“THE VIDEOTAPE doesn’t prove that it’s Clay’s body...”
“The president called and said the tape is unconfirmed...”
“Joe Nash doesn’t believe they killed him...”
The comments filled the living room, but Aidan sat stone-faced in front of the TV, his hands linked between his spread legs. Since C.J. had rushed out to the backyard to tell him the news, he was more introverted than she’d ever seen him. Gone was the carefree, gregarious brother of the Second Lady. The somber man before her was grieving.
She had to struggle to focus on the TV and not on him. Over and over CNN ran the grainy tape of a body lying on the ground, hooded and unidentifiable. Behind it stood a man in a mask, holding a rifle, speaking in Zanganesian. The translation scrolled across the bottom of the screen. “The vice president of the United States has been executed. We will kill every American inside the embassy unless our prisoners are released.”
After thirty minutes of watching the newscast, Aidan looked up at Mitch. “What should we do? About my sister?”
“Don’t wake her yet. Let’s give it an hour.” Her coworker’s face was almost as grim as Aidan’s. “If there’s still no confirmation—one way or the other—we’ll tell her then.”
“I’ll tell her.” His voice was raw. “It’ll be best to hear it from me.” He frowned. “What about Jon? If he sees this, he’ll believe...”
“The president has been in touch with Clay’s son.”
Unable to stand idly by and watch Aidan suffer alone, C.J. dropped down on the couch next to him and—fuck it—she took his hand, clasped it between both of hers. “I’m so sorry.”
He gripped her so tightly, pain shot up her arm. Mitch pretended not to notice what they were doing. They all sat there, watching the damned video replay its deadly message, searching for clues in the scene that Clay might still be alive.
Then President Langley preempted the video. In calm, reassuring tones, he reiterated what he’d told Mitch when he called during the night. Something was wrong, though. C.J. could tell by Langley’s tight jaw and the sadness in his eyes that he wasn’t revealing everything he knew. She prayed he wasn’t lying about Clay.
Mitch’s phone rang, making the three of them jump.
He answered it. A pause. “No! Fuck!”
Aidan’s whole body tensed. C.J. moved in closer and linked her arm with his.
Covering the phone, Mitch said, “It’s not Clay. But it’s been confirmed that one agent is dead, and two others are wounded.”
“What?”
C.J. asked, “Who was killed?”
“Tim Jenkins.”
Her hand went to her mouth and she gasped. The brutal image of the baby-faced agent who was more competent than any she knew, dead in a tiny foreign country, made her stomach cramp.
This time, Aidan took her hand. Not only was a good man dead, but this was bad news for Clay. “I’m sorry about your colleague.”
“Me, too.”
The room was funereal as the reality of Jenkins’s death sunk in, and as they kept vigil for news of Clay.
A half hour...
Forty-five minutes...
It was nearing the one-hour deadline Mitch had set for them to wake Bailey. And no one had called to say Clay Wainwright was alive.
Aidan stood abruptly. “I’m going to check on Angel.”
C.J. rose, too. “I’m coming with you.”
Mitch shot them a glance, said nothing and went back to staring stone-faced at the screen. C.J. followed Aidan to the staircase and climbed the steps behind him, watching his stiff shoulders, his tense back. She longed to soothe him, but she promised she wouldn’t make any overtures. They entered the small bedroom and found Angel awake and standing up in her crib. Her face rosy, her curls damp, she babbled when she saw Aidan.
“She always does this,” he said, his voice rough. “She wakes up and just waits for Bailey or Clay to come get her. Rory used to scream his head off in the morning.” Leaning over the crib, he picked up the baby. “Hello, beautiful. How are you?” He held Angel to his chest. “They’ll grow up without a father. Angel will never really have known him. The baby...” She could see his eyes mist. “Rory adores him.”
“I know.”
“He’ll never be that happy-go-lucky boy again, will he?”
Sugarcoating this wouldn’t be right. “Not for a while.”
His hand smoothed down Angel’s hair; he stared at C.J. “You think they did it, don’t you? That they already killed him.”
“I think it’s a strong possibility. One you need to prepare yourself for.”
