Point of Balance (18 page)

Kate

The first thing she did when she woke up was look at the timer on her cell.

28:06:03.

Twelve wasted hours, and I haven't found out shit.

She thought of her niece, of how every breath she took brought her closer to death, as she used up the oxygen supply to the burrow where they held her. Kate's mind, her conscious mind, took control of her breathing, and for a couple of minutes she could think of nothing else but filling her lungs and expelling air.. When she was a little girl she used to play that trick on Rachel. She would tell her not to think about breathing, or else she might stop and die. Rachel would take fright and breathe faster and faster until she got dizzy, to her mother's annoyance.

All this is my fault.

Kate stirred, trying as much to get her stiff muscles to move again as to shake off that sinking feeling she had. She was naked but for underwear. The rest of her clothes, which stank of sweat and were covered in grass stains, lay jumbled up by the foot of the bed. She had dropped off to sleep for a couple of hours but her body clock had woken her up at almost five in the morning, as it did every day. Her shift started at six, but that day she wasn't going to show up, for the first time in eleven years on the job.

She didn't turn on the lights to go to the kitchen. She liked to walk in the dark and the scant space between her bedroom and the fridge was sparsely furnished. She never cooked, because she figured dirtying pots and pans was too much hassle for one lone diner. Just as well, because the pathetic countertop had barely enough room
for a coffeemaker and the contents of the wastepaper basket she had taken from the Evans place. She turned on the coffeemaker and pored over the scraps of paper again, with the dripping sound that heralded caffeine for sole company. Something was hidden in there, she knew. But she had to find it.

I'm the one who started it all.

The apartment was on North Randolph, a flat, undistinguished street with as little personality as the rest of Arlington. Paying $2,500 a month for a bed, sofa and forty-two-inch TV struck Kate as more of a felony than many she'd had to investigate. But the building came with a garage, and it was a godsend not having to find a parking space when she got back from work, or having to get the Metro at five in the morning. She earned close to six figures a year, so she could afford it, but for Kate it wasn't about the money so much as common sense. As she had grown up on a farm, the tiny space choked her like a blouse that was three sizes too small. But, frankly, she'd inherited some of old Jim Robson's selective and manic stinginess, although she wouldn't own up to that, even under torture.

If only she hadn't spoken to the First Lady about David.

She'd broken all the rules by doing so but thought she was doing a good turn. They were on board the presidential limousine, affectionately nicknamed the Beast by the Secret Service, on their way to opening an exhibition at the Smithsonian. The First Lady was talking on the phone in back. Usually she adopted a normal tone of voice in the presence of Secret Service agents, as they all did after a few months. The agents were so reserved their charges tended to treat them like empty vessels. What went in one ear appeared to go out the other.

“I know, Martin. But that's not the point,” she had said in a low voice, while Kate kept an eye on the traffic from the passenger seat. It was only the next sentence that made her prick up her ears.

“I don't need a good brain surgeon, I need one I can trust. You'll have to approach them one by one: Colchie, Hockstetter, Evans . . .”

Right then Kate had turned around without meaning to. Not much, only a few inches.

But the movement did not go unheeded by the First Lady, who pushed the button that raised the glass panel separating the driver's compartment from the passengers. Kate cussed herself for being such an oaf but didn't get to do so for long. A few seconds later the car halted outside the museum and Kate had to get out and run the gauntlet of camera flashes and wildly cheering supporters.

That very afternoon, the First Lady had sent for her. She was by the tennis court, watching her daughters play, her arms folded as she gazed into the distance, miles away. Kate discreetly cleared her throat to bring her back to earth.

“Agent Robson,” she said earnestly, by way of a greeting.

“Ma'am.”

“In the limousine before, you overheard a private conversation.”

Kate didn't answer.

“I don't need to remind you that to reveal any inside information would lead to immediate expulsion from the agency, and possibly to criminal charges,” her boss added.

“Ma'am, if you still doubt the loyalty of the Secret Service, then you have learned nothing in all these years,” Kate said.

