20

LANGLEY, VIRGINIA

The call came in at 11:30 p.m. His source was prompt and to the point. “Carson went to cut a deal with Spencer, but the president didn’t act fast enough for him. So Carson leaked something to the press to protect himself. Don’t know the details, but I can guess. It’ll run tomorrow in the Washington Post, the New York Times, and the Guardian. Those three at least.”

The man could already see the story in his mind’s eye: “President Rich has secret rendezvous with unknown source. Does he know more than he is willing to say about the bombing and the Arctic oil fiasco?” It would send Spencer’s ratings into a major nosedive if it looked like he was lying. It also set Carson up for the role of good guy, driven by his conscience to tell the truth about what was happening behind the scenes in high-powered circles.

“Any sources we can tap at one of the papers?” the man asked.

“Working on it as we speak. But it doesn’t seem like anybody knows much more than the basic info.”

Enough for the media to dangle out there to whet people’s appetites, but not enough details to make a full meal. It was what the man had expected—a well-worn technique to manipulate national and international events in the direction those in the know wished them to go.

When the man didn’t respond, his source went on. “Speculation has already kicked in. A media firestorm will soon explode. Spencer will have to act.”

That was a given. The president couldn’t let speculation like that go on for too long, especially when he was kicking off his reelection campaign.

“So, any movement?” the man asked.

His contact hesitated. “There’s a rumor, not yet confirmed, that Spencer has gone to the DOJ with a deal that’s to go into place for Jason Carson.”

“So when Sandstrom goes down, Carson doesn’t, is that it?”

“You got it. At least, that’s the hope.”

Politics was often like a shell game, with the shells shuffled until it was hard to tell who did what or which shell the item was under. The only thing that mattered was who was left holding that item when the game was over. Mark Chalmers was a pro at that.

“Stay on it,” the man directed.

“You know I will.” His source ended the call.

The man knew how the game would be played next. Spencer would make the deal with the Department of Justice to protect Carson—in order to keep any prying eyes away from the quid pro quo of $25 million from American Frontier. Then the rationale for the deal would be handed out as the truth to the national media and fed to an easily believing public. Carson would shine like the good guy telling the truth for the cause of life, liberty, and justice.

Spencer would stand behind American Frontier as a company. He’d explain his recent dip in backing as due to his discovery of recent details about the bombing, AF’s potential involvement, and who in the company might be involved with the cover-up. He would disavow any prior knowledge of Sandstrom’s actions regarding hiring the Polar Bear Bomber in order to turn sentiment to sympathy for the beleaguered oil company. He’d then say sadly that the events in the Arctic were a result of the greed of the CEO, who did not allow the proper time for research to be completed regarding safety of drilling in a fragile ecosystem before plowing ahead. He would promise that a full investigation into the matter had already been launched. As a result, his ratings would rise right before his reelection campaign. His honesty and drive to secure justice in a difficult situation would be heralded by the press.

Jason Carson? He’d get a hand slap—at the most—for following Sandstrom’s orders and be applauded for coming forward. The details surrounding what Carson did exactly for Sandstrom would be fuzzy and gray enough that he couldn’t be prosecuted. No, he might not hold a high position in government or business circles ever again, but neither would he be in prison. With the nest egg he had stashed away, he could live obscurely and more than comfortably in a country that didn’t have extradition, should things go south.

Sandstrom? He’d be the scapegoat, fed to the media pack. It was as simple as that.

It wasn’t that Sandstrom didn’t deserve it. The man behind the mahogany desk had been watching him for some time. Sandstrom played it fast and loose in many areas. This was the first time he might be caught.

However, Carson deserved his share of payback. The man had spent a majority of his career dealing with people like Jason Carson who had no conscience. People who were masters in manipulating others with fear and lies and then introducing to the press whatever speculation served them best.

The man hated it in every fiber of his being when the manipulators won. This time, he vowed, Carson wouldn’t.

But Spencer? That was a different matter entirely. It would keep the man awake the rest of the night.

NEW YORK CITY

At 11:45 p.m. Sarah was in wind-down mode, curled up on her couch, eating takeout brick-oven pizza. Other than the gala donor affairs she attended on behalf of the Worthington family that went late into the night, she now liked to settle in at home before midnight. It didn’t often happen that way, with her packed schedule, but she relished the evenings it did. Such desire was a far cry from her undergraduate days at Cambridge, where her social circles had kept her so booked she slept for no more than four or five hours straight.