He kissed Angel’s head. “I can’t believe it.”
Angel chose that moment to babble, “Da-da-da.”
Tears leaked from Aidan’s eyes. “I can’t do this.”
C.J. crossed to him, put her arm around his shoulder, and laid her head against it. “Yes, you can. You have to do this for your sister.” She whispered, “And I’ll help you.”
There was movement at the doorway. Bailey stood there, sleep-tousled and totally unaware that her life was about to fall apart.
“Aidan, what are you doing in here with Angel?” She cocked her head. “C.J.? You both look awful.” Then she grabbed the doorjamb. “Oh, God, oh no. Something’s happened, hasn’t it?”
Handing Angel to C.J., Aidan crossed to his sister and grasped her shoulders. “Yes, honey, it has.”
o0o
HEARING THE DISTANT phones in the background, Aidan stared down at Bailey and for a minute thought he was going to be sick. How could he tell her this? “Let’s sit down, B.”
“No.” She gripped his arm. “Just tell me now, like you used to when something went wrong. Quick and to the point, A.”
Feet pounded on the stairway behind them. Over Bailey’s shoulder, Aidan saw Mitch striding down the corridor to Angel’s room, holding his cell. “President Langley’s on the phone. Not only is Clay alive, but he’s escaped. He’s safe, Bailey.”
Bailey collapsed against Aidan. He held her close; in his peripheral view, he saw C.J. clinging to Angel.
“Are you sure he’s safe?” Bailey asked.
“Here.” Mitch held out the phone. “The president wants to talk to you.”
Her hands shaking, Bailey took the phone. “Hello, Mark. Yes, yes.” She bit her lip. “I...I’m so...” She began to cry as she listened. When she started to sob, she handed the phone to Aidan.
He took it and kissed her cheek. “Mr. President, this is Bailey’s brother, Aidan. She can’t talk right now.”
The president’s deep voice came across the line. “I’m sorry they put her through this.”
“Well, they didn’t put her through much. We didn’t wake her up. I was just about to tell her about the videotape when you called.”
Langley chuckled. “There’ll be hell to pay over that one. Bailey doesn’t like to be kept in the dark.”
“Just so Clay’s all right.”
“Calloway has the details. Tell Bailey to call me later when she’s composed. Oh, and tell her I’ve got a second call into Jon in Paris. I want him to hear this from me ASAP.”
When Aidan clicked off, he saw Angel babbling from the crib, and Bailey crying in C.J.’s arms. Agent Ludzecky’s cheeks were wet.
Bailey drew back and swiped at her face. “I—I’m just so relieved.” She drew in a heavy breath. “I have to call Jon. He needs to be told right away his father’s okay.”
Aidan explained that the president was doing just that.
Mitch was smiling. “Come on downstairs and I’ll fill you in on the details.”
Lifting the baby from the crib again, Aidan held her close as they trekked down the steps with a lighter tread than when he and C.J. climbed them a few minutes ago. He said a quick prayer of thanks for Clay’s safety. They sat in the kitchen and while C.J. fixed a sippy cup and cereal for Angel. Mitch spoke directly to Bailey, who’d taken the chair across from him. She was pale but in control.
“We received a message yesterday that the terrorists threatened to kill Mr. Wainwright at dawn if their demands weren’t met.”
Bailey flushed. “You didn’t tell me?”
“I couldn’t. The FBI’s directive was clear.”
“Go on,” she said, but Aidan could tell she was miffed. Long ago she’d extracted a promise from Clay and the Secret Service not to keep anything from her.
“Mr. Wainwright was beaten, Bailey. We heard this right after you went to sleep.”
His sister’s eyes rounded. “How badly was he hurt?”
“All we know is that he’s safe. He should be on a DC-11 by now and calling you any time now.”
“You don’t know the extent of his injuries?”
“He’s well enough to travel. He can walk around, talk. The agents said to tell you he was all right.”
“What about the death report?”
“About six a.m., a tape hit national TV showing a body lying on the ground.” Mitch described the gruesome sight in detail.
Bailey shuddered.
“He’s okay, honey,” Aidan told her.
