by Jillian Dodd
“Or you’re being physically abused,” she interrupts. “Did Lorenzo do this to you?”
Telling her I have been abused would be an easy way to get her to stop questioning me. At least about the accident.
When I don’t reply right away, she continues, “I know you’re new to this world of power and money, Huntley, but you can’t allow yourself to be treated this way. The bruise on your cheek is more consistent with a backhand than a car accident.” She pats my arm. “Look, right now, I’m not Daniel’s mother. I’m a doctor. Whatever you tell me is completely confidential.”
My eyes widen. “Whatever I tell you?” I need some truth in my life, not the huge web of deceit that is Black X, The Society, and all that is Montrovia.
“Yes. The physician’s code of ethics dates back to the mid-1800s. The Hippocratic oath all the way back to 460 BC.”
“I thought it could be broken in certain cases, such as if I were threatening to harm others or had a communicable disease.”
“Well, that is true. Safety for the masses is taken into consideration.”
“From what I understand, a doctor is required to report injuries from criminal behavior.”
“Like physical abuse,” she says, nodding in understanding.
But, really, she has no clue, so I push a little further.
“Or say, gunshot or knife wounds, which have to be reported to the police.”
I know all this because it was something we were taught at Blackwood Academy. If you ever get shot or stabbed while on a mission, avoid hospitals at all costs. Call your emergency number to get help from a trusted source. In other words, the kind of doctor who is paid to keep his mouth shut.
“Do you have any of those?” the First Lady asks seriously.
I look into her eyes, wondering if I should trust her. “I don’t want to lie to you, nor do I want to make you do something unethical.”
“Doctors sometimes choose to keep things from the authorities when it is in their patient’s best interests, Huntley, and regardless of my oath as a doctor, I pride myself on being a good friend. And a good friend keeps secrets. If you want to tell me the truth, I will keep your confidence.”
But then I think of something. “The, um, incident did take place in London, so—”
“That makes it even easier.”
I swallow deeply and pull off the shirt.
Her brow furrows as she gently moves her fingertips across my skin, examining my injuries. “If I had to guess, you were pushed or fell down a flight of stairs. You also have cuts and contusions, which are consistent with a car accident. You have bruising around your bicep from someone holding you tightly”—she lifts up my hair, studying my neck—“as well as the back of your neck. There is a bruise on your temple that is perfectly shaped. If I had to guess, someone held a gun to your head. Your wrists have been recently bound, and the wound you are bleeding from has burn marks around its edges that are consistent with being grazed by a bullet.”
I take a deep breath. “Dr. Spear—”
“Please, call me Amanda.”
“Fine. Amanda, you know Daniel is my friend. We’ve been close, intimate even, but he knows nothing about this side of my life. And I don’t want him to know. I’m a mess. My mother is dead. And I have absolutely no one in my life who I completely trust right now.” Tears fill my eyes.
When she pulls me into a hug that feels motherly and wonderful, I lose my edge. I’ve been trained to be detached since my mother died, and I realize how desperately I have missed moments like these.
I can’t control my emotions anymore, completely breaking down and allowing the anguish, fear, and pain I’ve felt to bubble to the surface, causing my body to shake as I sob uncontrollably.
“What did you hear about the nuclear backpack bombs,” I sputter between breaths, “that were recovered in London?”
“Well, the news reported it was the brilliant work of the British authorities—a joint effort between police and intelligence,” she says while smoothing my hair. “But I was with my husband when he got word from the British Prime Minister. He was told it was a raid by British intelligence.”
“The truth is,” I blurt out, “it was me. I was working with a British intelligence agent, William Gallagher, on a different mission. One involving Marquis Dupree and his possible connection to an assassin known as The Priest.”
“The Priest is who they say killed Jack and caused my husband to become president.”
“That’s right. The older bruises are from being pushed down a set of stairs when I allowed myself to be sold to a man who facilitated the assassination deal. I was kept in a basement cage along with other slaves until it was my turn. I used a steak knife to torture that man into giving up Dupree’s name.
“British intelligence was on full alert with the backpack bombs in their country. When a man associated with Dupree came up as a possible suspect, we chose to go after him. I met him at what I thought was a party but was really the exchange point for the bombs. Dupree’s mercenaries double-crossed the man at the party, who managed to escape. Dupree’s men took the backpacks and me as leverage because they mistook me for his girlfriend. In their getaway car, we were chased, involved in a gunfight, and a car accident. I was grazed by a couple of bullets.
“When I got to Dupree’s home, he shot most of his men for being idiots, learned that I was Huntley Von Allister, and told me my father had planned to create the perfect world. I think he wanted the bombs to use as persuasion against countries who might resist whatever is planned, whatever starts in Montrovia.”
“I’ve heard my husband use those same words—starts in Montrovia. We are very worried about Daniel attending the Olympics there.”
What she says doesn’t stop my story. It’s all coming out now.
