Chapter Twenty-seven

Friday, September 28

Cam found Blair working on a canvas as the last rays of a cloud-dampened sun faded on the horizon. She'd tied a rolled red bandanna around her forehead to hold her hair out of the way. She wore loose khaki chinos and one of her favorite Grateful Dead T-shirts, paint-stained and holey. A slash of iridescent blue crossed her right forearm where she'd evidently brushed against the corner of her palette when reaching for something. Cam kissed the back of her neck.

"You look terrific."

Blair grinned. "I'm a mess. Don't come too close, I'll ruin your suit."

Obediently, Cam stayed still as Blair moved a few feet away.

"Did you eat anything at all today?" Blair asked distractedly, her focus wandering back to the painting and a problem area she had been trying to correct.

"We had pizza."

"Mmm. That's right. Stark got us some too."

"Can I interrupt you for just a few more minutes?"

There was something in the tone of Cam's voice that immediately captured Blair's attention. She set her sable brush aside and picked up the rag she used to clean her hands. Turning her back to the painting and putting it from her mind, her expression cautious, she said, "What's the matter?"

"Nothing." Cam took her hand, ignoring her vigorous protests about paint stains, and led her toward the bedroom. Once inside, she closed the door. "We've identified the members of the assault team who hit the Aerie."

Blair took a quick breath and backed away. "Who are they? Do I know them?"

Cam took one step forward and, when Blair backed up yet again, she stopped moving and shook her head. "No, as far as we can tell, they have nothing to do with you personally. We cross-referenced their names with every bit of information in your security files. Nothing turned up. You've never met them. They never communicated with you. They've never been known to make a statement about you, your father, or anything remotely political."

"Then why?"

"It doesn't matter," Cam said, wishing that she could keep all of this from Blair. Pointing out that the assault had nothing to do with her as an individual, but only with what she represented, was like telling Blair she'd always been right. That who she was wasn't important, and all that mattered was what people saw when they looked at her. Just saying the words turned her stomach, but Blair did not want or need her protection. Not from this. "It wasn't about you. They came after you to make a statement."

"But Foster, Foster knew me." Blair couldn't hide the horror in her voice. A man she knew—a man who had sat beside her countless times in the car, walked with her on the streets, been there in the shadows as her guardian—had intended to murder her. Face-to-face. It couldn't be more personal. "Where did they come from?"

"We don't have the entire picture yet," Cam said gently. "We identified the men through tattoos that led us to the military academy that they attended as boys. Foster was part of their group." With Valerie, Felicia, and Savard working nonstop all day, they'd been able to access school records, interdepartmental memos, letters to families, interscholastic sports records, and applications to colleges—all manner of personal and academic information that had allowed them to profile the suspects. Eventually, they found the photo archives, and they'd found the faces.

"Tell me their names."

"Blair..."

"Tell me. I want them to be real. Not some ghosts, not some monsters without names or faces."

Cam took a breath and recited the names. She wanted to hold her. God, she ached to shield her. She was afraid to go near her, and that was the hardest part of all. "We think they might have been groomed for the patriot organization while they were at the school."

"You can't be serious. As boys? Recruiting boys to become assassins?"

"We don't know that they were trained from adolescence to be assassins," Cam admitted, "but they may have been indoctrinated into a way of thinking that made that next step possible. Don't forget the Hitler Youth and how effective they were in recruiting for the Reich."

Blair shook her head. It should have been inconceivable, but in her heart she knew it was a terrible reality. "Why did you come to that conclusion?"

"It's too much of a coincidence that all four of them have nothing in the public record to identify them. They don't even have driver's licenses." Cam wouldn't have believed the men actually existed if she hadn't seen their autopsy photos. "This, or something like this, was planned well before they reached adulthood."

Blair sat on the edge of the bed, her legs shaking. "It's horrible. I.. .What were they doing all this time? Why didn't anyone know this was going on?"

