“And what do you think?”
“They’re crazy and desperate. That’s why I’m talking to you.”
“What do you want?”
“To see my children graduate from college. To enjoy my grandchildren. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in prison.”
“I can make that happen.”
Yes, she could, he thought.
“Keep their plan moving forward. Do nothing out of the ordinary. But keep me informed.”
He hated himself for selling out. He hated the captains for forcing him into the position.
“One thing,” she said to him. “If you hold out or give me one shred of bad information, the deal is off. But you won’t go down with them.”
He knew what she’d do.
“I’ll tell them that you sold out, and let them handle you for me.”
Of which he was sure.
So he’d fabricated the weapons, delivered them to New York, then provided Carbonell with card keys to both rooms, per her request. She’d then told him to carry out the attempt, as planned, with no stops.
He’d wondered about that.
“You cut that close,” he said to her. “I wasn’t sure you were going to end it or not. The guy dangling out the window. Yours?”
“An unplanned complication, but it worked out. Good work on Scott Parrott.”
He’d killed Parrott only because that’s what the captains would have expected from their quartermaster. Duplicity could never be tolerated. Anything less than direct force would have been suspect.
“You gave him up easily,” he said to her.
“Would you have preferred one more live witness around who could sell you out?”
No. He wouldn’t. Which was another reason why he’d acted. “Were you going to kill me in New York?”
She laughed. “Far from it. That was a favor from me to you. In the event that, for some reason, you didn’t move on Parrott.”
He didn’t understand.
She said, “How better to shield the fact that you’re a traitor to all those you once held dear than to place your life in dire jeopardy, from which you manage to escape?”
“That whole thing was an act?”
“Not from the agents’ perspectives. They knew nothing, except to stop you. But I knew you could handle yourself.”
“So you sacrificed them, too? Do you care anything for the people who work for you?”
She shrugged. “They had a better-than-fair shot at besting you. Five against one. It’s not my fault they failed.”
Damn her. None of that had been necessary.
Or had it?
Both incidents would indeed provide him with excellent cover.
“Captain Hale,” she said, “and the rest of the Commonwealth are surely in a panic. But it seems the captains work together about as efficiently as the intelligence community.”
He could not argue with that conclusion. They were all becoming more combative, more irrational. He knew about what Hale had done earlier, killing his long-term accountant. Who was next?
“Hale wants the cipher solution,” she said. “But I don’t particularly want to give it to him.”
“So don’t.”
“I wish it were that easy.”
“Like I said, we’re through. I’ve done my part.”
“I taped our conversations. I’m taping you right now. Your captains might find our talks enlightening.”
“And I could kill you right now.”
“I’m not alone.”
He glanced around at the darkness and realized that if the captains learned of his treachery, there would be nowhere on the planet for him to hide. Though they called themselves privateers, there was a pirate within every one of them. Treason had never been tolerated-and the higher on the pole you were the more grotesque the punishment.
“Not to worry, Clifford,” Carbonell finally said, “I did you one other favor.”
He was listening.
“I cultivated a second informant. One who provided information to me independent of you.”
More news.
“And I just sold that source out to Hale.”
He’d wondered how he was going to satisfy the captains’ demand that the spy be found.
“All you have to do in gratitude,” she said, “is one little thing.”
He realized that any gesture from her came with a price.
“Kill Stephanie Nelle.”
THIRTY
12:10 AM
heading south toward Virginia. Edwin Davis had offered her a choice of transportation, and she’d selected one of the Secret Service’s two-wheelers. She’d also changed, donning jeans, leather boots, and a black sweater.
Her talk with the First Lady still disturbed her.
Pauline Daniels was one conflicted woman.
“I don’t hate my husband,” the First Lady told her.
“You just resent him, and you’ve kept that bottled up for thirty years.”
“Politics is a powerful drug,” the older woman said. “If you’re successful at it, the effects are like a sedative. Adoration. Respect. Need. These can make you forget. And sometimes those of us who receive too much of this drug begin to believe that everyone loves us, that the world would be worse off if we weren’t around to help run it. We even begin to feel entitled. And I’m not talking about being president of the United States. Political worlds can be as big or small as we create for ourselves.”
She roared on, quickening her pace down the blackened highway. Not much traffic out at this hour beyond a procession of eighteen-wheelers taking advantage of uncrowded asphalt.
“When Mary died,” Pauline said, “Danny was a city councilman. He became mayor the next year, a state senator after that, then governor. It seemed that the depths of our tragedy gave birth to his success. He suppressed his grief through politics. He succumbed to the sedative. I wasn’t so lucky.”
“Have you two discussed this? Dealt with it?”
She shook her head. “It’s not his way. He never spoke of Mary again after the funeral. It is as if she never existed.”
“But that’s not what happened for you.”