Her tone was polite, the words flashing. Decades of full-time politics had taught the First Lady to take such digs in her stride. But that wasn't a regular day, nor was it a regular issue. Her shoulders shuddered, although it was hot.

To comfort her was unthinkable, so Kate pretended not to notice she was crying.

“It's okay. I'm fine,” the First Lady said after she managed to pull herself together. “I'm sorry I snapped at you, Kate. I know you're true-blue, and my daughters are nuts about you, you know. You and Onslow are their favorite agents. At night when we have dinner, they always say, ‘I got first dibs on Kate, you had her last week, Mom.' ”

“They're darling girls,” Kate said with a smile.

“Aren't they, though?”

For a couple of minutes only the thwack of the rackets and the balls rebounding on the court could be heard. Kate watched the two girls wistfully, harkening back to the days when she played with Rachel. She used to get hopping mad and quit playing if she thought she couldn't win.

“Actually, I'm glad you listened. I desperately need to talk about it, preferably to a woman. All those in the know are men, and deal with issues like men do. They either duck them or ram them head-on. You're not married, are you?”

As she was tall, strong and obstinately single, Kate had won an unfounded reputation among her colleagues for being a lesbian, not that she cared.

“I've managed to escape so far, ma'am.”

“But I think you get my meaning.”

“I believe I do, ma'am.”

There was silence again.

“The president's sick, Kate, as if we didn't already have enough on our plate, enough ball-breakers. As if it weren't enough to have to smile while we weather every crisis, every intrigue, every futile power struggle. They stand up when we enter, but they're thinking about what's in it for them before they even hear the last note of ‘Hail to the Chief.' If they so much as find out he's got . . .”

Kate bit her tongue for a few seconds before answering. She knew it was wrong but nonetheless she did it.

“Ma'am, I'm sorry if I was out of line earlier. It was a knee-jerk reaction because you mentioned my brother-in-law.”

“Your brother-in-law's a brain surgeon?”

“Dr. David Evans, at St. Clement's.”

“Is he a good doctor?”

“I have no idea, but he's a good person.”

If I had kept quiet, Julia would be sleeping soundly at home right now.

That was another “if” to add to the long list she had drawn up in her life.

But if not Julia, they would have kidnapped somebody else's child. Another innocent kid who did not have a federal agent for an aunt to try to save her. Old Jim Robson always said things happened for a reason. Maybe that was why it had happened to Julia. So she could come to the rescue.

Well, God, if you're listening, you know where you can shove your reasons
, Kate thought as she took her first sip of piping-hot coffee.

Kate and her Maker hadn't made up since Rachel's death. At that time of the morning and as she had barely slept a wink, things weren't about to change.

I need a clue. A lead. I need to gather string till I can pull on it. It must be in here somewhere
, she thought as she scoured the wastepaper over and over.

She swigged a big mouthful of coffee. It hadn't cooled down enough and seared her throat as she swallowed. It wouldn't help her encroaching heartburn, but it would liven her up a little.

She had thrown out packaging and containers, and made three small piles with the rest of the stuff in front of her. One with flyers, another with bills and a third of seemingly unimportant scraps.

Nothing.

She picked up a notebook and jotted down what she knew about Svetlana Nikolić. To begin with, she could bet her bottom dollar that was not her real name. She had logged on to the National Security database from her laptop and found no trace of her as a visitor. She had entered the country either illegally or under another name. If Kate could have taken on the case as a regular antiterrorist inquiry with the requisite means, she would have narrowed the search down to several days before she showed up at David's, and looked through all the airports on the East Coast for a woman matching her description. Even then the data mining would have taken a dozen agents hundreds of working hours, with no guarantee of success.

That line of inquiry would be a wild-goose chase, no more.