“He held a gun to my head, told me it was too bad I had to die—that I should have been the Queen of Arcadia—and pulled the trigger.”
Dr. Spear gasps audibly.
“Only, at the last minute, he must have moved the gun because he killed himself instead of me. I took out the two remaining mercenaries and then escaped.”
“How did you get involved in all this?” she asks, gently pushing back my hair. “You are so young.”
“Well …” I say.
Then, I tell her everything else, truth flowing out of the spigot of emotion I can’t stop, starting with my mother’s assassination to saving the prince and nearly everything in between.
MISSION:DAY THREE
“Time for a new world order,” is what I hear when I answer my phone. It takes me a minute to wake up enough to recognize the caller’s voice as conspiracy theories rush through my brain.
“What are you talking about, Viktor?”
“Peter and I go to Ibiza for some hedonistic pleasures, are off social media for just under seventy-two hours, come back and discover Lorenzo is engaged to Lizzie, not you, and Allie is marrying your brother and done with Peter. We need to team up.”
“Um, okay, but Peter didn’t want Allie. Was Ibiza fun?”
“Clarice is still dead,” he mutters, “but I’m trying.”
I hear Peter in the background, sounding like he might be drunk. “Exactly why I brought him here. He needs to get her out of his system!”
“I’m sorry you’re still hurting,” I tell Viktor.
“And I’m sorry about Lorenzo. How are you? And, more importantly, where are you?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“It’s four in the morning here. I’m half-asleep.”
“Who are you talking to?” Daniel grumbles, rolling over toward my bed.
Viktor lets out a little snicker. “And who is that?”
“It’s Daniel. I’m in Omaha, watching him compete in the Olympic Trials.”
“Well, no wonder she isn’t upset about Lorenzo.” Peter laughs in the background.
“It’s not like that. We’re just friends. I’m actually quite upset
over Lorenzo’s engagement, but there’s not much I can do about it now.”
“We’re coming to Omaha!” Peter yells out.
“Is he serious?” I ask Viktor.
“That depends on if you want to go visit the TerraSphere in Iraq with us.”
“I most definitely do. When are you planning to go?”
“When are the trials over?”
“Saturday,” I say.
“Where are you going after that?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe DC.”
“Hang on. Let me look at a calendar.” He sets his phone on speaker. “Oh! Why don’t we meet you in Washington? We’ll celebrate the Fourth of July at the White House—tell Daniel to make that happen—leave just after midnight on the fifth, and be back in London in time for the British Grand Prix.”
And the Von Allister Industries board meeting, I think.
“I can’t wait! I’m going back to sleep now,” I say and end the call.
“Who was that?”
“Viktor. Peter is trying to help him party away his grief in Ibiza.”
“If it’s working, I might have to join them,” he says seriously.
“Have you spoken to her?”
“No. I told her, if she chose him, we were through. Obviously. She made her decision. Have you talked to Lorenzo?”
I shake my head. “Peter and Viktor want to celebrate the Fourth at the White House with us. I wasn’t sure of your plans.”
“Fourth at the White House is the best. Sounds fun.” He jumps onto my bed and pulls me into a snuggly hug. “I’m tired.”
“Go back to sleep,” I suggest.
“I’m not sure I can. I’m awake now and starving. Let’s order food, eat it in bed, and watch a movie.”
“As long as by watch a movie, you mean you will watch a movie while I sleep.”
He kisses my cheek and then reaches over me and grabs the phone to place his order.
I never do get to nap. By the time he’s eaten, he’s ready to get over to the pool to practice.
“Did I tell you I managed to buy your seat for the rest of the week?”
“You didn’t. When did you do that?”
“Well, I didn’t. The Secret Service handled it. You can hang in the suite in between, but I’d love it if you were there for each race.”
“What are you running today?”
“The two-hundred butterfly, hopefully will make the semifinal, and the two-hundred-freestyle final.”
“And you have to win the final to go to the Olympics?”
“No, the top two from each individual event make the team if they are fast enough to qualify at Olympic standards.”
“I guess you weren’t lying when you said you can’t slack through this.”
He gives me a kiss on the cheek and a smirk. “Told ya so.”
I smack his butt and wish him luck.
I make my way to the box where I read the printed schedule for today, set my alarm for an hour before the race, put my head down on the counter, and take a nap.
I’m awoken a very short time later by Mike Burnes, director of the CIA.
“You’re back, huh?”
“I never left. Just had an international crisis I had to deal with. About our previous talk. Here’s the deal. Your father was a brilliant inventor, and the government helped fund much of his research. The usual deal is that we help fund the research and get exclusive use of the inventions for a contracted period of time.”
“And what happens when the time is up?”
“Von Allister Industries can release that technology in their products and sell them on the open market. Usually, by the time the contract is up, we consider the technology to be old and are already working on the next upgrade, so we don’t care if the other side has it. The board of directors of Von Allister Industries votes on which contracts get renewed and which don’t.
