Authors: Helaine Mario
Those damned hands of his are the
last
thing I need to be in, thought Alexandra as something fluttered deep in her stomach.
Billie cocked a dark eyebrow at her. “Just call if you need me, then. Otherwise I’ll see you tonight at Foxwood.”
“I’m counting on it. On you.”
“You really think Ivan will be there?”
“Your brother was convinced that Ivan runs in the President’s inner circles. They’ll all be there.”
“And with Charlie and Eve gone, Ivan will think he’s safe.”
Alexandra nodded. “But he has us to fear now. He’s underestimated us, Billie.”
“Yes, he has. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to make Ivan think I know something. Provoke him.
I’m his new Eve
.”
“I’ve got your back,” said Billie simply. “I’ve read Charlie’s letter over and over. You’re not the only one who needs justice. I’ve got to do something for Charlie. We’re in this together now, Baby Sister.”
“Together.” Alexandra stood up. “The gala begins at seven. Let me tell you what I’m going to do tonight. And by the way, Billie - how good are you with a needle and thread?”
CHAPTER 30
“…a ghastly, rapid river…”
Edgar Allan Poe
THE POTOMAC RIVER. MARYLAND
“Here are your ‘Lions’.” Garcia’s tone was all business as he tossed a package onto Alexandra’s lap. “These bios will help you prepare for tonight.”
The clock on his dashboard registered just past three o’clock. They were speeding west on Maryland’s Clara Barton Parkway in his black Explorer. The narrow, wooded parkway followed the weaving shore of the Potomac River, offering an occasional glimpse of silver water through newly bare branches.
Restless, he clicked on the radio. Rap music blasted from the speakers. With a frustrated oath, he searched until he found U2. The soft sounds of
I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For
filled the car.
Perfect.
He took his eyes off the road for a moment, glanced toward her. Alexandra had made no move to open the thick manila envelope beneath her hands. She sat frozen in the passenger seat, wrapped in a too-big blue jacket, staring blindly out the window. One leg was drawn up under her. She looked exhausted, he thought, too pale. Eyes bruised and luminous as moons on water, her skin almost translucent in the shadowed car, shorn hair bright as a candle in the flickering light. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was?
She hadn’t spoken since they’d left.
He should never have agreed to this trip. Dammit, she was like a butterfly about to be crushed by a boulder. And all he wanted to do was protect her. He hadn’t felt this way since - Christ, don’t go there. Protective was the
last
thing he wanted to feel. No, he wanted her front and center, drawing out Ivan. Didn’t he? Just do the job, make her the bait, and to hell with the boulders. Use her, and get the job done. It was his decision to put her at risk. Protecting her was not an option.
Not that she needed protecting. She was a fighter. Fierce, passionate. Caring and honorable. God, he wasn’t used to feeling this way. Hated it.
What was wrong with him? There had been other women since he’d lost his wife, sure. Beautiful, fun, occasionally intriguing. But protecting them had been the
last
thing on his mind. So why, all of a sudden, this woman?
Dios, not this woman
.
Damn it all. Working with her had been a mistake. He’d never anticipated that Alexandra Marik would reawaken feelings so long and deeply buried. Feelings he wanted to
stay
buried, damn her. Just keep your distance, he told himself. Get the job done and move on. Stay detached. Or find another way to take Ivan down.
He slowed for a curve. And once more, in spite of himself, he stole a glance at her.
A shaft of sunlight fell full on her. She was very still, staring at the blur of trees, wrapped in a coat that was the color of a restless sea.
Her coat
.
Suddenly, like a ghost slipping from the shadows, he saw his wife, sitting just that way. Blindsided, he remembered watching her. She’d been wearing a blue coat, too, that day. And the way the winter light had played on her skin… Where had they been going? Dammit, why couldn’t he recall? It had been very cold, snowflakes in the air. She’d leaned over and kissed him. It was the last good thing he could remember between them. The last good thing…
The notes of Puccini broke the silence, scattering his thoughts. Alexandra lunged for the phone in her purse. “Anthony! Is she alright? Oh, thank God, I’ve been so worried. Yes, everything’s fine, I just - what? You’re sending a car? But I can drive myself to Foxwood, Anthony.”
