Kim Baldwin - The Gemini Deception

“Dratshev.”

“I wanted to tell him I’m retired and no longer available.”

“Christ, Jack, you promised.” Cassady shook her head in disbelief as her posture went rigid. “No contact.”

“Relax, babe. I told you, it’s no big deal. Do you really think there’s a chance in hell I’ll get involved in all that again?”

“I just don’t see why it was important for you to contact the Russian scumbag.”

“Because, he’d just keep trying to find me.” Jack put her arm around Cass’s shoulders and squeezed. “Forget it, baby. It’s all taken care of.” She kissed Cass on the mouth. “So, what did you buy for the concert?”

Chapter Ten

The White House

Ryden’s long day hosting the Find Your Sport event had jangled her nerves until she was ready to scream. Ratman, too, had seemed nervous the whole time, particularly during the period in which she’d entertained Thomas’s sister and family. Her schedule had called for an after-event private visit with them over dinner, but Ratman had abruptly canceled it, announcing that an urgent matter had come up that demanded the president’s immediate attention. As it turned out, there was no such crisis. Moore obviously just wanted the family to leave, fearing Ryden would slip up or have too much of their attention once away from the festivities.

So far, it was the one single decision he’d made that she agreed with. Nothing had drained her more since the beginning of this charade than having to be around the Paytons. She had studied the family’s history, but no amount of studying could prepare her for the idiosyncrasies of close relatives, particularly siblings. What were Thomas’s giveaways—the nuances of behavior and speech that only those she let her guard down with would recognize? And how could they possibly prepare her to respond to memories shared only between the two sisters?

Ryden had noticed Nancy’s gaze on her more than a few times, and it had thrown her completely off her game when Nancy had referred to her as Peanut. She’d never had siblings, but she’d been in foster homes enough to know that sisters and brothers often gave each other nicknames. It had been obvious that Nancy had expected her to react accordingly, probably by calling her by her own nickname. Instead, Ryden had smiled and pretended to be distracted by her nephew’s enthusiasm about the festivities.

Finally alone in her bedroom, with Ratman nowhere in sight and his guard dog Kennedy ensconced in her own room, she had begun to relax a little. She lay on the bed, breathing deeply, until she felt calm enough to let her mind wander away from today’s events and into the realm of unpleasant possibilities of what they’d do to her if she couldn’t pull this off. Would she have agreed to all of this had she known what they would require? She’d asked herself this very question too many times to count and had always come up with the same answer. Her fate would have been sealed had she declined. At least this way, she had a chance to stay alive.

She got up and walked to the window, too restless to sleep. What if she found a way to escape? Didn’t they have tunnels under the White House that led to some obscure exit? She’d seen that in a movie somewhere. But those were probably guarded, too. Everything in this place was guarded. How about if she managed to slip away from Kennedy somehow during the next big conference somewhere and disappeared? No, that wouldn’t do either; the whole world would be out looking for Elizabeth Thomas.

And calling the police was not an option. Who could she point to, and who would believe her instead of Ratman? Even after she proved she wasn’t the real president, Ratman would deny ever having known otherwise. She’d still take the fall for killing the Laudens, not to mention facing new charges for being involved in whatever conspiracy and crimes against the president. She couldn’t stop from dwelling on one disaster scenario after the other.

She paced the room, feeling claustrophobic. She sat down on the bed again, but the sensation of feeling trapped only intensified. She couldn’t breathe. God, I need some air. I need to get out of here . She threw on her robe and opened the door. When she saw the way was clear, she ran down the corridor to the Yellow Oval Room, which gave her access to the massive Truman Balcony.

She felt as though someone had a death grip on her throat. She threw open the balcony doors and leaned over the rail, gasping for air, unmindful of the chill. She tried to calm herself by thinking of pleasant things—new candle designs and past vacations she’d taken—but soon her mind was on Ratman again and what he would do to her if she failed.

*

Shield came out of the shower, wrapped herself in the huge towel—complete with an embroidered presidential seal—and stepped into the bedroom. She’d hoped the hot water would relax her after the long, exhausting day with Thomas, but for a reason she couldn’t grasp, she felt wired. In actuality, she’d felt so from the moment she stepped into the White House. The pressure of sitting the U.S. president, especially one who had been recently attacked, would explain that, but deep inside, she sensed it was more, though she didn’t know why. Her instincts were never wrong, however; she suspected it would be only a matter of time before her restlessness was justified.

She was changing into her pajamas when she heard Thomas’s phone ring. It kept ringing for what seemed forever. The president was clearly either in no mood to pick up—which was highly improbable considering her position—or she was unable to answer, a possibility if she was in the bathroom. Had Thomas stepped out for whatever reason, she knew to inform her bodyguard.

Shield retired to her bed fifteen minutes later, still not tired but knowing she should make the effort because the president’s day started at six a.m. and she needed to be alert. It was already well after midnight. As she reached for the bedside light, the phone in the next room rang again. When no one picked it up, she grabbed her Glock from the drawer of her nightstand and went to the door that adjoined their rooms. Rapping sharply, she called out, “Madam President?” No one answered.

She turned the knob and walked into an empty room. When she checked the bathroom and found it empty as well, she bolted out of the room and into the corridor, where she stood still for a moment in the hope of catching movement or sound. Neither happened, but she did detect a small draft on her bare feet.

She ran down the hall and stopped in front of the door to the Yellow Oval Room, used primarily as a private meeting space or sitting room. The door, usually closed, was now slightly ajar. She knocked but didn’t wait for a reply. Proceeding quickly inside, she found the doors to the Truman Balcony wide open, the curtains in a frenzied dance because of the breeze.

“Madam President,” she said as she pushed the curtains aside to find Elizabeth Thomas leaning over the railing, grasping the rail. “Are you all right?”

When Thomas didn’t reply, Shield went to stand beside her, the cold metal sending a shock through her body.

“I’m…fine.” The president sounded out of breath, like she’d just run a marathon, and she was clearly using the rail for much-needed support.

Normally, Shield would have lectured her about taking off on her own, but right now Thomas looked like she could barely stand. Something was very wrong. “Should I call the doctor?”

Thomas spun around and looked at her like she’d said something crazy. The exterior security lights on the White House were bright enough for Shield to see that the president was unusually pale. “You can’t call a doctor!” Thomas said, a little too loudly.