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She nestled the weapon’s barrel to his right kneecap.
“I’d like nothing more than to pull this trigger and make you a cripple,” she whispered, her tone at variance with her smile.
“I see I made a mistake not shooting you before tossing you into that hole.”
“Add that to your growing list of errors.”
He returned his attention to the ham and eggs on his plate. “And what other mistakes have I made?”
“One of your men is dead. I assume the knight who was just here reported that. Then there’s another knight with probably a destroyed knee out in the truck. And don’t forget about the stack of gold still waiting out in the open back at the mine. That’s a lot of problems. Not to mention that your men led me straight here.”
He motioned with his knife and fork. “Did you ever think I might have wanted that to happen?”
“I can’t imagine why.”
She pressed the gun firmer to his kneecap to make her point clear.
His eyes locked on hers and she saw, for the first time, a touch of annoyance. And she doubted that face ever relaxed into a smile, except to deceive.
“Give it a try,” she said, reading his mind as he seemed to be deciding whether to challenge her. “Please. I want you to.”
And her right thumb cocked the gun’s hammer, which clicked into place, adding an exclamation point to her request.
“What do you want?” he calmly asked her.
“Answers.”
He returned to his food and stuffed a fork full of runny eggs into his mouth. “I was assuming you’d be soon dead, so I didn’t mind providing you information back in the mine. Now is a different story.”
“And I’m sure, at the moment, you’re trying to decide how you can get out of here with both legs intact.”
He chewed. “The thought had occurred to me.”
“Do the Knights of the Golden Circle really still exist?”
“I can’t answer that.”
She pressed again with the gun.
“But I can take you to someone who can.”
“Nice try. But I never give up a position of advantage.”
He reached for a piece of toast and buttered it. “You must forgive my manners, but I haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon. It was a long night.”
“Moving all that gold works up an appetite?”
“Your name, Cassiopeia Vitt, it sounds mysterious.”
“More Spanish.”
“You’re a beautiful woman.”
“You can’t honestly think that’s going to distract me.”
“I didn’t say it to distract. I just spoke the truth.”
“You do this all the time?”
He motioned to his plate. “Have breakfast? Of course. Every day. It’s the day’s most important meal.” He grinned at his own joke, and she told herself to be careful. “If it matters, I took no pleasure in tossing you down that hole.”
“I feel so much better. Thank you for sharing that.” She’d been around Cotton too long, now mimicking his sarcasm. “You clearly don’t understand. I am with the federal government and you’re coming into custody.”
“On what charge?”
“Murder.”
He chuckled. “Who did I kill? From what I was told, Terry Morse shot my man. Do you plan to take him into custody, too?”
“What do you think?”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with him. A knight does not kill another knight.”
“I thought he was a sentinel.”
“He is. But he’s also a knight.”
She decided to point out, “This is an intelligence operation.”
He seemed to consider that for a moment. “I feel honored.”
“Don’t be. But prosecuting you is not what the people I work for will want.”
He got the message. No rules. “You’ll learn nothing from me.”
She shrugged. “There’s a dead man in Washington, DC, and another woman fighting for her life. She’s head of a major U.S. intelligence agency, the one who sent me here. I’m betting there’s a connection between that murder, what happened to her, and you. Her agency is going to want to talk to you, and they’re not going to be subtle about how they get answers.”
Proctor pushed his plate aside and patted at his mouth with a napkin. A sinister expression swept over his face, which deepened into a look of cruelty. “That all depends.”
“On what?”
“You getting out of this town alive.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Danny stepped from the taxi. His new chief of staff had learned that Lucius Vance was having lunch near the White House at the Willard Hotel. He knew the place. A city landmark since before the Civil War, it liked to brag that every president since Franklin Pierce had either slept or attended an event there at least once, himself no exception. He’d visited several times, even staying there in the days leading up to his first inauguration.