She glanced at Garcia but he kept his eyes on the road.
“Of course,” she answered, “I can be ready at six. But are you sure she… hello? Anthony? Hello?” She clicked her phone off. “Damn!”
“Is your daughter okay?” asked Garcia. “What’s going on?”
“Ruby’s fine. I just talked with her nanny an hour ago. Ruby knows I’m coming home tomorrow morning. It’s Juliet I’ve been worried about. It’s her birthday today, her sixteenth, and her cell phone’s been turned off and I couldn’t reach -”
His fingers tightened on the wheel. “Your brother-in-law actually spoke with her?” he interrupted. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. Just moments ago, he said. All’s well in Juliet world. For the time being.” She rubbed her fingers over the brown envelope. “So now I can focus on our ‘Lions.’” But still she gazed out the window at the blur of trees.
“You don’t have to do this, Red. ”
“I want to, Garcia. This information is important.”
“I’m not talking about the bloody files! This trip, going to the river. You’re too close to all this, it’s tearing you up.” Just talk her out of it.
“I’ll be okay. Life goes on, but death goes on, too. So you have to learn how to deal with it.”
“You act so tough, Red, as if you don’t care. But you don’t need to be so strong every moment.”
“Yes. I do.”
“But all those feelings are locked inside you.”
“You don’t know what I feel, Garcia! I don’t need counseling, damn you, I passed grief days ago. It’s all about anger now. I couldn’t cry when Eve died, and
I can’t now
. I’m not one of Picasso’s poor weeping women. You won’t get tears from me.”
You need to cry, he told her silently.
As if she’d heard his thoughts, she said, “Just because you don’t see the tears doesn’t mean they’re not there.” The husky voice tore at him.
“Alexandra… There is more to life than pain. You have to believe that, someday, the smile will come before the tears.”
“No. I won’t talk about this.” She slid the envelope flap open and removed several pages, each with a photograph clipped to the upper right corner. “When did you find the time to do all this?” she asked with surprise, looking down at the familiar faces.
“Late last night. I’ve got a good team. Those are just thumbnail sketches, to help you at Foxwood tonight. My team has the bulk of the research, verifying dates, places, times.” He slowed for a curve. No need to mention the one file he’d kept to himself. “But we can rule out the top three immediately. And none of those files shows an obvious indication of a serious injury. Charles Fraser was very clear about a fire in his letter.”
She glanced at the first two bios from the papers on her lap. “I understand. If the information that Yuri Belankov gave to Charles Fraser is true, Ivan is a Caucasian male in his early to mid sixties.”
“That’s a big if,” said Garcia. “I don’t trust Belankov. He had a reason for passing on this information, Chica. A reason that would benefit him. That’s a fact.”
“Maybe. But assuming Ivan is an aging white man, we can remove our Madame Secretary of State and Homeland’s Judge Dunbar.” She slipped the photographs of the steely-eyed no-nonsense female secretary and the smiling African American judge back into the envelope.
Garcia kept his eyes on the road. “Check the Admiral next. He doesn’t fit Ivan’s profile either.” His voice changed. “We’ll be at the park in fifteen minutes.”
She stiffened, then squared her shoulders and deliberately held up the third file.
“Admiral Ramon Alcazar, Secretary of Defense,” she said aloud. Her eyes scanned the page quickly. “Third generation Cuban, Annapolis graduate, warship captain, service in the Gulf, medals. What doesn’t fit?” She bent to examine the photograph more closely. “He looks like Desi Arnez,” she murmured. She stopped. “A
very young
Desi Arnez.” She searched for the date of birth. “You’re right. If this DOB is correct, Alcazar would have been twelve in 1966.”
“A stretch, even for the KGB,” he agreed with a grim smile. “But we’ll verify his birth date to be sure.”
“So that leaves these three. Senator Rossinski, Rens Karpasian and Zee Zacarias. Heroes all.” She turned away from him once more to stare out the window.
* * * *
She could feel his eyes on her. Garcia, so close to her in the enclosed space, smelled faintly of spice and the sea. He was wearing Raybans, a leather jacket, jeans, boots. His right hand gripped the steering wheel. His fingers were long and strong, the skin sun-browned. Even lit by sunlight, darkness radiated from him.
