House of Secrets - v4 (39 page)

The twins would like to live in this Greenwich, Irena thought. It is safe there and very rich. It must be very pretty. She imagined the bad father going away and his wife inviting Irena and the twins to stay with her. The newspaper said that she was waiting in her father’s mansion for her daughter to come home safely.

Mansion.

Dimitri would have been so happy for Irena to be living in a mansion. The twins would enjoy living in one. Irena closed her eyes. She saw a beautiful oblong swimming pool, surrounded by Greek columns. She saw herself on a telephone next to the pool, talking with a handsome movie star who was insisting on coming over.

“But I am married.”

“No, you’re not. Your husband is gone.”

“But all those beautiful women.”

“Bah. They have no brains. You are a beautiful woman, Irena. You have beautiful eyes.”

“I have to make dinner for the twins.”

“No, you don’t. I will fly the twins to Paris on my airplane. I am friends with a famous chef there. It will be an adventure for them.”

“Well…”

“And we can be alone, Irena.”

“Well…”

“We can make each other happy.”

Irena opened her eyes. Harlem was so ugly compared to her new life. She decided this was her last time ever in the city. Maybe she could arrange for a cozy cottage near the mansion, for Leonard, who had been so dear and so kind.

The light at the next intersection turned from yellow to red, and Leonard pulled to a stop. Irena shifted toward him and placed a hand lightly on his arm. She was about to speak when she noticed the black car behind them had pulled up very close and put its hazard lights on. A man was getting out of the car and coming over to Leonard’s side. Instinctively, Irena squeezed the golden stone even tighter. The moment had arrived. Her life was changing.

The man pulled open the door behind Leonard and got into the car. He had a hard but handsome face. It was a familiar face. He gave Irena a sexy smile.

He placed the barrel of a gun against the back of Leonard’s head.

“Turn here.”

The light went green, and Leonard did what he was told. He took a right turn onto a narrow street.

“Pull over,” the sexy man said. “There.”

Leonard pulled over next to a wooden fence that fronted a vacant lot.

“Turn off the car.”

Leonard did. The man ran the tip of his tongue over his lips. He leaned back as far as he could and squeezed the trigger of his gun. The sound of the gunshot was much softer than Irena would have thought. A simple
pop
. A spray of red splashed across the windshield, and Leonard fell forward onto the steering wheel.

Irena was back in her dream. The twins were already on their way to Paris. In a fancy jet plane. They were many miles above the ocean. They were safe.

The man in the backseat spoke.

“You have something for me.”

Irena raised her closed fist and then relaxed her fingers. As the man reached over the seat and took the golden stone from her, she turned to face him. She noted that his eyes were the same cold blue as the water in her fancy swimming pool.

“We are alone,” she said. She was surprised and delighted by her own husky whisper.

The man smiled at her again. He placed the barrel of his gun against Irena’s temple.

“You’re cute.”

T
he FBI director was out of the car before it had even stopped moving. William Pierce chucked the White House security guard on the shoulder as he strode past the small gatehouse, his black briefcase swinging high in his other hand.

“Everything good?” Pierce asked.

“Yes sir, Mr. Director.”

“Good.”

Pierce entered the White House at a clip and was met just inside the door by the president’s chief of staff. Ron Abbey fell in beside the director.

“The president appreciates your rearranging your schedule on such short notice.”

“He’s the boss,” Pierce replied brusquely.

Pierce barely broke stride. His gait was powerful and self-aware. As the two rounded the corner at the end of the hallway, Pierce remarked, “I hope you’ve all enjoyed your honeymoon. That’s clearly over.”

“We’re fine,” Abbey said. “Nobody’s naive about any of this, least of all the president. We’re staying out ahead of matters.”

The two approached the president’s outer office and Abbey reached for the door. Pierce stopped him, placing a hand against his chest.

“I think that will be all, Ron.”

Abbey balked. “I’m in this meeting. We all need to go over—”

The director stopped him, patting his hand reassuringly against the chief of staff’s chest. “Don’t you worry. Your boss and I will sort all this out. Why don’t you run off and go see your little friend over at Commerce?”

Abbey was taken aback. “My—?”

“It’s Gleason, if I recall. Janet?”

“How do you…?”

The chief of staff broke off his question. The director’s smile could not have been more unctuous. He tapped Abbey again on the chest. More firmly.

“Your boss and I have a lot to discuss, Ron. You go on. We’ll be fine.”

T
he custom of the handshake originated as a mutually accepted means for two persons who were meeting to determine if either of them was carrying a weapon — most often a knife — attached to his forearm, hidden by his loose sleeve. Thus the handshake’s original form, the clasping of hands accompanied by a second hand-grabbing hold farther up the arm. A little trust went only a little way.

As President Hyland came around from behind his large desk to greet his FBI director, this factoid darted through his mind. The president’s eyes followed the director’s briefcase as it came up and landed heavily on the desk. In this town,
that
was where the weapons were usually hidden.

Pierce took a seat as Hyland returned to his chair. “I’m going to be blunt with you, Mr. President.”

“By all means, Bill. Speak freely.”

