Authors: Matthew FitzSimmons
“No, I’m not. What I’m saying is that people are rarely as black and white as you sometimes make them out to be. Now, in the field there are times when snap judgments are necessary, and you excel in those situations. It’s why I hired you. Your instincts are very rarely wrong, but we’re not in the field yet, and you have a tendency to throw the baby out with the bathwater where people are concerned.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Don’t be. Something about Vaughn rubs you the wrong way. Makes your trigger finger itch. But I knew him when he was a boy, and I saw his relationship with Suzanne. You had to see it to believe the way he took care of her. She was a very special little girl, and he was a great kid too.”
“But that was a long—” she began, but he put up a hand to stop her.
“I don’t believe Gibson Vaughn would knowingly sabotage an effort to find her. I also think that his history with Suzanne Lombard is unique and invaluable. He may see something that no one else could. That alone makes him worth the risk to me. But perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my judgment is clouded by history. That’s why I want you right where you are. If he acts against us, I trust you to see it. And we’ll deal with it if he does. In the meantime, I believe he gives us the best odds of seeing this issue to a positive conclusion. Am I understood?”
“Yes, sir.” She stood to go.
“Jenn,” George said. “Gibson Vaughn has endured a great deal in his life and served his country ably. It would be shortsighted to underestimate him.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Besides, WR8TH seems disinclined to show himself, so this may all be moot.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And, Jenn. This isn’t the CIA. Please feel free to call me George.”
“Yes, sir.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Gibson crossed the field under the Saturday morning sun. It felt good to be outdoors again. On Thursday evening, George Abe had thrown him out of the office and warned him in no uncertain terms not to show his face until Monday. It was hard to step away; it made Gibson feel guilty. But he had another little girl who needed him, and she had a soccer game today.
He hadn’t seen enough of Ellie the past few weeks. He knew it, and he hated it. But it was a necessary evil. Abe’s money had paid the mortgage on the house where she and her mother lived. Where they all had lived before the divorce.
In hindsight, he and Nicole probably shouldn’t have bought the house. They bought at the height of the market before the crash. It had been a stretch, financially, but at the time Gibson believed he would have his pick of jobs when he was discharged from the Marines. It wasn’t an unreasonable assumption. He’d watched the private sector snap up guys from his unit as soon as their boots hit US soil. Guys with half his experience or commendations sparked bidding wars among the big defense contractors. So with his résumé, he figured he would have it made.
What he hadn’t counted on, and what he hadn’t understood, was what being on Benjamin Lombard’s blacklist meant. Really meant. He’d job hunted for months without so much as a callback. At first he’d limited himself to the big fish, the whales of the defense industry that always needed guys with his skill set. When he finally accepted that they weren’t going to hire him, he’d applied for jobs with second-tier companies. The crickets came from far and wide to sing him a sad song.
He took a job at a chain electronics store selling home computers just to keep some money coming in. He’d become bitter and defensive. It had been a bad time. He’d shut down, only surfacing to lash out at his wife and daughter. To his shame, he’d fought with Nicole about everything. Anything. And God help her if she broached the subject of selling the house. That ignited fights that lasted for days and left him in an angry, pulsating silence. Knowing he was failing. Fearing Nicole had hitched her happiness to the wrong man. Fearing that she knew it too, he read resentment in her every action.
It went on like that for months, and things were unraveling fast when his former commanding officer alerted him that Potestas, a local biotech company, was looking for an IT director and put in a good word for him. Potestas was small enough to fall beneath even Benjamin Lombard’s attention. Or so he’d assumed until a month ago. The work was entry-level IT: mindless and dull. He flew through the interview process and gratefully accepted a salary offer that he would have scoffed at only a year earlier. But with a wife and daughter and a crippling mortgage, Gibson didn’t dare risk making a counteroffer. Suddenly health insurance and a steady paycheck seemed like a gift from above. Job satisfaction and his dreams of spoiling his wife would just have to wait.
Ex-wife
, he reminded himself. They’d been divorced for almost a year, and still he couldn’t bring himself to say it.