Then, at Harvard Law, she’d discovered her passion for justice—to speak for those who couldn’t speak for themselves and to go after those who treated others as prey. The last seven years she’d spent in the DOJ had been fast-paced and hard but also ultimately satisfying. There was nothing like defending the country against high-roller low-life types who thought their wealth and position made them untouchable.

Like Carson and Sandstrom, Sarah thought. She frowned as she took another bite of pizza. She couldn’t help it—sometimes her work followed her home. It happened even more for this case because of her family’s long connection with American Frontier. It still bothered her that Jason Carson had been skulking around in the shadows when Will walked off the podium. Especially since she hadn’t been able to get anywhere with her quiet queries of what he was doing there—only that Sandstrom had been worried that Will would use the campaign to make things difficult for AF.

Just then her cell rang. Startled, she grabbed it, knowing it had to be Sean. Of course he’d call right before midnight, when she was likely to be at home, eating junk food to take the edge off her stressful day. He loved to wind her back up. It was a running joke between them.

“Hey, good lookin’, right on time,” she teased as she picked up the call.

The other end of the line was silent for a moment. Then a masculine voice said wryly, “I’m glad to know that. The compliment is much appreciated, but I don’t know what I’m on time for.”

“Jon! Oops. Thought it was Sean. He’s the only one who calls this late.”

“Ah, got it. Sorry it’s so late, but there’s something you need to know.” His tone morphed to all business.

She snapped upright on the couch and muted the sound on her TV.

“The Times office is still awake and buzzing over an anonymous tip.”

“Tip? What tip?” she asked, now as alert as if she’d drunk two cups of coffee.

“That a secret meeting took place between President Rich and a confidential source regarding the Polar Bear bombing.”

“And?”

“Chalmers must be running loops at the White House with the president, trying to figure out next steps. That’s all I have right now. The anonymous tip seemed a bit too convenient, so I took a pass on writing the story. But it’s going to run. Not all journalists are discerning. Especially if they’re too eager to get their name in print on a breaking story. Anything ‘conspiracy theory’ sells papers and gets a byline that people pay attention to, at least temporarily.” She heard his disgust, tempered with realism. “Some journalists have made their careers on what turns out later to be lies, but I don’t want to be one of them.”

His integrity and his on-target gut were only two of the qualities she admired about Jon Lucas Gillibrand.

“I wanted you to know,” Jon added. “I’m contacting Darcy too.”

“That will be an interesting call.” Sarah could imagine Darcy’s fiery response, especially if DHS hadn’t already been notified. “I’ll make some inquiries myself and let you know if I find out anything.”

“Sarah,” Jon asked hesitantly, “have you heard from Sean?”

She thought hard before she answered. “No, not for a while. That’s why I thought your call had to be him. But you know that’s not unusual for Sean—social with everybody except for his family.”

“I know, but this time feels different. I’m . . .”

Sarah took advantage of the pause to slide the pizza box off her lap and onto the coffee table. Her mother would have been horrified she was eating it out of the box without putting it on a proper plate. “You’re what?” she asked, scooting the phone to her other ear.

“I hope I didn’t offend him.”

“Offend him how?”

“By telling him I might want to spend some more time with Elizabeth.”

His words were sparse, but Sarah got it. “So you’re worried that you’re stepping on Sean’s toes? Did he tell you he was interested in her in that way?”

Sean had never said anything like that to Sarah. Sure, he talked about how much he admired Elizabeth . . . but Sean, romance on the brain? She couldn’t picture it. Sean had tons of dates but said he liked it that way—a date for a night, nothing deeper.

“No. I asked him if he would mind me pursuing that idea, since the three of us are good friends. He said, ‘Of course not,’ and that’s where our discussion ended. But I haven’t heard from him since.”

“Maybe he’s just busy catching up on the start-ups,” she suggested.

“Maybe.” But Jon didn’t sound convinced.

By the time the call ended, her favorite pizza felt like lead in her stomach. She wasn’t sure why, but she did know she had an immediate call to make.

Minutes later, she was drumming her fingers in frustration as she was stonewalled by Chalmers’s executive assistant, who refused to send a message to her boss this late at night. Twenty minutes later, she’d had enough. “Look,” she announced, “I am well aware that an anonymous tip was passed to the Times. My guess is that it’s gone to other papers as well. I’m certain they’re all busy, trying to outdo each other with breaking the story. If the president had a meeting with a confidential source about the bombing, why wasn’t the DOJ notified? It is, after all, our case. So why wasn’t I informed before it got to the press? Explain that, will you?”

She was determined not to back off in her pursuit of the truth.