marcus ignored him, glanced back to Sam. “Did you tell Marlowe about Conlee?”
Stunned, Sam stared at him. Marcus knew about Commander Conlee. He had to have given Conlee the referral. The broadcast room downstairs, the senior staff ignoring Sam’s broadcasts—at one time, Marcus must have done broadcasts like Sam’s for Conlee… or for his predecessor. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Hell, I don’t know, Marcus. Maybe she’s not who I thought she was, and maybe everyone involved in this isn’t who or what they seem. I don’t know why not. I just couldn’t make myself do it.”
“I wouldn’t.” Marcus moved toward the door. “The real thing is easy to spot, Sam, but you’ve got to have your eyes open to see it.”
“Will someone tell me what in hell you two are talking about?” Carl cut in, clearly clueless and ticked off about it.
“You don’t want to know.” At the moment, Sam wished he didn’t know. He held up the envelope and shouted at Marcus’s retreating back. “Why do you think it’s bogus?”
“You’re the reporter,” he said without looking back. His hands stuffed in his pockets, he lifted them, and the tail of his coat fanned out. “Figure it out.”
Had Marcus been saying she was or she wasn’t the real thing? “I’d forgotten how much I hate his riddles.” Sam slumped in his chair, still holding the envelope. “I am going to use this, Carl.” And he would. If only to call down Conlee and get some straight answers.
“Your call.” Carl took off his glasses and shoved them into his shirt pocket. “I’ll back you, but know what you’re doing. Caution was never one of Marcus Gilbert’s trademarks. If he says what you’ve got is bogus, you better make damn sure it isn’t. Check it all out, verify it, then check it all again. Double source everything. Marcus got to be an icon because he’s sharp and seldom wrong. That’s worth remembering. Now who’s this Conlee he mentioned?”
Sam debated. Carl Edison was his boss, but Conlee had meant what he had said about killing Sam and anyone he told. His threat proved stronger, and Sam couldn’t shake the feeling Carl asking the question was a test he had better not fail. “Just a mutual acquaintance. No one of consequence.”
Carl’s eyes gleamed with approval. Sam had been right about the test, and he had made the right choice. If he had told Carl, the man probably would have burned up the phone lines calling Conlee to tell him.
The broadcast room had been used before. Apparently by Carl and Marcus.
“Don’t make me sorry I’m backing you, Sam,” Carl said, then left the conference room.
Sam gathered up the contents of the envelope. His phone vibrated against his hip. “Sayelle,” he answered, frustrated because he hadn’t gotten the overwhelming support he had hoped to get from either of them, and because he couldn’t yet answer all the questions pouring through his mind.
“Sam, it’s Jean. Senator Marlowe wants to see you right away. He’s at St. Elizabeth’s. Can you get over here?”
Sam scooped up the last of the papers and checked his watch. “Give me fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll tell him you’re coming.” Jean hung up.
Sam put his phone back in its case. Actually, this worked well for him. Cap Marlowe knew more about Sybil Stone than anyone else in the world, except maybe for Westford. But Westford was out of reach.
That spark of hope, dimmer than ever, demanded the truth. Was she Sam’s long-awaited patriot, or the most corrupt politician to turn traitor in the history of the nation?
First-Strike Launch 07:20:47
“Marcus Gilbert says it’s bogus.”
Propped up with fluffy pillows in his hospital bed, Cap Marlowe reviewed Sam’s evidence against Sybil Stone. For Marcus to come out of retirement long enough to look at this collection meant that he knew the truth and he was saving the Herald’s proverbial ass. If Sam knew Marcus as well as did Cap and the old-timers on the Hill, he would realize that. But of course he didn’t.
Cap shifted his gaze to Sam. “Did Marcus mention insurance premiums?”
“Yes, he did.”
That was it, then. “Don’t authorize delivery to the rest of the media.”
“I have no intention of sharing my scoop with my rivals.”
Not at all surprised, Cap resisted the urge to spit on the photo of the man tentatively identified as Gregor Faust and positively identified as a member of Ballast. He slid the contents back into the envelope and then passed it back. “Don’t you think Austin Stone knew that?”
“I’m sure he considered it.”
“You can bet your ass on it.” Cap gripped the bedrail and squeezed until his knuckles went white. “So why did he leave authorization up to you?”
“I don’t know. My disdain for Sybil Stone hasn’t exactly been a secret, and he obviously wants to smear her to kingdom come. But something doesn’t fit. There has to be more to this.”
There was more. Too much more. Cap tugged the sheet up on his chest. Austin had known Sam would bring the package to him, and it carried two messages. The same “Flip Five” note Cap had received from Faust and another one that terrified him: that Austin wasn’t in a position to fix what was broken at A-267. “Give me some time, Sam. I have a bad feeling about this. I want to check it out.”