Ex-wife.
It wasn’t that he’d meant to go looking for trouble, but he hadn’t put up any resistance when trouble found him. He just let it happen. Through all those deployments in the Corps, cheating on his wife had never once crossed his mind. Ironically, it started after he got the job at Potestas. The job hadn’t magically fixed the cracks that had appeared in their marriage, and he’d been too stubborn and prideful to set to fixing them. Instead, he’d gone to a happy hour with a sales rep named Leigh.
In retrospect, he saw it for what it was: a temporary refuge. Cowardice, pure and simple. Leigh liked him and was nice to him. She didn’t need anything from him except a drink and a laugh. The man who had slept with Leigh was a mystery to him. Even now, it was hard to reconcile that man with who he thought he was.
To her infinite credit and his eternal gratitude, Nicole wasn’t cruel or vindictive. Her lawyer was fair, and while their marriage ended, it never extended to his relationship with his daughter. Compared to the stories that he’d heard, he’d gotten very lucky. But then anyone who knew Nicole was lucky.
The hardest part was watching Nicole go dead to him. She did her grieving behind closed doors. Always had. So there had been no fights. No tears. Just a numb distance. She reached her conclusion about the marriage before she even confronted him. Everything else was a formality.
He begged for another chance, but Nicole wasn’t the forgiving kind. They’d known each other since high school, and he’d never once known Nicole to bend. She gave no second chances when it came to loyalty. You were loyal or you weren’t; it wasn’t something you learned. If he wasn’t a man she could trust, he wasn’t a man she could be married to. Gibson had always loved the confidence she had in her own counsel, but it was another thing entirely being on the wrong side of it.
And just like that, he was a single, divorced father living in a bland high-rise concrete-slab apartment. Gone were six years of marriage. And in its place he had alimony payments, an hour commute to see his daughter, and a deepening suspicion that he was the dumbest son of a bitch who’d ever lived.
That was why the house mattered.
It was a good house—a sturdy, two-story Cape Cod. Far out from DC—quiet and safe. Good schools. One July, on furlough, he’d planted the row of azaleas that ran alongside the driveway. Afterward, he and Nicole sat in deck chairs, drinking beers and planning the garden until the bugs chased them inside. Ellie followed nine months later. That was the happiest Gibson had ever been, and he didn’t regret buying the house, even now. Even if it was killing him trying to hold on to it. The house represented the life that he owed Nicole and Ellie. He’d rather die than see them lose it because of him.
The soccer game was just getting started as he walked up. The ball bounced toward the sideline, and a pack of girls from both teams chased after it, shrieking happily. He spotted Ellie immediately. She was on the far side of the field, bent over and staring intently at something in the grass. Gibson grinned. It was just possible that his daughter was the least talented soccer player in the history of the world. It wasn’t only her utter lack of coordination and inability to judge the flight of the ball. It was her flagrant utter disregard for the rules of the game. The idea of playing a single position bored her, and she roamed the field with impunity. Without the uniform, it would have been hard to tell which team she was on.
Out on the field, Ellie began running in a tight circle with her arms out, looking up at the sky until she got dizzy and fell over in a heap.
Gibson couldn’t help but smile. Half the time he didn’t know what planet his little girl was from, but he loved her so much it physically hurt him that he couldn’t put her to bed every night. Reading bedtime stories over a computer wasn’t any way to be a father.
Ellie clambered happily to her feet and took off running across the field—a constant reminder of how much joy could be wrung out of life. Should he be embarrassed to admit his role model was his six-year-old daughter?
Out on the field, the ball bounced to Ellie, who took a mighty kick at it. It sliced hard to the right and spun fifteen yards out of bounds. Gibson took a step toward the pitch and clapped like Ellie had just won the World Cup. She stopped in her tracks to wave at her daddy while the other players thundered past her after the ball.
Up the sideline, his wife glanced over at him.