"With the exception of Foster, they've been living normal lives as ordinary citizens, doing nothing that would call attention to themselves. Ordinary jobs, no debt, no criminal records, nothing to make them stand out." Carefully, Cam crossed the room, watching Blair's face. She squatted down in front of her and rested her hands lightly on Blair's thighs. "None of them has ever been fingerprinted or photographed for any reason, even a credit card. They've never held a government or industry job where a security check would have been needed."

"But that could just be coincidence. It doesn't mean anything was planned," Blair insisted.

"If that were the whole picture, I'd agree with you, but it's not. We haven't been able to find applications to military academies for any of the four—-not West Point, not the Naval Academy, not the Air Force Academy—even though they surely would have been prime candidates. Well over ninety percent of graduates from NCMA go on to careers in the Armed Forces, and almost one hundred percent apply. Foster went into government service, but these men.. .It's as if they've been purposefully flying under the radar, just waiting." "Waiting to be called to do something like this?" "That's what we think." Cam eased up onto the bed next to Blair and loosely settled an arm around her waist. Blair didn't break her rigid pose, but she accepted Cam's touch. "They probably received all of their assault training at one of the paramilitary camps."

"Like a sleeper cell, only made up of Americans instead of... whoever?" Blair closed her eyes for a second. When she opened them, they were filled with pain. "This can't be. This doesn't happen here."

Cam didn't need to point out that what happened on September 11 didn't happen here either, because she knew they were both thinking it. "I'm sorry."

"What now?" Blair asked.

"We still have work to do. These men are dead, and they can't help us with much more. Hopefully, the commandant of the school they attended will have the rest of the answers. He's proving almost as hard to uncover as these guys were, even though we know his name and what he looks like."

"What happens if he's the one who...planned everything?" "Then he'll be arrested." Cam wasn't actually so sure what would happen to him, but she knew one thing with absolute certainty. She wanted the opportunity to bring him to justice. And her idea of justice was not delivering him to the FBI or the Justice Department, where he could cut a deal for leniency in exchange for information. In all likelihood, that was what the people in power would want, but their agenda was not hers. Her only interest now was Blair's present and future safety.

"I think I've got something," Savard called from the dining room, her voice tight with anticipation.

Cam levered herself off the couch where she'd been trying to take a nap, rubbed at her eyes, which felt gritty and dry, and shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "What did you find?"

"I've been sifting through Matheson's tax records. He paid a hefty inheritance tax fifteen years ago when his father died."

Cam peered at the screen, frowning at what appeared to be scanned copies of old documents. "You think he's bankrolling terrorists?"

Savard shook her head. "No. I traced back his parents, and then their parents. Matheson's grandfather held a deed for what looks like half a mountain in Tennessee."

"You don't say." Cam smiled. "And Matheson inherited the property. Do you have the precise coordinates for it yet?"

"It's almost midnight on a Friday night, Commander. No one's going to be available at the hall of records in Memphis."

"I'll bet their computer networks are running, because the law enforcement agencies will need access."

"Then we need Felicia for the extraction," Savard said, bowing to Felicia's skill as a computer cracker.

Cam checked her watch and grimaced. "She's only been asleep a couple hours, but I guess we'll need to wa—"

"I might have a contact who can get the location for us a little faster," Valerie said. "I'll make a call."

"All right," Cam said. "And while you're at it, you might request a satellite image for us. You've got something up there with infrared capability, don't you?"

Valerie smiled. "I have no idea what's orbiting the Earth, Cameron. But I'm certain we have some sort of helpful toy up there. I'll see what I can do."

Savard waited until Valerie left the room to make her call. "You think there's a paramilitary compound on his property?"

"Don't you?"

"Yeah. I do. What are we going to do when we find out where it is?"

"I imagine it'll be out of our hands then." Cam kept her face carefully neutral.

"That's not how I want to see it go down." Savard regarded her steadily. "These guys may not have planned what happened at the World Trade Center, but they knew about it. And they sure as hell intended to kill Blair. I want to be there when they go down."

"Yes. So do I."

Blair was still awake when Cam came in shortly after four a.m., lying in bed in the dark with only the light from the vanity in the adjacent bathroom for illumination. "What's happening?"

Cam undressed quickly and slid into bed, reaching for Blair's hand. She threaded her fingers lightly through Blair's. "Valerie, Savard, and I need to go to Washington."