“But we can finally nail her.” Sam lifted a hand, protesting. “How the hell can she explain her affiliation to Ballast?”
Odds were, she couldn’t. But then, neither could Cap Marlowe. “You’re forgetting this so-called evidence came from her ex-husband.” He lifted a questioning brow. “You want to put your credibility on the line for that?”
“No.” Sam’s jaw slackened, then resignation burned in his eyes. He checked his watch. “We both work on verifications until two A.M. That’s the best I can do and still make the deadline for the late edition.”
Two hours after the missile at A-267 was set to detonate. Cap felt torn. He had the opportunity to fry Sybil Stone for treason here. She would cease to be an obstacle the moment this hit the airwaves. Guilty or innocent, her career would be over. But President Lance had his hands full, trying to stop the missile launch. Now wasn’t the best time to divide his focus. More worrisome was a deep s
ense of knowing that settled like stones in Cap’s stomach. If the launch was successfully aborted, it would be as a direct result of Sybil Stone playing a critical role in aborting it—a role that, he hoped, would allow him to avoid disclosing the location of the key and admitting that he had received the DNA report and soiled Band-Aid. “That sounds reasonable.”
“Keep me posted.” Sam set his foam cup on Cap’s tray, then left the hospital room.
Cap lifted the phone receiver and dialed a direct line to the White House, wishing he were at the office rather than at St. Es. But the hospital stay was essential.
She could have let you die. If she had waited for that bomb gear, you would have died. If she hadn’t ordered them to take you to St. E’s, and they’d followed A-267 protocol and taken you to Bethesda, you would have died. You’re going to repay that by leveling charges of treason against her? If she were guilty why not let you die? You’re a thorn in her side, a wound that constantly seeps and never heals. Why do everything she can, including endangering her own life, to help you live?
Why, why, why? Cap didn’t have a clue.
“Yes?” Winston answered the phone.
“Is the issue resolved?” Winston would know Cap meant the missile crisis.
“Not yet, Senator. We’re still cross-checking staff for matches, and so far a new instrument hasn’t surfaced.”
Cap felt the blood drain from his face. He had both: the bloody Band-Aid and the key.
She could have let you die. She risked her life for you.
He shunned his nagging conscience and looked at the clock. Seven hours and twenty minutes until the launch. Sweat beaded on his forehead, on his upper lip. Disclosure would kill his chances for being nominated much less elected, if they weren’t dead already, but he couldn’t keep silent and silence the world. His mouth went dust dry. “You might want to cross-check me, too.”
“You?” Winston failed to hide his surprise. “Why?”
Staring down at the DNA report Faust had sent him, Cap tried and failed to admit the truth. “Call it a prudent measure.”
“I’ll pass the word along. I suppose it’s not outside the realm of possibility, considering your position on the Armed Services Committee.”
Cap hung up, suddenly clammy and sick to his stomach. He hauled himself out of bed and dragged his IV pole to the bathroom. At the sink, he splashed his face with cold water. Faust could have used Cap’s DNA. With his Ground Serve deliveries, he was systematically building a case against Cap as a co-conspirator.
Snagging a towel from the rack, he dabbed at his face and met his eyes in the mirror.
Damn it, Cap, first you underestimate Austin Stone, the son of a bitch, and now you’re hearing but you’re not listening to me. She could have let you die.
Guilt flooded through him. He should have played this straight from the start. He should have… but he hadn’t. He studied his face, the line of his jaw, the weariness in his eyes, and a sadness that yawned soul-deep smothered him. Thirty years of service, layers and layers of bureaucratic red tape and bullshit, and he’d survived it, flourished in it, only to come to this. This time he hadn’t tiptoed over the line; he’d obliterated it.
His enemy had saved his life, and he was going to return her kindness by destroying what was left of her life. She didn’t need the DNA to stop the launch; Conlee would find it in the cross-check. But she did need the key Cap had put in the inner hub’s mail chute. Yet to give it to her, Cap had to expose himself. At this point, Intel’s antennas were on full alert. No anonymous caller could phone and remain undetected. Cap would be exposed. The vultures on the Hill would peck his bones clean. His life would have been lived for nothing. For… nothing.
She could have let you die.
His conscience pulled hard. He stiffened against it, leaned against the sink for support, and closed his eyes, ashamed that even now, with so many lives at stake, he was still looking for a way to hide.
For the first time in his life, Cap Marlowe looked at himself in the mirror and hated what he saw.
What if you’re wrong about her? What if Faust set her up just as he did you? What if Marcus Gilbert is right and the evidence is bogus? Have you ever known him to be wrong?
Cap wanted to run from these questions and couldn’t. But it was yet another question that worried him most.