Ex-wife,
he reminded himself. Nicole was sitting with the main clump of “home” parents, who had set up a little oasis of folding chairs and coolers. Gibson made a habit of standing apart from them. Far enough away that he wouldn’t crowd Nicole, but not far enough away that it looked like he was making a big deal of it. She’d made friends with several of the parents, and he was glad to cede her that territory. She nodded at him, and he returned it. She turned back to the game and didn’t look his way again.
At halftime, the players gathered at opposite goals and sucked on orange slices while the coaches discussed strategies the young girls had no prayer of executing. The parents chatted among themselves or went in search of a porta-john. Nicole walked down the sideline to him. She was wearing one of the loose, flowing sundresses that she’d favored since high school. She looked gorgeous silhouetted against the sun.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi.”
That much pleasantness exhausted the both of them, and they took a second to regroup. Talking to Nicole was always safer when they stuck to Ellie as a topic. A lot of bad things had transpired between them, but when it came to Ellie, they were absolutely on the same page.
“Looks like El has the MVP all sewn up this season,” he said.
“I’ve been fielding calls from the Brazilians all game.”
“Hold out for the big bucks.”
“Agent to the stars.”
“Did you get the money?”
“I did. Thank you. Why are you getting paid in cash, Gib?”
“It was a signing bonus.”
“In cash.” She was squinting at him. “Is it safe to deposit?”
“Of course it is.” He felt his temper spike, but Nicole had a point. Who got paid in cash?
“What’s going on?”
“Nothing. It’s fine.”
“It’s fine? You’re really going to the well with that.”
“We need the money. It’s fine. I promise.”
“Please don’t make me promises, Gib. Okay?”
It came out evenly and without any malice, but it stung, and he looked away from her. They stood silently, as if any sudden moves would be interpreted as a hostile act. These were the worst moments of his life. Standing beside the only person he’d ever been able to talk to openly, reduced to guarded, delicately worded conversations or guarded, stumbling silences.
“I’ll bring the money by your place on Monday.”
“Nicole.”
“Gibson,” she said, not giving an inch.
“Suzanne. The job. The money. It’s about Suzanne.”
Nicole’s entire demeanor shifted at the mention of Suzanne’s name. Her practiced mask of indifference split apart, and for the first time in a year, Gibson saw concern and worry in her eyes—the clouds parting for an instant.
“Suzanne.” She searched his eyes for the truth. “Are you trying to find her?”
He nodded.
“Jesus.”
“I wish I could tell you the whole thing. But they have me on kind of a short leash. I promise, though, the money’s legit.”
“No, it’s all right. I don’t need to know.”
“Thank you.”
“Are
you
all right, Gib? I mean . . . Suzanne.”
“I think so.”
“Ellie’s got a friend’s birthday party after the game. Parents are invited. Pizza and punch. I think they even hired a clown. You should come.”
“I’d like that.”
He turned to see what Nicole was looking at over his shoulder. Jenn Charles, in suit and heels, was walking toward him. Even from behind her sunglasses, the look on Jenn’s face gave him butterflies.
“What? What happened?” he asked as she reached them.
“We got him,” Jenn said.
“When? Where?”
Jenn glanced at Nicole and didn’t answer.
“Am I going, at least?” he asked.
“Boss needs to talk to you. He’s in the parking lot.”
Gibson looked over to the cars, then back to Jenn and finally to Nicole.
“I have to go.”
“Go,” Nicole said.
“But Ellie—”
“She’ll understand. Just make sure you call. She gets funny if she doesn’t talk to you.”
“I will.”
He started to follow Jenn back to the parking lot, but Nicole stopped him.
“Gib.”
“Yeah?”
“Good hunting.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
George was waiting for him in a black M-Class Mercedes. A long rectangular box wrapped in bright-red paper with little white unicorns on it lay in the passenger seat.
“What’s with the box?” Gibson asked.
“It’s not for you.”
“Well, now you’re just hurting my feelings.”
George chuckled and put the gift in the backseat and handed Gibson a sports jacket.
“Put that on. We’ve got an appointment.”
“Good luck,” Jenn said.
“Aren’t you coming?”