Blair rugged her hand free. "When?"

"Today. Later this morning."

"Why?"

"We're meeting with Lucinda and your father. Probably a few other people as well."

"About what?"

"We've located a compound in the Tennessee mountains. We've got satellite images of a number of buildings and vehicles. We suspect that's where the men who made the attempt on your life came from."

"It's just a briefing, right?"

"I should be back tonight."

"I want to come with you."

"That's not a good idea," Cam said quietly. "We've established excellent security here. We have no way of knowing how deep this may go—who in DC may be a part of it. Foster was on the inside. Maybe there are others. Unless you want to stay in the White House for another few weeks..."

"You know I don't."

"Then this is the safest place for you. The three of us will drive to Boston and get a flight from there."

"And just why do you need to go in person?" Blair sat up and snapped on the bedside light. She pulled the sheet to her waist, drew her knees up, and folded her arms around them, drawing in on herself. "What are you going to do in DC? Plan the big operation? Strategize about how you're going to apprehend these guys?" When Cam said nothing, Blair went on, her voice harsh, "You're not a commando, Cameron. That's why we have Special Forces. You're not getting involved in this."

"I'm just consulting."

"Oh," Blair said derisively, "don't you dare give me that line. I know you. Consulting, my ass. Tell me you're not going with the strike team. Tell me that's not your plan."

"The only thing that's going to happen today is that I'm going to brief the president, Lucinda, and the security chief. That's all." Cam sat up and leaned her shoulder against Blair's.

Despite her anger, Blair found Cam's hand and held it. "What if they don't want to wait? What if they want to go today? Tell me you won't go with them."

Cam was silent.

"Damn you, Cameron."

"I won't be in the first wave. I won't be knocking down any doors."

"I want you to promise me you won't go with them." Blair saw Cam's jaw set. Very gently, she turned Cam's face toward hers. "Make me that promise."

Cam looked into her eyes. "I want to see him in chains. I'd prefer to see him dead, but I won't do it myself. I promise I'll stay far behind the line. I promise you that."

"Why? Why is it so important?"

"Men like him killed my father. And then he almost killed you..." Cam's throat tightened around the words and she turned her face forcefully away, breaking Blair's hold. "I need faces for the monsters too, Blair."

"Oh, Jesus," Blair sighed, wrapping her arm tightly around Cam's shoulders. "I can't stand it when you hurt." She leaned her forehead against the side of Cam's head. "I love you even more than I need you, and that's so much I can't stand it. Please be careful."

Cam turned back, pulling Blair into her arms. She kissed her roughly, urgently, needing to drive the images of flaming cars and automatic gunfire from her mind. She pushed her back onto the bed and followed, covering Blair's body with her own. She let herself drown in her, losing her pain amidst their passion.

Valerie held Diane as she slept. She caressed her hair, her back, the curve of her side, remembering the sound of her pleasure. Fixing it in her mind. She could taste her still, sweetly exotic. She'd made love to her until Diane had begged her to stop, laughing and crying as she'd come the last time.

"Let me make love to you," Diane had murmured drowsily, barely able to move.

"Next time," she had whispered, gathering her close against her body.

Diane, sighing with contentment, had curled trustingly into her arms.

Valerie waited fifteen minutes, thirty, forty—listening to the soft sounds of Diane's breathing, feeling the warm currents of her exhalations drifting over her breasts, counting her heartbeats under her fingertips. When she couldn't wait any longer, she gently kissed Diane's forehead and eased slowly away. She'd had years of practice leaving the arms of women she'd satisfied without waking them. Carefully, she gathered her clothing and the single small valise she'd brought with her.

Two minutes later she stood naked on the rear deck and dressed efficiently in the predawn light. Five minutes later, she was at the ocean's edge and walking briskly away from the house. In fifteen minutes she was three-quarters of a mile away, and the reverberations of the engine on the outboard motor sounded no different than a wave rushing to shore. She climbed into the small craft, and as it pointed away from land and the safe house and the people inside, she did not look back.

Date: 2015-12-11; view: 782