Lady Liberty Page 4

  “This isn’t right.” Sitting in Ballast headquarters’ underground bunker, Patch squirmed in his desk chair and took a look from the row of monitor screens to his boss, Gregor Faust. It had taken hours to work up the guts to voice his objection. Now, for better or worse, Patch finally said out loud what had been nagging at him for days. “It’s like we’re coming down on the Madonna.”

  Faust resisted the urge to sigh only because he understood exactly what Patch meant. “Sybil Stone isn’t the Madonna. Hell, she isn’t even a mother,” Gregor reminded his second-in-command. “And if you think she would blink twice before issuing a kill order on either of us—or on anyone else in Ballast or PUSH, for that matter—you had better read her dossier again.”

  “Reading her dossier is why I would prefer not to hurt her.” Patch glanced over at the screen monitoring her plane, parked on the taxiway at the Geneva airport. Half the force was out there, securing the perimeter, and for each officer identified, Patch knew there were three plain-clothes cops and CIA agents who hadn’t been identified. “She isn’t a mother, but she watches out for all kids. She’s predictable. You heard the concierge’s report about the note she wants delivered with the cookies and milk.” Patch couldn’t get that out of his mind.

  Hell, Patch had executed kill orders on dozens of women in his time, but this one … this one bothered him and he hadn’t even killed her yet. Worse, he had no idea why the thought of killing her bothered him. Gregor was right. Lady Liberty would issue a kill order on either of them without blinking twice. Yet there was something innocent and pure about her milk and cookies. About her. And Patch flat-ass didn’t want to muddy it up.

  “PUSH, not you, is going to hurt her. You aren’t involved,” Gregor reminded him, then lowered his voice to feign compassion. “She’s not your mother, Patch.”

  Patch looked over at Gregor. “I know that.” He did know it, but he had grown up without a mother; he couldn’t even remember what she looked like anymore. Maybe, in his head, he was using Sybil Stone as a substitute. Logically, she was far too young to be his mother—he had a few years on her, in fact—but this annoying attack of conscience had nothing to do with age or logic. It had to do with the woman and who she was inside. She protected kids. She was different from the rest of those corrupt bloodsuckers. “She’s predictable,” he repeated, “and sincere.”

  She was. In Gregors fifty years, he had seen a lot of leaders with admirable qualities, but he had never known a leader with such a deep conviction to her principles and morals that she had to suffer from diver’s bends.

  According to his mole’s deep-background research, Liberty hadn’t had an easy life. Most people assumed she had, though, since she had been raised in privilege by an old-money old-name family in Philadelphia. Her mother had never understood Sybil’s need to help others, and her father had always made her feel she had disappointed him. She had been an only child, often more lonely than loved. Gregor supposed that’s why she had risked wanting only two things in her life: a career in politics—which she had gotten—and a family to love who loved her—which she had not gotten.

  His own early years hadn’t been so different, though many swore he had been spawned by the devil, and to his way of thinking, Sybil’s 50 percent success rate on her life goals made her luckier than most, himself included. “It would be a vast tactical error to underestimate the esteemed lady from Pennsylvania, Patch. Yet we shouldn’t give her too much credit. Not until we know firsthand it is warranted.”

  “I’m not underestimating her, and I’m not questioning your authority or wisdom, but—”

  “But,” Gregor interrupted, “you don’t understand my reasoning about her.”

  “No, I don’t.” Patch adjusted the contrast on one of the monitors and then stared back over his shoulder at his boss. “You obviously respect her as an adversary”

  For as long as Faust could remember, his survival had depended on keeping his intentions and rationale to himself. He guarded both as voraciously as he guarded his identity, yet if Patch were ever going to command Ballast, he had to understand. “I respect any and all adversaries. Underestimating them is too costly”

  “Why are you willing to kill her?”

  “For the same reason one kills a rattlesnake poised to strike. Death, the devastation of assets—these penalties are too steep to pay” Gregor pulled a thin brown cigar from a wooden box on his desk, snipped its tip, and lit it. The scent of heated cherry tobacco filled the air. “Liberty is a powerful woman—rare really, because she doesn’t demand support. People inexplicably volunteer their support to her.”

