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Shouts came, ordering him to the floor.
He dropped to his knees.
NINE
CASSIOPEIA VITT STEPPED FROM THE SHOWER AND REACHED FOR a terry-cloth robe. Before nestling her damp skin within its soft folds she did what she usually did after a bath, at least whenever possible-she weighed herself. She’d tested the digital scale yesterday, after rinsing away the transatlantic flight with another long hot soak. Of course, flying always added kilograms. Why? Something about dehydration and fluid retention. She wasn’t obsessed with her weight. More curious. Middle age was approaching, and what she ate and what she did seemed to matter so much more than five years ago.
She studied the scale’s LCD display.
56.7 KG.
Not bad.
She tied the robe and wrapped her wet hair in a towel. The CD player in the other room offered a classical medley. She loved the St. Regis, a legendary landmark smack in the heart of Manhattan, a stone’s throw from Central Park. It had been where her parents had stayed when they’d visited New York, and where she always stayed. So when Cotton suggested a weekend across the Atlantic, she’d immediately offered to arrange the accommodations.
She chose the Governor’s Suite not only for its views but also for its two bedrooms. Though they’d made great strides, she and Cotton were still exploring their fledgling relationship. Granted, one of the bedrooms had yet to be utilized, but it was there-just in case.
They’d spent a lot of time together since returning from China, both in Copenhagen and at her French chateau. So far the emotional plunge, new to them both, seemed okay. She felt safe with Cotton-comfortable, knowing they were equals. He said all the time that women were not his strong point, but he underestimated himself. This trip seemed a perfect example. Though its primary purpose had been for him to meet with Stephanie Nelle, she’d appreciated the simple fact that he’d wanted her along.
But she, too, had combined pleasure with some business.
One of her least favorite tasks was looking after the family concerns. She was the sole heir to her father’s financial empire, which totaled in the billions and stretched across six continents. A central management team, headquartered in Barcelona, ran the everyday operations. She was provided weekly reports but occasionally her input, as the only shareholder, was required. So yesterday afternoon, and again today, she’d met with her American managers. She was good at business, but smart enough to trust her employees. Her father taught her always to invest those in charge with a stake in the outcome-a percentage of the profits, however small-and he was right. She’d been blessed with a team that treated her companies as their own, and they’d actually multiplied her net worth.
Cotton had left a couple of hours ago, having decided to walk to 42nd Street. That was the thing about New York-so much traffic, it was far easier to stroll the thirteen blocks. Tonight was dinner and a show. Her choice, he’d said. So she’d purchased the tickets a few days ago and made reservations for afterward at one of her favorite eateries. She’d also stopped at Bergdorf Goodman and bought a new dress.
Why not? Every once in a while a girl had to splurge.
She’d been lucky in the store. The Armani she chose fit perfectly, not a single alteration required. Black silk, backless, decadent.
Just what they both needed.
She liked thinking about pleasing someone else. Those thoughts had been foreign to her for the majority of her life. Was that love? Maybe a part of it. Or at least she hoped.
The doorbell rang.
She smiled, thinking back to yesterday when they’d arrived.
I learned something a long time ago, Cotton had said. If you come to your hotel room and there’s double doors, something pretty good is on the other side. If there’s a doorbell, that’s always a good sign, too. But if there’s double doors and a doorbell, holy crap, look out.
She’d ordered wine and hors d’oeuvres since it would be a while until dinner. Cotton didn’t drink alcohol-never had, he said-so she’d substituted cranberry juice for him. He should be back soon. His meeting with Stephanie was at 6:15 and it was now pushing eight o’clock. They’d need to be leaving shortly.
The bell rang again.
She left the bathroom and walked through a spacious living room to the double doors. She turned the latch, but the door was suddenly forced toward her, the unexpected action reeling her back.
Two men rushed inside.
She reacted and spun, driving her leg into a stomach and thrusting with her right fist, aiming for the second man’s throat. Her kick found flesh and the man doubled forward, but she missed the other. She spun again, the towel in her hair falling away, and saw the gun.
Aimed straight at her.
Three more armed men appeared.
She froze and realized her robe was askew, providing her visitors with a view. Her fists were raised, nerves ready. “Who are you?”
“Secret Service,” one of them said. “You’re under arrest.”
What had Cotton done now? “Why?”
“Assassination of the president of the United States.”
Rarely was she genuinely surprised. It happened, but not often. But assassination of the president of the United States?
That was a new one.
“You need to lower your arms and place them behind your back,” the agent calmly said. “And maybe close that robe.”
She did as he suggested and composed herself. “Am I allowed to dress before you take me away?”
“Not alone.”
She shrugged. “I can handle it, if you can.”
TEN
MALONE REALIZED THEY WEREN’T HEADED TO ANY POLICE station. He’d been cuffed and quickly led from Grand Central. They’d confiscated his wallet and St. Regis room key, so he assumed Cassiopeia was going to have visitors. Too bad about dinner and the show. Would have been fun. He’d even bought some new clothes for the occasion.
They’d given him no time to speak. Instead he was stuffed into a waiting car, left alone for a few minutes, then driven away. Now they were crossing the East River and entering Queens, heading away from Manhattan. Police cars ahead cleared a path. If he didn’t know better he’d swear they were headed for JFK airport. Were they transporting him to a place under their exclusive control?
You can’t trust anyone.
Stephanie’s caution.
Perhaps she was right.
He doubted anyone in the car was going to volunteer anything, but there was one thing he wanted to say. “Fellows, you know my name, so you know my background. I didn’t try to kill anybody.”
Neither of the agents in the front seat nor the one sitting next to him
in the rear responded. So he tried a different tack.
“Is Daniels all right?” he asked.
No response again.
The guy beside him was young and eager. Probably his first time in a situation like this.
“I need to speak with someone at the Magellan Billet,” he said, changing his tone from friendly to irritated.
The agent in the front, sitting on the passenger side, turned toward him. “You need to sit there and shut up.”
“How about you stick it up your ass.”
The man shook his head. “Look, Malone, make this easy and just ride. Okay?”
This conspiracy reaches far.
More of Stephanie’s warning.
Which they now had, the note taken from him when he was searched.
So they knew he knew.
Fantastic.
They rode in silence for ten more minutes, then motored into JFK, passing through a gate that led directly to where planes were busy coming and going. One, though, sat alone, away from the others, ringed by police. A 747, painted blue and white, an American flag on its tail, the words UNITED STATES OF AMERICA stenciled in gold on its fuselage.
Air Force One.
A navy-blue jacket was tossed from the front seat. “Put it on,” came the command.
He noticed three gold letters stamped on the front and back.
FBI.
They wheeled to the stairs that led up into the plane. The cuffs on his wrists were removed and he stepped from the car, slipping on the jacket. A man appeared from the far side of the stairs. Tall, lanky, with thin gray hair and a tranquil face.
Edwin Davis.
“They’re watching us,” Davis said. “From the terminal. Every network has a camera here with a telescopic lens. Careful with your words. They hire lip-readers.”
“I heard you got promoted.”
Last time they’d met in Venice, Davis was a deputy national security adviser. Now he served as White House chief of staff.
Davis motioned to the rolling stairs and muttered, “Lucky me. Let’s go up.”
