F Wilson - Deep as the Marrow

“John…” A long silence, then: “I’ve got to show up— on time, and in tip-top shape. You know what they’ve been saying about me: that I’m kicking my habit, that I’m in rehab, that I’ve had a breakdown… all rational explanations for my irrational ideas.”

“Who cares what anybody says! This isn’t talk, this isn’t a reputation that’s at stake—this is Katie’s life!”

“I know that, John. Don’t think I don’t. And don’t underestimate my love and concern for Katie. But this is bigger than you and me and Katie. This is a bunch of lowlifes trying to dictate the policy of the United States, John. My oath of office doesn’t allow me to make a choice between the country and a little girl I dearly love. If I had my way…” The cold sick fear was fading in the heat of his growing anger.

“Bullshit, Tom! Bullshit!” John found the end button and hit it. He stared at the phone a moment, then looked over at Decker who was concentrating on navigating the twisty back road to the next Mulliner on the list.

“He’s leaving the hospital,” John said. “Going to The Hague.”

“I know.”

“How long have you known?” Decker glanced at him, then back to the road.

“You sure you want to know?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Since Saturday.” John closed his eyes and pressed back against the headrest.

Saturday! That meant Tom had intended all along to go to the drug summit, whether Katie was safe or not. Tom… Tom of all people. He’d held Katie at her baptism. How could he… ?

John felt as if he’d been spiked to his seat through the heart. Dear God, this hurt. Still keeping his eyes closed he said, “How long before the kidnappers find out?”

“If they’re listening to a radio or watching TV anywhere in the world—immediately. Bethesda Naval is under media siege. The instant he sets foot out the door it’ll be on the satellites.”

“You heard what I told him. What do you think?”

“That it’s going to make a difference? I don’t know, Doc. I wish I did, but I don’t. It all comes down to this Poppy Mulliner, doesn’t it. If she’s been shooting straight, we should be okay. If she’s been feeding us a line… well, we’ve got to hope we get there first.”

7

Snake sat in his Jeep and stared at the cell phone in his hand.

Damn I’m fucking good!

That had been the President of the U-S-of-fucking-A on the phone just now. And he wasn’t sick. Hadn’t been sick at all. He’d been faking. The whole Bethesda Naval Hospital deal had been a smoke screen.

Damn good thing he’d thought of having Salinas get him the numbers and carriers of the cell phones the honchos in the search would be using. Also had him find out the VHF frequency the copters would be using. After that it was a simple matter of buying a couple of cell phones and reprogramming them to ring when the honchos’ phones rang. As a precaution he’d disabled the receivers so no ambient noise from his end would taint the feed.

He’d been catching the calls of a guy named Canney and a guy named Decker all morning. Mostly nothing calls… until this one.

Wow. Wait till Salinas found out. Shit, he’d be bouncing off the walls—and he had the blubber to do it.

Snake had to admit he was pretty pissed too. And embarrassed.

The doc had screwed him—hadn’t given the chloram-whatever and ratted out to the feds—all while he’d thought they’d cut off his kid’s toe! What. kind of a father was that? Man, you couldn’t trust anyone these days.

But the good news was that the feds didn’t have any better idea of the whereabouts of Poppy and the kid than he did—which meant they didn’t have his tape. Snake still had time. His options were still open. If he could reach Poppy first, get the tape, then off her and the kid, he’d be safe. And Salinas would be safe. And the two of them could both live happily every after.

Preferably on different continents.

He kept driving, mostly up and down 539, as he monitored the progress of the search—listening to the feds talk to each other via his hacked cellular phones, and following the reports from the search helicopters on his hand-held transceiver. If Poppy or her car were spotted, Snake would be among the first to know.

He just had to hope he could get there first.

8

Alien Gold rushed into the office, white as a flour tortilla.

“Oh, God! Oh, my God! Where’s the remote? You’ve got to see this! Quick!” Carlos Salinas pointed to an outside corner of his desk and watched as Alien snatched up the TV remote and began frantically jabbing buttons. He almost dropped it twice before the screen came to life.

Carlos half rose from his chair as the picture came into focus… a picture of a very healthy-looking Thomas Winston, closely surrounded by Secret Service men, walking out of Bethesda Naval Hospital to his car.

Stunned, feeling as if someone had slammed the end of a two-by-four into his belly, Carlos could only stare as all the warmth drained from his body.

No! Vellgame Dios! This cannot be!

He checked the words in the lower left corner of the screen—CNN-LIVE—as the reporter’s words filtered faintly through the thickening air around him.

“As I said before, Bernard, this is a complete surprise. The President’s press secretary announced only moments ago that he would be leaving the hospital today, and here he is. The lack of advance warning may be for security reasons. As we all know, the President has received numerous death threats since his announcement a week ago tonight of his intent to decriminalize all drugs. And indeed, there seems to be more than the usual number of Secret Service agents in his personal escort today. I must say he looks hale and fit, and in an obvious attempt to squelch all the recent rumors to the contrary, the medical team here at Bethesda has issued a statement stating unequivocally that President Thomas Winston passed all his medical tests with flying colors and is in excellent health. Once again…”

“How did this happen?” Carlos said when he could finally speak.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Gold’s voice was so high now it almost squeaked. “He was never sick! He never took the fucking pills! He’s been playing us for idiots all along! They know about Keane… they’re going to catch MacLaglen next… and then it’s going to be our turn!”

Carlos slumped back into his chair. No… this could not be happening. How could everything go so wrong? It was a perfect plan. How could it turn out so miserably?

Gold turned away from the TV and leaned over the desk. “We’ve got to get out of here, Carlos!” Gold had been saying that for days. Finally, Carlos had to agree. The United States was no longer a good place to be.

But where could he go? Home?

A cold sick feeling engulfed Carlos like a truckload of wet sand as he realized that the silent scene here a few moments ago no doubt had been mirrored in another office… in Cali, Colombia. He was certain that Emilio Rojas had watched the smiling, waving President Winston with the same open-mouthed shock as Carlos. The major difference would be the other emotion tingeing the shock. Here it was dismay. In Colombia, it would be anger.

No, Colombia might be more dangerous than the U.S. Really, he had money enough to live anywhere. All he had to do was spin a globe and pick a spot.

Why not Spain? Yes, the Motherland. He would return to the land of his ancestors.

He nodded. Spain… strangely enough, he found something deeply satisfying in that course, as if he were closing a circle, finishing a multi-generational voyage.

He glanced at his nervous, sweaty money manager. A liability or an asset? After a few heartbeats he decided that Alien Gold was still useful. Carlos would need help in moving his money between the Swiss and Cayman banks where he kept most of it.