  “She wears power well.”

  “Unfortunately, too well.” Gregor squinted against a spiral of pungent smoke. “She’s doing her best to cost me a great deal of money, and she’s having significant success.” Her peace-making efforts in India and Pakistan had cost him millions in arms sales. He didn’t need a repeat performance to recognize the risks she posed with Peris and Abdan. “I cannot permit that.”

  “You could have just sent her back to D.C. with an empty briefcase.”

  “An empty case wouldn’t have gotten through their scanners or CIA agents, much less been delivered to Liberty. And it would have worked against our backup plan. That plan is critical, Patch. Without it we could lose mission control.”

  “And Ballast never forfeits mission control.” Understanding gleamed in Patch’s eyes. “Dr. Austin Stone.”

  “Exactly.” Liberty’s ex-husband wasn’t reliable or stupid. “He would have known the case was empty before it left Geneva.” Gregor rubbed at the tense muscles in his neck. “Dangerous business, considering he has the ways and means to manipulate us. If we put the screws to him overtly, he will go off the deep end and reduce this operation to his own personal mission.”

  “Screwing everyone who crossed him, including us.”

  “Screwing everyone he remotely perceives has crossed him, including us.”

  Which is why the briefcase wasn’t empty and Gregor had enclosed copied contents, not originals—and why he had intercepted Lady Liberty’s blood to get her DNA.

  As if a key puzzle piece slotted into place in his mind, Patch blinked hard. “You’re afraid Dr. Stone is going to manipulate the mission.”

  “I prepared for the possibility. But remember, PUSH pulled this attack. Ballast was not involved.”

  “Right.” Patch slid Gregor a knowing glance that grew doubtful. “But she’s leaving the peace talks. Peris and Abdan are more likely to kill each other than to continue negotiations without her. You’ve already won, so why does she have to die?”

  “She could live.” Gregor spared the monitor a glance, saw Liberty’s plane still sitting on the taxiway “Provided Westford’s instincts are as keen as reported.”

  “But what if they’re not?”

  “Then shell die, and PUSH will be blamed.” Gregor shrugged his indifference on the matter and flicked his ashes into a crystal tray. “Such is the price for disseminating false information on Westford’s abilities.”

  The fax line rang. Patch slid his chair over to retrieve the incoming pages and took a look. “Lab results are in.”

  Gregor smiled. The first obstacle Austin Stone had tossed in Gregors path to gain mission control—obtaining Liberty’s DNA—had been cleared with minimal effort, and neither Westford nor his staff had any proof they had been infiltrated. Oh, certainly Liberty and Westford suspected they had, but they lacked hard evidence and they wouldn’t find any. Unlike Agent Cramer, Gregors men were seasoned and professional to the core.

  Dr. Austin Stone, however, was another matter. He stood heads above anyone else in the secure-systems design field, but he had a personal agenda in this operation that could be problematic for Gregor. The need for Liberty’s DNA surfacing so early in the process indicated that he would be a challenge.

  Agitated, Gregor stubbed out his cigar and dropped on to a seat. How had a leader on the world stage, who had been so successful at ga
uging the mettle of others, ended up married to a man like Austin Stone in the first place?

  True, he was a genius, and he had repeatedly demonstrated it by creating impressive, innovative secure-system designs. Extraordinarily marketable, secure-system designs that Gregor had bought, used, and sold throughout the world. But Liberty, not her ex-husband, owned controlling interest in Secure Environet. That, coupled with his envy of her power, had made him a bitter man who warranted observation. And Gregor had observed Stone as closely as he had observed Liberty. Her ex-husband had cursed her power yet seized every opportunity to use it for his own gain. People seldom surprised Gregor, but Austin Stone putting his corporate interests in a blind trust the day she had taken office had stunned him. Why had he agreed to do it? And since he had done it, why had she divorced him?