What if everything Austin Stone and Barber and Winston had ever told him about Sybil Stone had been fabricated or distorted?
He stared himself in the eyes. If that proved true, then even the grace of God and His most infinite mercy wouldn’t be merciful enough to help him.
Chapter Twenty-one
Saturday, August 10 First-Strike Launch: 07:20:47
As with some other U.S. intelligence-gathering agencies, only a handful of high-ranking officials could pinpoint Home Base physically, and it didn’t exist at all on paper.
The intricate covert system worked only because the “Special Projects” handled by its staff didn’t formally exist. Nor, for that matter, did its staff. On paper, all were assigned to other, overt positions. Military members were officially buried in Personnel and civilians in various human resource agencies. The reasoning for isolation was similar to that of other agencies, including Area 51: sensitive, potentially explosive political consequences at home and/or abroad.
Where the agencies differed was in the one area of ultimate importance, diplomatically and domestically. Area 51 had received media attention. People could drive near but not enter it, and they knew it existed. Home Base existed within A-267 without public knowledge, access was extremely restricted, few people had seen it, and no one ever had spoken of it in any public forum. Its nonexistent status provided those in the need-to-know loop with the two things they most wanted: a lack of vulnerability and deniability
Leaders hated being asked questions they didn’t want to answer. Secrecy and deniability protected them from both.
At least Home Base hadn’t been exposed or become public knowledge yet. That was vitally important, since Home Base operatives also handled special projects where they acted as a check-and-balance system on other operatives. On occasion, it was essential to have Home Base operatives spy on spies. Sybil couldn’t help but hope that none of the Home Base program would be exposed.
Inside the Home Base facility, Sybil sat in a soundproof booth in the back of a viewing room at a long, carved desk that faced the wall of screens. A technician sat out front, handled the films, and communicated with the booth via intercom. The vice president lifted a forkful of sesame chicken from a carton and took a bite, keeping her gaze fixed on the largest screen, centered on the wall. For the last hour, she and Jonathan Westford had been seated in the darkened booth, reviewing footage collected by covert operatives worldwide that could help them identify Gregor Faust. “We have a little over seven hours left, Jonathan.”
“I know.” He bit down on an egg roll, chewed, then swallowed. “We’ve checked out everything accumulated in the last month, and we’re still coming up dry” He depressed a button to give the film technician instructions. “Go back to March, Max, and run the time line back from there.”
Sybil bit down on a crab rangoon—cream cheese and crab stuffed in a wonton and fried crisp. Her arteries would hate her, but the things tasted wonderful. Since returning from the swamp, she couldn’t seem to get enough to eat. A sobering thought crossed her mind. Here she sat worrying about her arteries, and this could be her last meal.
Sprawled back with his feet propped on the corner of a desk, Jonathan suddenly sprang forward and slammed a palm down on the intercom button. “Stop, Max. Back it up a few frames. There. Bring that up on the big screen.”
Sybil set down her carton. The familiar face of her relief co-pilot appeared. “My God, that’s Mark,” she said. And he was standing next to a known member of Ballast.
“There’s one of our chuters.” Jonathan again pressed the button. “Print that and pinpoint the location.”
A minute
passed, then Max answered. “It’s in North Africa, sir. But nothing of significance noted in the immediate vicinity. Just a grass airstrip and half a dozen bungalows. Really isolated terrain. Nearest town is thirty miles away.”
“Perfect for clandestine meetings,” Sybil said. “Do we have an ID on the second man?”
“It’s possible he’s Gregor Faust,” Max said. “But that’s not verified, and we’re currently sitting on seventeen additional Faust reports—all on different men. None carries conclusive proof of his identity”
“Press on, Max,” Sybil said. They kept scanning, searching for a connection to Austin Stone or an identity on the second chuter. One month, then two. Before Con-lee had brought Austin Stone in under the guise of assisting, he had last accessed A-267 six months ago. He had to have struck a deal with Faust before then and avoided recent access to divert blame.
“Sybil?” Jonathan sounded troubled. “You know we might not unravel this in time.”
“I know.” She hated it, wanted to deny it, but facts were facts, and they had to face them.
“Something’s sitting heavy on my shoulders.” He dabbed at his mouth with a paper napkin. “If I die tonight, I want to do it knowing the truth.”
“What truth?” Where was he going with this?
“It’s none of my business, but I need to ask you something. Is that okay?”
She didn’t feel comfortable agreeing, but she felt even more uncomfortable disagreeing, considering their circumstances. Whatever this was, it weighed on Jonathan. “Okay”
“Did I cause your divorce?”
“What?” That she hadn’t expected. How could she expect it? It was absurd.
“Did I cause your divorce?” he repeated.
The question didn’t sound a bit more logical than the first time she’d heard it. “Jonathan, what in the world would make you think that?”