She shook her head. “See you back at the office.”
The sedan glided out of the parking lot in a luxurious cocoon. Gibson had never been in a car this nice, and it was easy to see the appeal. He might actually look forward to getting stuck in traffic.
“Well?” Gibson said.
“You were right.”
“Where is he?”
“On Friday afternoon your virus pinged from an IP address in western Pennsylvania. A little town called Somerset.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?”
“One ping and it went dormant.”
“Dormant?” That wasn’t supposed to happen, and several theories as to why jumped to mind. “What was I right about?”
“It was a public library.”
Gibson thought it over; it made sense. Lot of bodies coming and going. It was smart and added another layer of anonymity that would be tricky to peel back. They would have to stake out the library in the hope that they could make an ID if WR8TH tried to access ACG’s servers again.
At Washington Circle, they took New Hampshire to Twenty-Second, then hung a left on P Street into Georgetown. Apartment buildings gave way to brick row houses and then to large private homes cloistered by soaring elms and oaks.
Duke Vaughn had described Georgetown as the land of deep pockets and sharp teeth. His father had attended four or five work-related events here a year, but never took his son with him.
They aren’t those kinds of parties,
Duke had explained.
It’s hostile territory.
Even if they’re on your side?
Gibson had asked his father.
Especially if they’re on your side,
his father had answered with a wink.
“Does that mean I’m going?”
“I’d like to keep you on,” Abe said. “You’ve been invaluable thus far, and my guess is that your skill set may yet prove useful. Also, your relationship with Suzanne.”
“So is that a yes?”
“That all depends.”
“On?”
“Ms. Dauplaise asked to see you.”
Gibson nodded, watching Abe. He’d been summoned for an audience with the queen. At least that’s how it felt.
“I think you can help us, and I’ve told her exactly that. But Ms. Dauplaise prefers to make up her own mind.”
George pulled up to a wrought-iron gate. A black metal sign with gold letters read, “Colline.” A mass of brightly colored balloons bobbed from one of the spires, and a line of families waited to be checked through by a pair of security guards. The men all wore jackets, the women dresses. Even the children had dressed up, and all carried presents. If heaven were sponsored by Laura Ashley and Ralph Lauren, it would look something like this.
One of the security guards broke away from the line and approached the car.
“You’re going to have to find street parking . . .” The guard trailed off when he recognized the driver. “Oh, hello, Mr. Abe. Are you here for the party?”
“No, Tony. Here to see Ms. Dauplaise.”
“Oh, sure, go on up. But park in front of the carriage house instead of your usual spot. I’ll radio to let them know. It’s a little crazy up there today.”
“I appreciate it.”
They drove up the pebbled drive toward an imposing Federal mansion flanked by manicured gardens that sloped off in both directions. The scale of it stunned Gibson. He counted at least seven chimneys. It was a property that belonged in the English countryside, not in the middle of an American city. Another guard directed them off the main driveway, and Abe parked by a two-story garage that was bigger than Nicole’s house. Seven bays with white retractable doors spanned the length of the redbrick building. The center bay stood open—inside, a beautifully maintained vintage green Bentley.
Abe saw him admiring it. “That’s a ’52. It belonged to Ms. Dauplaise’s grandfather. He was ambassador to France under Roosevelt. Theodore, not Franklin.”
“And he lived here too?”
“The Dauplaises have lived here since the 1820s. There aren’t many older families in the city. The main house was designed by Charles Bulfinch and Alexandre Dauplaise after the War of 1812.”
“What does ‘Colline’ mean?” Gibson asked.
“ ‘The Small Hill.’ It’s the name Alexandre’s wife gave the house when she arrived from France. Of course, Ms. Dauplaise can tell you more. She’s an encyclopedia when it comes to the family history.”
“Who else lives here?”
“At the moment, it is just her and her niece. The party is for Catherine’s birthday.”
“Two people? That’s it?”