“There is one specific contract we need to have renewed. It’s a matter of national security, but the chairman of the board is being unreasonable. The government has threatened to pull other contracts, yet he seems resolute.”
“Well, as a stockholder, I can see why. To be the first to sell whatever this technology is, I assume, would mean a windfall of revenue for the company.”
Burnes slightly cocks his head. “Have you been talking to McClellan?”
Bells go off in my head as I remember the name from my mother’s list. “As in Harrison McClellan, the billionaire owner of the world’s largest biotech firm who started the conspiracy-theory-ridden World Seed Vault?”
“Yes,” he replies. “Your father turned the board over to him when he became a recluse.”
“I didn’t know that.”
This gets a laugh from Burnes. “You don’t even know who runs the company?”
“Ari and I were possibly given incorrect information about our father’s company when he died.”
“In what way?”
“We were led to believe that, before he had passed, Ares had liquidated most of his assets. We assumed that included his company.”
“He did sell a large chunk of stock, but he still retained majority ownership. That means, you and your brother control the voting for those shares.”
“Yes, so what is it you want us to vote on specifically?”
“A top-secret project called the TerraSphere.”
“I’ve heard of that. Saw blueprints for the project in Ares’s office. In fact, Peter Prescott, Viktor Nikolaevich, and I are going to visit the project next week before the board meeting. I’ll be able to see it firsthand.”
“You’re going to Iraq? You do know the State Department warns against that.”
I don’t tell him I’ve been before. “I know, but Peter’s dad wants him to see the project, and I’m assuming they will have some kind of security in place. I’m curious though. How can Von Allister Industries be the one to vote on it? My understanding was that the project was a joint venture with a few different companies.”
“They invested in it, but the contract is solely with VA. In other words, you.”
“And why don’t you want the TerraSphere project allowed to be shared? It’s supposed to be great for the environment. The government doesn’t want us to, isn’t a good enough answer. If it’s good for the people—which, in this case, it would be—it should be done. We’re becoming one world. Projects like this could bring us closer.”
Burnes lets out a frustrated breath. “You sound like your father. He was difficult to deal with, too.”
“I’m told he was brilliant, so thank you.”
“He was a pacifist. Actually believed we could become one perfect country. One new world.”
“Like Arcadia,” I say dreamily but purposefully, waiting to see if the word gets a reaction.
“Yes,” he says, not giving me even a tic. He obviously doesn’t know about the currency, which is a really good thing. It means there are some people I can actually trust. “Renaissance drivel by philosophers who had the time to ponder such arcane ideas and weren’t in touch with the real world.”
“Hmm. Or is it because people living in harmony means there would be no need for politicians, the CIA, or the war machine?”
“You don’t want to cross the CIA,” he says ominously.
I give him a tight-lipped smile. “Did you threaten my father, too? Is that why he’s dead?”
“What?” he says, his eyes going wide.
He’s either a really good actor or truly surprised I would suggest such a thing. In theory, if he had been faking his reaction, there would have been a twitch, a tic, a barely perceptible squint of the eye. But he’s the director of the CIA for a reason.
“No. Of course not.”
“Look, I don’t care who you are. If you want to convince me to vote against the board, you’re going to have to present me with facts because threatening me isn’t going to make me vote the way you want. In fact, all it does is piss me off and make me want to vote against you.”
&nbs
p; “What do you know about quantum computing?”
Merde. Something else they made me study at Blackwood.
“I know that it’s being developed. That it uses a different approach to processing information based on quantum mechanics in nature. That they believe, by following this natural behavior, that computers will be able to process more holistically. When it happens, it’s supposed to be like when it used to take whole warehouses to run a computer that is now about equal to our laptops. In this case, you’d be able to run, like, a whole city, which would be pretty amazing since my iPhone has a hard time storing all my movies and music.”
“A whole city,” Burnes repeats.
I cock my head to the side in wonder. “Are you saying that my father used quantum computing to run the TerraSphere?”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“Wow. That’s pretty amazing. Why doesn’t the government want that knowledge spread around?”
“Because the industry still believes the first useful machines won’t be ready for years. That the computers are unstable and unpredictable and don’t always work. Like nature, they can change the programming. It lacks precision.”
“How did Ares combat that to make the TerraSphere then?” I ask.
When I was there six years ago, it seemed to be working fine. The buildings were always cool regardless of the heat outside. The lights never flickered. The water tasted like it was fresh from a Rocky Mountain stream.
I have a sudden flashback where I’m lying on the floor, staring at a decorated, domed ceiling.
“Isn’t it pretty?” the girl said, staring upward. “It’s called Arcadia. A place where the animals and people roam free together in a beautiful meadow—-a perfect, unspoiled world where there are no more wars.”
“No more wars? That would be perfect. I don’t understand war, do you? Like, why can’t people just get along? Love instead of hate?”
She patted my hand. “You’re young. You have a lot to learn. My dad says wars are waged for one reason.”
“And what’s that?”