“I don’t mean to come off like a diva,” the FBI director continued. “But it’s a little disconcerting to be ordered to run what is essentially an errand.” He indicated the briefcase. “There is nothing here that your people haven’t already pored over this past week.”

Hyland balled his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “Well, there sure as hell ought to be.”

Pierce frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that when I authorize the FBI to provide my staff with a full and factual report on someone, what I expect is a full and factual report.”

“You’ll have to excuse me, Mr. President, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about my being summoned to Whitney Hoyt’s home three days ago to be told that there’s too much dirty laundry hanging on John Bainbridge’s line for him to be my next vice president. I’m talking about why such information would be in a file folder in Governor Hoyt’s hand and not in one in
my
hand, placed there by
your
office.”

Pierce allowed the question to settle before replying. “I’m supposed to respond to that?”

“Damn right you are.” Hyland came forward in his chair. “I’m going to appreciate it if you don’t take me for a fool, Bill. New kid on the block doesn’t mean stupid kid on the block. You’re so good at what you do and you’ve got so much support out there, I couldn’t dump you even if I wanted to. And I don’t want to. I’m not going to ask you to convince me that Whitney Hoyt can get his hands on information that your office can’t. I’d be asking you to convince me that you don’t know how to run the show, and that’s patently ridiculous. You’ve got the show down pat.”

Silence is a powerful magnet for information, as Pierce well knew. So he said nothing, offered his most placid, patient expression, and waited.

Hyland went on. “If Bainbridge is mortally wounded for the job, the only reason I can think you wouldn’t volunteer the information to us is that Whitney Hoyt requested the privilege of blindsiding the new president this past Wednesday morning. He certainly did seem to enjoy the role.”

“I suppose you’d have to ask Hoyt about that,” Pierce said.

“I happen to be asking you.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. President. I’m going to have to ask you to give me a clear question. I’m just not sure what you’re trying to get at.”

“Gladly. Did your office withhold from the president information on former secretary Bainbridge that was then shared with a private citizen?”

“Don’t be absurd.”

“That’s a no?”

“Correct.”

“And if I find out that you have just lied to me, do I have your word that your letter of resignation will be on my desk?”

“If I just lied to you, Mr. President, I don’t suppose my word stands for much.”

Hyland abruptly slammed his hands down hard on his desk. “Damn it! I need a vice president! I’d like to know what the hell is going on here.”

Director Pierce recovered quickly from the president’s outburst. “Mr. President, my personal involvement in this whole process has been peripheral. I couldn’t even pretend to be interested in whatever the politics are that are going on with your VP situation. Frankly, I’m a better director for that particular ignorance. If I’ve learned nothing else over the years, I’ve learned that much. But I’m not completely deaf. Nor am I stupid. You have Andy Foster in the bag for your veep. I know this whole mess with his daughter is a royal nightmare right now, but the man is vetted, qualified, and ready. I’m missing the problem here.”

Hyland’s eyebrows rose. “You know he’s ready?”

“I know how to analyze rumors,” Pierce said plainly.

“What you know is that Whitney Hoyt is hell-bent to land his son-in-law in the copilot seat. Isn’t that right?”

“I wouldn’t say that news would surprise me.”

“You and the governor go way back, Bill. I’m sure very little about Whitney would surprise you.”

“Don’t be too certain about that, Mr. President. Whitney is a crafty fellow.” Pierce gave a shrug. “But sure. My job is to be as informed as I can be.”

“Your job is to see that
I
am just as informed as you.”

“Mr. President, I do my best.”

“Let me ask you something, Director,” Hyland said. “Would it surprise you to hear that Senator Foster’s office contacted me less than an hour ago to express the senator’s wish that his name be withdrawn from consideration?”

Hyland didn’t need to hear Pierce’s answer. He saw it in the man’s expression. He had less than a second to see it, but that was all he needed. He followed his question with another. “Do you suppose Whitney Hoyt knows of this decision?”

“I can’t speak for Governor Hoyt.”

The president’s intercom buzzed. Hyland hit the flashing button on the phone.

“Sir? Governor Hoyt is on the line.”

Hyland was fully aware how obnoxious the expression was that he aimed at his FBI director. And he was fine with that. As far as the president was concerned, there was already more than enough obnoxiousness in the room. “Well, how about that? Why don’t we just see what the good man himself has to say on the topic?”

President Hyland lifted the receiver and pushed a second button on the phone. He leaned back in his chair, loose as a goose.

“Governor? John Hyland here. What can I do for you today?”

W
hitney Hoyt chose Schubert. Sonata in E-flat Major, performed by Marta Deyanova. He waited for the first notes to sound, then stepped over to the sideboard.

“I don’t give a damn what hour it is, will you join me, Andrew?”

Andy was standing by the window on the far side of the room, gazing out in the direction of the garden. It wasn’t exactly calmness he was experiencing, though it could have been mistaken for it. He was numb. Since being confronted by Christine in the gazebo, Andy suspected he had slipped into a mild state of shock. He turned from the window.

“Sure. I’ll join you. If it will make you happy.”

Hoyt’s smile suggested that it would. “Thank you, Andrew. Bourbon?”