“Ms. Dauplaise has a son from a former marriage. He lives in Florida. Doesn’t visit often. She also has two living sisters. One lives in San Francisco. Another is a dean at the University of Pittsburgh medical school. Her youngest sister passed during childbirth: her niece’s mother. Calista adopted Catherine. Then there are about a hundred cousins of one kind or another that I can’t keep up with.”
They walked up to the house. Abe stopped them and turned to Gibson. He was struggling for how to put something.
“Calista . . . Ms. Dauplaise is a good woman.”
“But . . . ?”
“She’s hard. She doesn’t do disagreement well. She’s a woman who is accustomed to the sound of her own voice, if you follow me.”
“What do you need me to do?”
“Let her hear it. If you want the job.”
Gibson did want the job. He needed to see Somerset, Pennsylvania. Needed it. He was afraid of what they might find there, but he had to know. If tap-dancing for Calista was the price of the ticket, then dance he would. His father had made a career of handling the landed gentry. Surely some of it must have rubbed off.
As they rounded the side of the house, the sound of music and the gleeful screams of children greeted them. It was quite a scene. He guessed there were better than three hundred people on the lawn, which stretched away from the balustrade that ran the length of the long, wide terrace. Down below, a Dixieland band was in full swing beneath one of several white tents. A parquet dance floor had been assembled, and dozens of couples danced. Clowns and magicians performed tricks of all sorts for groups of children.
He thought about the birthday party that Ellie was going to this afternoon. He hoped it had a clown. Ellie would love a clown.
“How old is this kid?” Gibson asked.
“Eight.”
“Eight?” he said, incredulous. “They’re all here for an eight-year-old?”
“Don’t be absurd. They’re here for Ms. Dauplaise.”
“Right. Did my dad ever come here?”
“Of course,” Abe said. “He worked closely with Ms. Dauplaise. You don’t get very far in Washington ignoring invitations from Calista Dauplaise.”
“How did she get involved with Lombard?”
“You have it backward. Calista Dauplaise discovered Benjamin Lombard. Invented him, really. He was languishing in the Virginia General Assembly when they met. She plucked him from obscurity and polished his rough edges. Helped him make the right connections and bankrolled his run for the United States Senate.”
“Mighty generous of her.”
“Well, there are kings and there are kingmakers. Regardless of what populist history might argue, you rarely have one without the other.”
“So she must get some kind of trophy if he gets elected president in November.”
“She and the vice president are no longer on good terms.”
They climbed a stone staircase to the terrace. It appeared to be the designated child-free zone. Two dozen tables shaded by umbrellas had been arranged. People milled about, drinking and socializing. Waiters in bow ties circled, refilling wine glasses and offering trays of hors d’oeuvres. Gibson was hungry and helped himself to tenderloin and horseradish on thin-sliced French bread. Abe led him to the center of the terrace, where a table larger and more elaborate than any of the others overlooked the lawn, set apart slightly from the other tables.
Abe gestured for Gibson to wait and approached a woman who was probably in her early sixties, but for whom the privilege of money had granted an extended middle age. Gibson knew without having to ask that this was Calista Dauplaise. It wasn’t arrogance that she radiated. It went well beyond arrogance. It was surety—the absolute certitude that the world had been organized precisely to her liking. It lent her an elegant poise that made her companions pale by comparison. Her hair was cut in a stylish blonde bob that swept along a jawline that had clearly enjoyed the attentions of a talented plastic surgeon. Dressed all in white and trimmed in gold, she wore no jewelry whatsoever. Abe bent to whisper in her ear. She glanced past him, in Gibson’s direction, her eyes sharp and piercing.
“Ladies, I apologize. Will you excuse me for a moment?” she said.
Gibson expected her to stand, but it was the rest of the table that gathered up purses and drinks and moved away. One of them, a silver-haired woman in her fifties, leaned over and whispered in Calista’s ear, glancing at Gibson as she did. Calista said something in agreement, and the woman, satisfied, disappeared into the throng.
Abe waved him over. “Calista, this is Gibson Vaughn.”
She smiled and extended a hand for him to shake.
“Please have a seat,” she said. “Not you, George. Get yourself a drink. We’ll just be a minute.”