“How did he get out?” C.J. asked, holding the cup for the baby, then spooning the cereal into her mouth.
Mitch smiled. “On the vice president’s last trip to Zanganesia, he’d been nice to the staff. Complimenting the food and service. Thanking them. Lower-level jobs are held by natives, and some of the more haughty visitors to the embassy treat them badly.”
“Clay wouldn’t do that.”
“And it saved his life. A man named Famita brought him food, then ice for his bruises. Mr. Wainwright showed him pictures of Angel and Rory and the man showed him his grandchildren. It appears that when Famita got wind that the terrorists were going to kill Mr. Wainwright, he smuggled the vice president out and to his own home. They got in touch with the local FBI from there.”
“Smuggled him out? How?”
“The terrorists had the vice president in a wine cellar. Famita stole the key, and he and two of his sons conked the guard over the head. They snuck Clay out in a laundry truck.”
“Sounds like a movie.”
“I assure you it was real. He shook his head. “These people were not Al-Qaida quality terrorists, thank God. Basically they were a bunch of militants and drug dealers.”
“What happened to them?”
“SWAT teams went in when there was no activity for a while, and when no demands were reiterated. Apparently the terrorists left when they discovered Mr. Wainwright escaped.” He cleared his throat. “I assure you the government will track them down.”
“Will Famita’s family be safe in Zanganesia now?” Bailey asked.
“Probably not. So Clay insisted they come to the U.S., at his expense. They’re under the FBI’s protective custody until that can be arranged.”
Closing her eyes, Bailey leaned her head back against the chair. “I can’t believe this happened and no one was hurt.”
Mitch’s face grew somber. “People were hurt, Ms. O’Neil. One of Clay’s agents was killed and two were injured.”
Bailey gasped. “Who?”
“Tim Jenkins.”
Tears again. She covered her face with her hands. “Oh, no, his wife has a baby on the way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Clay must be devastated.”
Just then Mitch’s phone rang. He clicked on. “Yes, Mr. Vice President. She’s right here.”
Bailey stood, took the phone, and walked into the living room. From the kitchen, they could hear soft sobs, mumbles, relieved laughter.
Aidan leaned back against the chair, dazed from the events of the morning. He watched C.J. feed Angel and coo to her. The sun streamed in and caught the highlights of their hair. He pictured her as his wife, feeding their own child at the breakfast table.
Then going off to some foreign country to protect a dignitary. And getting killed like Jenkins.
He shook his head. She was right all along. He could never handle her job.
o0o
THE EMOTION of the morning left them limp as rag dolls. Bailey slept when Angel went down, and even Aidan took a nap. C.J. was too wound up to rest, and devastated about Jenkins’s death and the other agents’ injuries. Mitch was stretched out on the couch in the living room trying to catch a few winks. He hadn’t slept all night. She was in the kitchen with Gorman and Girard and three agents the field office had sent over, mourning the loss of their colleague.
“Remember when he got on the VPPD?”
“He was so excited about the new baby...”
“He was only thirty-five...”
“He was leaving, you know. At the end of Clay’s term...”
Unspoken, and underscoring their grief, was the knowledge that what had happened to Jenkins could happen to any one of them. It was a sobering afternoon.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the events of the last few hours had hit Aidan like a sledgehammer. If the McCarthy tape wasn’t enough to kill their relationship, the death of an agent landed the fatal blow. C.J. could read it on his face and in the stiff movements of his body.
That was good. He’d finally seen the light.
Curses, loud and vehement, came from the living room. C.J. bounded out of her chair along with the other agents. Rushing into the room, they saw Mitch standing before the TV. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
“What is it?”
He pointed to the screen.
Hell, there was that damn reporter again. They listened to her opening. In just a few hours, she’d put together a piece on the Secret Service—and on Tim Jenkins.
“The Secret Service is a noble calling. Now a twenty-seven-hundred-agent organization, and part of Homeland Security, it began in the 1800s as a branch of the Treasury Department, formed to catch counterfeiters. Late in the nineteenth century, the department instituted informal protection of the president and in 1902, the service officially took over full-time responsibility for presidential safety.” She faced the camera gravely. “Luckily for Vice President Clay Wainwright, in 1962 a law was passed making it mandatory for the vice president to have Secret Service protection.”
