The Shop

nowhere in evidence, he unlocked the back door.

A fly zoomed out, clipping his cheek. And another, followed by the smell. Underlying the smell of the hot, closed-up house was the bloated stench of death.

He stepped back out into the yard. They’d need a cleanup crew pronto. But even as he punched in the number, Cardamone realized he had to go in.

He had to know what happened here.

The cleanup crew on the way, Cardamone reached into the duffle and pulled on a jumpsuit, plastic booties, a shower cap, and gloves.

He started with the hallway and checked the back rooms. The corpses were no shock; he’d expected to find them there. Jackson, Davis, and Green were recognizable from the photos he remembered. Professional job. He was only surprised by the third one, Green. Green, of all people, had put up a fight. Glued to the floor by his own gore. Arterial blood had arced up and out, spraying the walls.

Do not go gentle into that good night…

His mother’s favorite poem.

He searched the rest of the house with mounting unease.

Where was Peters?

Another surprise—two bodies in the garage. Neither one of them was Peters.

With a shock, he recognized them: Salter and Bakus.

So where was Peters?

On his way back to the rental house, Cardamone’s thoughts raced. He needed to discipline himself, think this through. The house would be wiped clean. No worries there.

But where was Peters?

A couple of phone calls confirmed what Cardamone already knew: there had been no raid on the compound off Cape San Blas.

Could Peters have done all this?

Cardamone searched his memory banks. Peters’s real name was Cyril Landry. Had Landry connected up with Franklin somehow, or was there someone else?

He would have to call back the second team. It would take time to get them all back together, and an assault on the island right now would not be optimal. Not if Franklin knew about the raid. Not if there were hundreds of reporters with cameras roaming the island. Better hope the storm came in on time and chased the media away.

It all came down to this: was Franklin behind this? It seemed impossible. Franklin was such a screwup.

In fact, it was one of Frank’s adventures that made Mike decide to pull the plug.

Franklin told him about his long-lost cousin, Nick Holloway, who was chronicling Brienne Cross’s reality show for Vanity Fair. He told Mike he’d had no choice but to save Nick’s life.

Frank knew a congressman from Colorado who had a son named Mars. Mars lived in Aspen, couldn’t keep a job, and partied all the time. “Kid’s a real sociopath,” Franklin said. “Perfect for the job.”

Frank had had to do it all on the fly, but Mars was easy to find. The kid liked the easy cash, thought it would be a lark. Mars tried to lure Nick away from the party, but that didn’t work. Ultimately he put Rohypnol in Nick’s drink, rolled him down the walkway, and pushed him into the garage and under Brienne’s car.

When Mike found out about it, he sent one of his operatives to scrub Mars. That was how it was: Mike always had to clean up Franklin’s messes.

Turned out Mars was already dead. Someone had gotten there ahead of him.

Or else the kid really did OD.

He needed to get the team back here. He might not use them, but at least he’d have them if he needed them. He called Gulf Homes, his clearinghouse for sensitive communications, and set it up.

He discovered, miracles of miracles, that his jet wasn’t en route to Atlanta, as had been planned. It was still in Tallahassee. A mechanical problem had kept it on the ground—a lucky break. The jet was ready to go, and presumably his team was still in Tallahassee.

It was meant to be.

And this time, he’d be with them, to make sure nothing went wrong.

Back at the house, he turned on the TV so he could follow the news while he waited for his team leader’s call.

Something one of the anchors said caused him to look at the TV.

He saw an empty space, trees in the background, some wind. The camera swung to a familiar figure striding across a green lawn and onto a white shell road.

Staring at the television, Cardamone sat down on the bed, his heart rate increasing to jackhammer speed. His ears burned. He stared a hole in the TV set, but the image didn’t change.

The attorney general had thrown down the gauntlet.

58

When their captor came for Jolie, her first emotion was gratitude. She’d wanted to get out of that room and away from those people in the worst way.

Inside the security center, he motioned her to a chair. Overhead was a bank of LCD screens, three vertical rows, six screens across, capturing images from remote cameras all over the island.

Bringing her out here, wanting her to watch the cameras—he must trust her on some level. Jolie could use this. “You want me to be a lookout.”

“That’s right.”

“I should at least know your name.”

“It’s Cyril.”

“The old man needs medical attention. He’s confused, frightened. Terrified.”

“That’s a shame.”

“He needs to get off the island.”

“How would you do it?”

Jolie tried not to show too much eagerness. “We could take the Hinckley.”

“No.”

“But—”

“Do you know what the stakes are?”

“I know there’s a terrified old man, innocent people are hostages—”

“That’s nothing.”

“Nothing? These people did nothing to you.”

“Franklin did.”

“Franklin? What did he do? If we’re going to leave, we have to go now. The storm is—”

He slammed his hand on the desk. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She stared at him.

“You remember Michael Jackson?”

“Michael Jackson?”

“His death blotted out all the news—it was all Michael Jackson all the time. Remember? Nothing else could get through. Cable TV, radio, newspapers—it was all-consuming. Do you remember Iran?

“Iran?”

“The riots? That girl, Neda, who was killed? All of that ended when Michael Jackson died.”

She did remember, but she was confused. “What does that have to do with getting out of here?”

“Listen to me. That’s what these guys did. Your uncle and Cardamone—Cardamone owns a security firm called Whitbread Associates. The government outsourced a program to Whitbread that would—every once in a while, not very often—take a high-profile celebrity out.”

Jolie stared at him, unable to make sense of what he was saying.

“They killed celebs to cover up other stuff.”