She glanced at him again. The Raybans made it impossible to read his expression, but – usually he was so still, unruffled, focused. Today he seemed distracted, angry.
Ruffled
. She felt as if he were somewhere else, remembering another place, another time.
Someday the smile will come before the tears
?
Bars of sunlight shifted, fell in patterns on the hard bones of his face. Suddenly they were too close in the shadowed confines of the car. Too intimate. The last thing she wanted to feel right now. Keep your distance, Marik.
He scares me, she thought. And yet –
There is a stillness about him
. Billie’s words echoed in her head. Alexandra shifted slightly away from him as she shook her head in exasperation. More like ‘closed-off,’ she told herself. The eye of the hurricane, still and calm, hiding all that stormy darkness swirling within.
How on earth had she ended up in a car with this man, driving deep into the Maryland countryside? A man with big hands, and a weakness for old movies, Bono, the constellations and rescue dogs. Serious eyes, so full of danger. A man who lived on the edge of violence.
Don’t go there. Just read the damned files.
A low bark broke her thoughts. In the back of the Explorer, Hoover panted happily, his wet nose pressed against the rear window. Not a care in the world… She turned to give him a pat, then adjusted her glasses and forced herself to review the next file.
Professor Rens Karpasian. Presidential Advisor, National Security Agency.
She read the highlights aloud. “Born in Warsaw, Poland, 1949, to Georgian refugee parents. Immigrated to central Pennsylvania in 1955, learned English from watching adventure movies on Saturday mornings. Scholarship to Harvard, Doctorate from the Kennedy Center School of Government, holds graduate seminars on Foreign Policy and International Relations at Georgetown. Nickname, The Professor. Currently a national security advisor to the President. Only child, parents deceased. Widower, no children.”
She held Karpasian’s photograph closer to the light of the window. He was tall, muscled, handsome, with a strong thick face beneath a shock of long silvery hair and a close-cropped beard. Eyes unreadable behind frameless glasses. “If he has scars,” she murmured, “they’re well-hidden beneath a beautifully cut suit.” She glanced at Garcia. “I believe we have our first finalist.”
“Agreed. The Professor is one of the President’s trusted advisors. He could easily move up to Director of NSA in the next Administration. And who’s behind door number two?”
“Gabe ‘Zee’ Zacarias,” she read. “The new Director of the CIA.” At almost six feet, the charismatic Zacarias had an athletic build with broad shoulders, light eyes, and short, wiry salt and pepper hair framing a rough-hewn, tanned face.
“Hit me,” said Garcia.
“Parents Austrian. Family resettled in California. He was born in 1950, attended my alma mater, Berkeley.” She smiled. “Before my time. Student politics, degree in Public Policy with honors. Masters of International Affairs from Princeton. Army service. Re-elected to the Congress seven terms, House Select Committee on Intelligence. U.S. Ambassador to the U.N., foreign policy missions under two Presidents to North Korea, Baghdad, Sudan.” She took a deep breath. “Wow. Talk about qualified.”
“Only if it’s all true,” murmured Garcia.
She shook her head as her finger ran down the final paragraph. “Mother still alive, in a nursing home. Divorced, three grown children.”
“He’s a good bet to stay on in the next Administration as well,” said Garcia. “Finalist number two, step forward.”
He braked as he came to the end of the parkway, turned left onto a road called MacArthur Boulevard.
Beyond the window, a forest of branches arched like a tunnel over the narrow, winding country road. The wind had picked up, and leaves of brown and red and gold swirled around them in broken bars of waning afternoon sunlight. Oh, God, she wanted…
“We’re almost there,” said Garcia. He snapped off the radio, lifted his sunglasses, glanced over at her. For a moment the dark eyes held hers “Are you sure you want to keep going?”
Garcia’s voice was quiet, unexpectedly gentle in the shadowed confines of the car. Once again she felt as if he was reading her thoughts. Alexandra closed her eyes.
No! I want to run. Run and never stop running
.
Get a grip, Marik. She turned to him. “I have to. I owe it to Eve.”