All of the hype was correct. A lot had happened at the Willard, its halls always thick with ambassadors, politicos, and celebrities. “The Battle Hymn of the Republic” had been composed in one of its rooms. Martin Luther King Jr. polished off his “I Have a Dream” speech while a guest. Dickens and Hawthorne had frequented. Lincoln and Coolidge even lived there awhile. If legend was to be believed, Ulysses Grant liked to sit in the elegant lobby, drink whiskey, and smoke a cigar. Folks would approach him and ask political favors, which supposedly led to the term lobbying.
Danny entered through the front doors, the atmosphere rich in ambience, the walls and floor adorned with veined marble, mosaics, and glass. He’d always thought it looked more like a museum than a hotel, exuding the same timeless feel. It was definitely one of the finest hotels in the country. They simply were not made like this anymore.
He followed a palm-lined promenade called Peacock Alley back to the Willard Room. What was the brag? The best dining space in DC. No question. And it came with all the bells and whistles. Two stories high, walnut-paneled, green-veined marble columns, bold fabrics. He’d always liked how the tables were spaced apart with lots of elbow room, offering an element of privacy that wasn’t often found in such a grand space. As president, he’d attended a couple of diplomatic luncheons there.
The paneled doors leading into the dining room were swung open and two Secret Service agents stood guard, as he would expect given the Speaker of House was nearby. He recognized both from Alex’s funeral and last night at Diane’s house. He could hear a murmur of conversation and the tinkle of cutlery to china. He caught sight of the tables, and it appeared this was a small private gathering. Only three were adorned in white tablecloths beneath dimly lit chandeliers. Stewards fussed around, serving a cozy midday meal. He took a quick count. Twelve diners. His new chief of staff had learned that Vance was having a working lunch.
“Hastily called,” the source had privately noted.
And conspicuously away from the Capitol.
Vance sat at one of the tables, talking to a few other congressmen, all of whom Danny recognized. He surveyed the remaining faces and was pleased he recalled nearly all of them, too. Thankfully, he’d been blessed with a good memory for faces.
He took a step to enter and one of the agents stopped him. “This is a closed lunch, Mr. President.”
He threw the man a glare. “At least you still recognize me.”
“I do, sir. And this is awkward, to say the least.”
“Not really. I need to see the Speaker.”
“He instructed us that this was to be a closed gathering. No one allowed in.”
He’d always been irritated with how the Secret Service took everything literally. “You’re not serious, are you? Do you really want to have this fight? I’ll tell you now, you’ll lose.”
For eight years he’d had to do exactly what his protection detail required. So many rules and procedures, all aggravating. At first he’d bucked the system. Eventually, he just gave in and did what he was t
old. But that had not meant he’d liked it. So he sure as hell wasn’t going to be told what to do now.
He allowed the agent time to consider the gravity of his challenge and a chance to make the right call.
Which the man did.
Stepping aside.
“Good move,” Danny said.
He entered the dining room and walked straight over to Lucius Vance. He noticed that the others present instantly recognized him, tossing that look he’d grown accustomed to while in the White House. The there’s the president of the United States stare. Several had given it to him out in the lobby, including the doorman, but he’d just kept smiling and walking.
Vance saw him coming and stopped talking, rising from his seat. “Our newest senator from Tennessee. What brings you here?”
The Speaker extended a hand to shake, which he did not accept. Normally, he would have, rocking his enemy to sleep, adhering to what Vito Corleone told his eldest. Never let anyone know what you’re thinking. But this was different. He’d come to set a fire and drive snakes from the bushes. No use mincing words or actions. Vance clearly did not appreciate the rebuke, especially in front of his peers.
“We need to talk,” he said to the Speaker.
“You can see I’m engaged in a lunch, with House members.”
Fair enough. He’d embarrassed him, so a little pushback. To be expected. So he turned his attention to the others, who might not be willing to be so brazen toward a former president of the United States and new senator from Tennessee. “You folks care if I borrow him for a few minutes?”
No one said a word.
He extended his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “See, they don’t mind.”
This was fun. Like back in Maryville on the city council when you made your plays upfront, right in the face of your enemy. Toe-to-toe. Not like the hit-or-miss warfare-from-the-bushes practiced around this town. He was betting Vance would be too curious to know what was going on to refuse his invitation, and he was right.