Her next clue was a false lead. Kate thought the doctoral adviser Svetlana had given as a reference might help. David obviously
didn't remember the man's number, but he had given her the password to his cell phone provider's website and a rough date for the call. It wasn't too hard to track it down in his call history; it was the only number he had called just once in that time frame. The number was out of service. An Internet search showed it belonged to a virtual switchboard, quite probably located in India, which took calls pretending to be whoever the client chose. You could sign up for one of them for ten bucks a month, plus a dollar for every call. To provide cover for the phony nanny would have cost a measly eleven dollars.

How could you be so naive, David?

Another dead end.

It was hopeless. The kidnappers hadn't contented themselves with merely killing Svetlana, they had eliminated every final trace of her, too. Wiped her off the face of the earth. To all practical intents, she had never been born.

Kate's brother-in-law had also mentioned the conversation between Svetlana and Jim Robson, which was what had made him drive over in the small hours. Although she didn't think it would lead anywhere, she was that desperate that she was ready to chase it up to see whether it could shed any light on events. The problem was how to do so without arousing her father's suspicions.

It was still too early to call the old man, but not for another call she had to make in short order.

“McKenna,” a fierce voice answered on the second ring.

“I'm sick, boss.”

“Oh no you're not.”

Kate was so perturbed she almost spilled her cup of coffee all over the floor. Was McKenna onto her?

“I've been vomiting, sir.”

“Robson, you've never been sick in your life, damn it. Do you have to go and pick up a bug today, of all days? We have a tactical briefing for tomorrow's business.”

“I really am sick. I've got it bad,” she said in a normal voice.
She knew the easiest way to catch out people who call in sick when they're faking it is that they nearly all put on a sickly voice.

“You know what kind of shit you're dropping me in, Robson? We have a very special and tricky operation happening tomorrow. I have to detail a very select team, the sortie is classified and besides, all the civilians at Sixteen Hundred have gone ape. I've been in here since two a.m.”

“Sorry, sir, but I'm truly in no condition.”

“Robson, tell me how many eighty-fours we've had so far this month.”

Chapter 84 of the US legal code forbids attempts on the president's life. Whenever possible, assassination attempts on the president are dealt with out of the limelight, with swift action and trials behind closed doors, so as not to encourage copycat crimes. This policy entails using obscure euphemisms for potential slayings, one of which is “eighty-four.”

“Three,” Kate admitted, getting shakier by the second.

“The last guy got a rifle to within seventy yards of Renegade, Robson. Each time, there's more of them and fewer of us. Tomorrow's the most screwed-up sortie of the year, and you know that. You can't let me down.”

“You can take somebody else to the briefing, sir.”

“The hell I can, Robson! Renegade specifically ordered me that only twelve people should be aware of tomorrow's sortie, which seemed like a lot to him. And Renaissance told me one of them had to be you. You want me to wake up POTUS and tell him I have to put somebody else in the picture?”

“I'm . . . I'm sorry, sir. I'll try to get better as soon as I can. I'll go in tonight to read the briefing on my own time.”

“Tonight my ass. You've got four hours, Robson. Get yourself down to Walgreens, grab a big-ass jar of Pepto-Bismol and be here by ten. You'll have time enough to get sick tomorrow when the job's done. You're in luck, you'll be in a hospital. I'm sure your smart-ass brother-in-law can give you a discount.”

“But, sir—”

Her boss hung up before she could say another word.

Kate was stunned, the cell still beside her ear and every inch of her tautened by the dilemma.

A direct order by Special Agent in Charge Eric McKenna was as binding as one God's fiery finger had written in stone. Nobody would dream of quibbling over a call like that. If you're told to come into work when you're running a fever and have diarrhea, you just do it. You have no choice.

If she were a less committed agent, a troublesome and argumentative one, ignoring an order to show up in four hours' time would lead to punishment but wouldn't raise any eyebrows. But considering that David was to operate on the president and the circumstances surrounding the surgery, it was unthinkable. And she was the opposite of troublesome. So many years of selfless devotion to duty were now turned against her. If she stood them up, they would smell a rat. They could go over David with a fine-tooth comb and find out everything.