Abe excused himself, but he caught Gibson’s eyes before he left.
Try not to blow this
was the unmistakable message.
“It’s good to see you again, Gibson. Do you remember me?”
“I do. It’s nice to see you again.”
“I didn’t take you away from your work, did I?”
“No.”
“So you were not there for the big moment?”
It sounded like an accusation. He took a bite of tenderloin to keep from answering.
“In any event, thank you for coming at such short notice. I do apologize for all the commotion,” she said, gesturing toward the party on the lawn. “I’m sure another day would have been easier, but George feels we need to move with all due speed, and I wanted to speak before things progressed.”
“It’s quite a party,” he said.
“Yes. And such a pretty day. I regret canceling the flyby.”
“The flyby?”
“Yes, the Navy has a team of jet planes that do the most wonderful tricks.”
“The Blue Angels?”
“Just the same,” she said.
Gibson was stunned at the idea that this woman had booked the Blue Angels for an eight-year-old’s party.
“I’m having a bit of fun, of course. Are you easily taken in, Mr. Vaughn?”
“No, not usually.” But something about this woman put him off his game. He felt timid in her presence, a sensation that he didn’t enjoy at all. He’d once told a three-star general to pipe down in a meeting, but this woman made him feel like Oliver Twist with a cup out.
“Let us hope not.” She smiled.
“Why am I here?” he asked.
“Now, don’t be sore. It’s important to have a sense of humor about oneself.”
“Do you?”
“Have a sense of humor about myself? Absolutely. However, it is vitally important to be the one telling the jokes.” She winked at him. “It makes all the difference.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do. My family lost the ability to laugh at itself several generations ago. You rise to a certain level of prominence, and the inclination is to view one’s family with an unhealthy degree of reverence. One is lulled into believing that the family’s success was not a matter of luck and hard work, but due instead to some innate superiority.” She leaned in toward Gibson, as if sharing a confidence. “God’s will. Good genes. Blue blood. That sort of thing. It’s ludicrous, of course, but it happens with unnerving frequency. And always ends the same way. Each generation more entitled than the last. Lazier than the last. More interested in ski vacations in Gstaad than in bettering the family’s fortunes. Entitlement breeds laziness, which in turn breeds decline. But of course with enough money, it is possible not to notice for decades that your family name is gathering dust. One day you awake to discover that the last member of the family to accomplish anything of note died before Kennedy. Do you know what my son does for a living?”
Gibson shook his head.
“Not a thing. He lives in a condominium in Fort Lauderdale with a woman and golfs.” Her eyes widened in horror to help him realize the gravity of the situation. When he didn’t appear to, she repeated it slowly. “Fort Lauderdale, Mr. Vaughn. My great uncle helped Wilson craft the Treaty of Versailles, and my son’s ambition extends no further than subdivisions in the swamps of Florida. The mind boggles.”
“Not a fan?”
“Of the state of Florida? No, it is evidence that perhaps air-conditioning would have been better left uninvented.”
“So keep a sense of humor?”
“It has served me well.” She smiled and touched the rim of her empty wineglass. A waiter appeared in an instant to refill it.
“In a way, I owe you a great debt of thanks,” Calista said.
“How so?”
“That business with Benjamin that landed you in such . . . difficulty.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Whose money do you think was embezzled? Benjamin’s? Please, that man had nothing before I found him. In your ill-advised way, you helped me recognize I was betting on the wrong horse.”
“I don’t understand. You mean my father?”
“No, not your father. He was a lovely man, but he was just the jockey. If you’ll permit the analogy.”
“Lombard?”
“Indeed. He was an enterprising little thief. You upset a rotten apple cart.”
“But my father . . .”
Calista looked at him pityingly. “Were you taken in by their version? That it was your father? Oh dear, no. Your father was loyal to a fault. A trait he shared with George. Duke Vaughn was merely a convenient scapegoat. The dead have no rights, or so my lawyers tell me, and rarely rise to defend themselves. Have you really gone all these years believing your father a thief?”