Scott gave a grim smile. “But how many of these brave men and women go into the service thinking they’ll die, like Tim Jenkins did last night? There had never been a death of an agent protecting a president or vice president until yesterday, but there have been fatalities. The first Secret Service agent to die in the line of duty, Joseph Walker, was investigating land fraud in 1907. The first female agent to die was Julia Cross, while trying to break up a ring of counterfeiters. Six agents were killed in the Oklahoma City bombings, and one died during 9/11.”
Then Tim Jenkins’s face came on-screen. C.J. groaned. Several of the guys swore. “Special Agent Timothy Jenkins was born in 1972 in a small town in Connecticut. He married his high school sweetheart...”
C.J. was mesmerized watching the footage of Jenkins’s young life, his wedding picture, his smile when he graduated from the Beltsville training academy, shots of him and his sons. But there was something wrong about this newscast: It felt like such a violation of the family’s privacy, an exploitation of their fresh grief. Logically, she knew the press could, and sometimes should, report the news without bias or emotion. There was an amendment to assure that right. But this wasn’t just news. It was sensationalism, especially so soon after Jenkins’s death. She’d had the same feeling about them exposing Bailey’s whereabouts on the lake.
When the broadcast ended, the room was church quiet. Everybody seemed stunned.
C.J. heard a rustle behind them and turned to find Aidan on the stairs. He’d obviously been there watching the tape. Without saying anything, he strode through the room and out the front door.
The day dragged on. Patrick, Dylan and Bailey’s parents came and went. The president called back. Jon phoned and asked if he should come home. Bailey’s friends at ESCAPE checked in to see how she was doing. At seven p.m., there was a commotion outside. Bailey, who was pacing the living room waiting for her husband, went running to the foyer, but Mitch blocked her before she reached it. “I know you want to go out there and greet him, Ms. O’Neil, but I can’t let you do that.”
Bailey brought herself to her five-seven height. “Listen, Mitch...”
C.J. knew she was going to argue this one, but it became a moot point as the door opened and, like a hero returning from war, a battered Clay Wainwright strode through it. Bailey flung herself at him and though he winced—he had purplish bruises on his face and arms—he held her tight.
Every agent in the room busied himself; C.J. suspected they were as moved as she was.
When Bailey finally let go of Clay, he kissed her head, drew he to his side and led her into the room. Up close, C.J. could see his face was discolored and puffy; his eyes were a muddy blue. His gaze took in all the agents. “I want to say how sorry I am about Tim. I liked him very much.” He swallowed hard. “He died saving my life.”
Murmurs all around.
Clay cleared his throat. “And I want to reiterate how much I appreciate what you do for me and my family.” He went to each agent and shook their hands. When he came to C.J., his expression grew even more serious. “No words can convey how much I’m in debt to you, Agent Ludzecky—C.J.” And then he did something he’d never done before. He hugged her. When he drew back, he said, “You saved my son from kidnapping. I can never, ever express my gratitude deeply enough.”
“I was just doing my job, sir.”
“I know.” Smiling, he moved back to Bailey. “Now, I’d like some time with my wife.” He looked to Mitch. “Could you get me everything you have on Rachel Scott?”
“The reporter?”
“Yes, the one that’s dogged my family during their worst times. The one who led the kidnappers to Rory. And the one who completely sensationalized Tim Jenkins’s death in the TV show I saw on board the plane. She won’t be a happy camper once I’m through with her.”
After the vice president and Second Lady went upstairs, Gorman said, “Man, I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”
Mitch’s phone rang again. “What now?” he wondered aloud and answered it.
C.J. waited.
“Are you kidding? Hell, they don’t need this. All right, we’ll wait for him.” He clicked off and faced the rest of them. “You won’t believe this. There’s been a threat against Bailey’s life. It came in at the field office here in the city.”
“What did it say?” C.J. asked.
“I quote, ‘The vice president didn’t die, but his wife will. Just like the agent you saw on TV.’”