  Liberty never discussed her rationale for the divorce. It was the only subject she consistently refused to address with the press. That agitated Gregor more. He was a strategist.

  Understanding players’motivations were vital to his success. Vital to his survival.

  Patch cleared his throat. “Should we release the lab results to Westford now?”

  “Not yet.” Gregor checked his watch and converted the time. It was two in the morning in Geneva. “Wait until four.” Everyone would be in place by four—in Geneva, in Washington, and in Florida.

  Patch relayed the directive to the lab. “Release the report to the Widow-maker at four.”

  Gregor strolled over the thick Persian carpet to view the monitors. “Any movement on Cap Marlowe?”

  “None. The senator hasn’t been briefed on the Code One yet.”

  President Lance was playing this close. “Keep me posted on him.” Gregor moved toward the door, ready to grab a meal before things heated up. Marlowe was going to be interesting to watch. Unlike Lance, who was predictable, Marlowe was a wild card, and wild cards were not welcome mission elements to strategists. Gregor wanted to know what reactions he could expect from the senator. If the rumor mill proved accurate—and it usually was at this level of infiltration—Marlowe had been slated by the Republicans to become President Lance’s successor in the next election. Why the party intended to bypass Lady Liberty, Gregor couldn’t imagine. But he was one lucky black-market arms dealer because it did—provided Westford’s instincts proved to be as honed as reported and she survived the next seventy hours.

  How many other men in Gregors position had the ability to blackmail someone destined to become the most powerful man in the free world? And what exactly would that man do to keep his connections to Gregor secret?

  The possibilities made for a good game.

  Gregors game had begun six months earlier, when President Lance had announced he would keep his campaign promise and not run for a second term, and, two months ago, albeit unknowingly, Marlowe had become a player. No doubt his fear of exposing his past crimes, large and small, had already caused the good senator many sleepless nights. Nights of waiting for the proverbial ax to fall. What would he do when it became clear to him who held that ax that now hung over his head?

  Of more immediate concern, what would be Jonathan Westford’s next move?

  Westford was a pro. Gifted and, particularly when an operation involved Lady Liberty, lethally dangerous. Others might speculate, but Gregor knew of only one emotion strong enough to provoke the depth of Westford’s protective instincts toward Liberty—one emotion so intense that a man would forfeit being with her to keep her safe: love. Gregor also knew that no other emotion could make a man less predictable or more treacherous.

  If there had been any way to avoid a direct confrontation with Westford, he would have done so. But destiny had issued its decree. Westford might initially blame PUSH for the coming events, but only for a short time. Gregor and Westford would eventually collide on this mission, and the projected outcome of the clash seemed inevitable. Only one of them would survive.

  The question was: Which one?

  Chapter Three

  Thursday, August 8 First-Strike Launch: 68:00:00

  At precisely 4:00 A.M. the lab phoned. Jonathan took the report in the galley, staring blankly at his distorted reflection in the stainless coffeepot. “You’re certain?”

  “Positive,” the lab tech said. “We ran dual panels to test and verify simultaneously and pulled a hundred-percent cross-check comparison on the results.”

  “Thank you.” Jonathan ended the call and swallowed hard a couple of times, but the damn lump in his throat wouldn’t go up or down, and his knees felt as weak as water.

  Walking to midcabin, he tuned his earpiece radio to conference call the cockpit and Home Base. On international assignments carrying Level-Five SDU status, Commander Conlee monitored Liberty himself. He would report the results to the president.

  Liberty looked down at Jonathan’s shoes, saw his sneakers, and dragged in a sharp breath, reacting instinctively even though she had suggested he wear them. A moment lapsed, and then she forced her gaze to lift and meet his. Intense, but steadfast. She knew he had received news. “Are we leaving?”

  He blinked hard. The woman had more courage than anyone he had ever met. She was terrified and yet she sounded calm, together. He was anything but. His nose stung, the backs of his eyes burned, and a boulder had homesteaded on his chest. Too emotional to trust himself, he stood near her and spoke into his transmitter. “Captain Dean, you’re cleared for takeoff.”

