Si saw the lifeguard stands and the Worth Avenue clock tower, then the breaker walls protecting the mansions along Ocean Avenue. He knew most of the houses, or at least the names of the owners, and he called off each one as Meg steered the drone farther south.
“Holy shit—wow,” Meg commented as the drone flew past the impressive buildings. “Did you see that place?”
“Yeah—it’s crazy money, Meg,” Si laughed. “No bullshit, some of the owners spend barely a few days in those places—not months or even weeks. These are their third or fourth homes. Like I said, crazy.”
“Speaking ofcrazy, looks like the Egorov boys are home tonight.” The unmistakable silhouettes of a Lamborghini and a Ferrari loomed in the half-moon driveway of their estate. “Let’s do a flyby and see what’s what.”
CHAPTER 78
Governor Larson HQ, Colorado
The view of Cheyenne Mountain was breathtaking as night began to fall. To Governor Theresa Larson, the sun’s slow descent highlighted both the beauty and the might of the Rocky Mountains—not to mention the beauty and might of the United States.
“Will you be joining us, Theresa?”
The governor sipped her Grey Goose as she turned from the window of her suite at the Broadmoor to face her husband, Mark.
“I momentarily lost myself in the beauty of the mountains,” she lied. “My apologies, Mark, everyone.”
Theresa Larson’s adoring campaign staff was gathered around. The assassination of Senator Coleman Harrison was a tragedy, but it also left little doubt that their candidate would be firmly on the road to Pennsylvania Avenue, delivering the reassuring message that America needed and wanted.
The system,as every campaigning politician in historycategorically stated,was broken. Well, the same was true of her marriage.
Her husband, Mark Larson, had no official role in her campaign. She put up with him. She had to. That was the agreement. But she also knew that deals were made to be broken. Maybe one day soon, if the stars aligned, she would set the record straight.
She was well aware of the rumors, and she hated her staff for spreading them. Some said Mark’s domineering attitude revealed his anger at her success. Others said that theirs was a marriage of convenience, that he was obviously having an affair because they never displayed any affection in public. Yet another theory was that she tolerated Mark because she was mildly depressed. Depending on who was around and how much alcohol was being consumed, the staffers occasionally delighted in even more scandalous Page Six–level gossip.
By January, they would all be vying for jobs in the Larson administration, where Theresa would be commander in chief. Mark could enjoy the life of the First Gentleman, treat his staff like shit, and be an asshole to whomever he pleased.
While Mark took a phone call, Larson glanced around the room, reminding herself why she hated each of them so much. The guy on the couch was obnoxious. The woman in the blue skirt was a liar. The tall one was an ass-kisser. And that gem of an aide of Mark’s—Cindy something—was just fucking worthless. For all Larson knew, Mark could very well be doing her.
No matter how often she tried to give her staff the benefit of the doubt, she realized the real reason why she hated them:Every single one of these pretentious, blood-sucking leeches thought she was just as afraid of her husband as they clearly were.
The truth was that Theresa was not the least bit afraid of Mark Larson.
“Mark, would you let the briefer know we’re ready for the intelligence update?” the governor commanded.
The video conference with Langley was about to begin. Larson nodded to her chief of staff, who ushered those without proper security credentials out of the room.
As the briefer appeared on the giant plasma screen in front of Theresa Larson’s eyes, all her problems with Mark and the others drifted away.
This was her arena and she was at home.
CHAPTER 79
Egorov Gulfstream
The Gulfstream cruised effortlessly above the clouds at 39,000 feet and about 480 knots.
Natasha slept soundly on the couch while Alexander Egorov nodded absently to whoever was on the other end of the phone. Joseph had excused himself to the aft of the plane when the secure phone line rang, allowing his boss to speak in private.
After a minute or two, Egorov ended the call and signaled for Joseph to return. Joseph picked up where they had left off—going over the current contracts to be discussed with Pavel and Taras—but as he ran through the details of the used AK-47s and archaic tracked vehicles they’d sold to some revolutionaries in the Maghreb, Joseph could see that, despite the projected revenues, his boss was distracted.
“Sir?” he asked politely.
Alexander Egorov closed the folder, looked his protégé in theeye, and asked evenly, “Who the fuck were those people who boarded my yacht off the coast of Nantucket?”
Joseph was ready for the question, having received the latest bit of intelligence from his sources while the G5 engines whined before takeoff.
