Chapter Twenty

Ashlee

 

Something had told her to call Matt. Kishanna's proof had been delivered, and despite the journalist’s promising to call her back, Ashlee had received only a text to say that Kishanna had the note. And now she was dialing Matt's number. He'd told her that once she found proof, they should have a chat, and she was curious. Morbidly curious, actually, since some intuition told her that this chat was going to be important. Life changing, even. If she thought long and hard, she might have an idea of what Matt wanted, but she didn't. She wouldn't allow herself. Because that same intuition told her this was going to be a dangerous chat.

“Meet me at Ivy's in thirty minutes,” he said when she explained herself.

It was late, but she knew that the neighborhood bar would still be open. It seemed to be constantly open and full of a younger, noisier crowd than she generally liked. But Matt was Matt, and always so immaculately groomed that she still spent half her waiting time going to the office bathroom and repairing her makeup. There was a swirling feeling in her stomach, and she half wished she hadn't made the call at all.

She stepped through the crowd of smokers outside the door and into Ivy's and immediately saw Matt. He waved, and two glasses were already on the table in front of him.

“Hey, I got you a wine; hope that's all right,” he said. “I wouldn't recommend the cocktails in here, and I'm pretty sure the liquor's watered down.”

“Wine is good,” she said, pulling out a rickety wooden chair and hoping it was more stable than it looked.

“So you got the proof you were looking for then?” he said, jumping straight in.

“Yes. Or at least I'm pretty sure. I've passed over the information to a connection at the Post, and she's going to be dealing with it from now on.”

Matt nodded thoughtfully. Then he took a drink, as if to steel himself for what he was about to say.

“All right, there's something that we should discuss, something to do with the Group. And I want you to stay calm and hear me out before you say or do anything, okay?”

The swirling in her stomach strengthened, but she nodded. Then, out of fear and out of a new, strong desire to postpone the conversation they were about to have, she said: “Is this really the right place for a discussion? I mean, we could go back to the office, or somewhere quieter, or . . .”

Matt laughed, and she envied his coolness.

“If there's one thing I've learned in all my years in Washington, it's that the best place for a confidential conversation is one where most people would never have a confidential conversation. The middle of a crowded bar with lots of noise and lots of people who are all more interested in their own issues than yours is perfect. Trust me on that.”

“Okay,” Ashlee said, shifting uncomfortably. “If you say so.”

“Alrighty then,” said Matt. “We're convinced that Silva is doing wrong, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And we're convinced that not only is he doing wrong, and is a very naughty boy, but that he's also harming the country and the reputation of his office, correct?”

“Correct,” said Ashlee, wondering now where this was leading.

“Then I think—and forgive the bluntness, but there's really no easy or less shocking way to put this—that Silva should be assassinated.”

Her blood ran cold. True to her word, she said nothing, waiting for Matt to finish. But inside she was cold and shivering and terrified.

“We protect freedom; that's why you called us the Freedom Group,” Matt said. And he seemed unconcerned by the fact that they were discussing killing. “What do you honestly think is going to happen when your journalist friend releases her story? No, you don't have to answer that. You know as well as I do that in all likelihood nothing is going to happen. Absolutely nothing. Bad press is expected these days; it's par for the course. The president's ratings will go down. Maybe there'll be some kind of investigative committee. Perhaps even he'll be impeached.”

His eyes were calm; he didn't look mad or incensed or crazy. Just normal, level-headed Matt. She could see he was analyzing the situation and thinking it through logically. And in a way, that was even more frightening than had he been crazy. Because a little piece of her was beginning to agree with him.

“But in the long run, nothing is going to change. Silva might get a slap on the wrist, but that will be all. He might lose a few hundred million bucks, but what does that mean to him? And aside from the personal, we need to think about the big picture, because this isn't all about him,” Matt said. He took a drink, collecting his thoughts. “In the long run this is about us and what we stand for. Why did you start the Freedom Group? Why bring yet another think-tank organization to a city that's already full of them?”

Ashlee swallowed. Her mouth was dry.

“For change,” she said, slowly and quietly. “Because as much as I believe in freedom and democracy, the system we have has become stagnant. There's too much corruption, too many compromises. Because I honestly believe there's a better way.”

“To get to that better way, we need a catalyst,” Matt said. “We need to shake things up.”

And she agreed—she honestly, truly did. But she still wasn't ready to take the step, to admit her agreement.

“If we . . .” She choked over the word and had to begin again. “If we assassinate Silva, then he could well become a martyr. People would remember him only as an assassinated president.”

“I don't think so,” Matt said. “I think if we time things right, and if your friend's big story comes out and the assassination is a reaction to that, the facts will continue to roll out and eventually this will be seen as a sign. A sign that people are no longer willing to sit and accept that government is government and we'll never change it. A sign that things have gone too far. People will rally around us; I'm sure of it. We have cells set up that can distribute information. We can keep the fight going. We can keep the anger and outrage even in the face of a country mourning its leader. I feel sure of this. Did Tsar Nikolai become a martyr to the Russian people? Of course not. He was a symbol of a bygone era, a time that needed to change and a people and country that needed to be pushed into that change.”

He smiled at her, and his voice lowered.

“It's a big, scary thought—I get that, Ash. But the man is rotten to the core; you can't deny that. And you can't deny that his death would further our cause. I'm not a psychopath. I'm cold, logical, and more honest than I should be. If it were Blake telling you this, I'd say he was insane. But it's not Blake; it's me. And I think that I'm right. Is murder ever justified? Of course it is. There are plenty of times when it's just fine. Some guy hurts your child and the only way to get your baby back is to kill the culprit? Yeah, I'm fine with that. As would you be, as would most people be. And is this not worse?”

He was still cool and calm. Ashlee bit her lip.

“I want to be sure first,” she said.

It wasn't an agreement.

“We'll wait until the story comes out in the Post,” Matt said. “In the meantime, perhaps I should begin arrangements.”

“Perhaps,” she allowed.

And she still hadn't agreed, still hadn't said yes. She needed time to deal with this, time to digest everything. But in the end, she knew she was going to agree. She knew Matt was right. And she knew this was an opportunity that came once in a lifetime. There was no way around it. If she wanted the world to change, then this would change it. She could think of no more deserving victim than Silva.

Their drinks were finished. Matt stood up.

“Come on, let me walk you to the station. It's dark out.”

She let herself be escorted out onto the street, Matt's warm hand on her elbow. He was taller than she, even though she was wearing heels. She could smell his scent. Not aftershave but his own natural scent, soft and spiced and masculine. And suddenly, more than anything else, she wanted to be with him. Didn't want to be alone. Wanted to do something natural and instinctual, something that required no thought, no logic. Something that would banish all thoughts of their conversation for at least a little time. The impulse surprised her. But perhaps it was normal. Like how funerals made people want to jump into bed together. Life in the face of death.

When they reached the station, they stopped. Ashlee turned to him, snaked her arms around his neck, and without a thought kissed him. He returned her kiss. They stood for longer than they should have on the sidewalk before Matt finally extricated himself from her embrace and called them a cab.