  “Thank God.” Dean expelled a relieved breath that hissed static through the earpiece.

  Afraid to allow himself to feel it, Jonathan kept his relief locked inside. He hadn’t cried since he was a kid, but he was damn close to it now. He could have lost her. Lost her.

  She reached over, pressed a staying hand to his forearm. A flash of vulnerability flickered through her eyes. “So, I’m okay?”

  “You’re fine, ma’am.” He nodded and dared to put his hand atop hers on his arm. “Just fine.” The relief inside him swelled and filled his chest. He loved and hated it. Loved that he knew she would live and hated the way that knowing affected him. He should not be emotionally attached. Not to her.

  “Good.” Her worry left her eyes, then clouded them again. “We’ve lost a lot of time.”

  The Code One disaster was back in priority position in her mind, if it ever had slipped to second place. Jonathan patted her hand. They were down to sixty-eight hours on the phantom seventy-two-hour deadline she’d given him at the hotel, and again he wondered exactly what it meant. “Take a minute to enjoy the good news. It’s a long flight.”

  “But I have a ton of work to do on it.” She pulled her hand away and sat back on her seat. “It’s our duty to change the world, if we can.”

  She was still quoting Mr. Tibbs. Jonathan rubbed at the tense muscles knotting his neck. “To Sir with Love had a powerful impact on you, didn’t it?” After the first time she had mentioned the movie, Jonathan had watched it three times. He remembered the line.

  “It did.” A near smile curved her lips. “Mr. Tibbs is one of my all-time favorite characters. He had purpose, clear vision, and discipline.”

  “He also respected human nature. He would pause to celebrate.”

  “Ah, you’re going to lecture me again, aren’t you, Agent Westford?” She lifted her glass of cola in mock salute. “Stop and smell the roses.”

  “And their leaves and stems.”

  “What about the thorns?” Thoughtful and suddenly pensive, she thumbed the rim of her glass and her playful tone disappeared. “You never mention the thorns.”

  “Appreciate those, too.”

  Totally serious now, she looked up into his eyes, seeking something she needed. “Why?”

  He debated brushing off the question, but then remembered asking her once why she helped fair-weather colleagues. She’d told him it was the work that mattered, not who did it. If it was good, it was good. Harrison had heard her response and later told Jonathan that was when he had decided Liberty had more class than anyo
ne else he knew and bigger balls than 90 percent of the men on the Hill. Jonathan had drawn that conclusion far earlier in her career. And if she had the courage to ask about the thorns, he had the courage to answer her. “Because thorns are sharp and they prick.”

  She thought about that, then responded. “Only if you’ve felt the prick can you truly appreciate the softness of the petal.”

  Not exactly as he would have put it, but it would do. He nodded.

  She tilted her head. “Do you ever wish you could push a button that would keep you on an even emotional keel, and then just stay there?”

  He exaggerated a level look down his nose at her. “Every time you take a Band-Aid from a potential terrorist.”

  Not at all intimidated, she glared at him. “You’re as irreverent as you were when we were together, Agent West-ford.”

  They had never been together. They could never be together. Of course, she didn’t mean it that way. She was referring to when he headed her guard detail. “Terrible character flaw, ma’am. I’ll work on it.”

  That remark earned him a grunt, then a cautious “Don’t.”

  He cast her a quizzical look.

  “Don’t work on it. It’s honest,” she said with a slight shrug. “In this job, I don’t get a lot of honest reactions. I like them.”

  “Gabby always gives you honest reactions.”

  “And bad advice,” she said, looking torn, a little confused, and maybe slightly wistful.

  “Not intentionally. She just hasn’t pegged how your mind works.”

  That comment surprised her; her eyes widened and then narrowed with suspicion. “And you know this because …”

  “I have pegged it.”

  “You know how my mind works?” Disbelief etched her voice.

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I’m not sure I like that.”

  “I know I don’t. But there it is.” Regret etched his tone. Honest remarks, but he wished they hadn’t surfaced. Being near her was hard enough without adding new complications.