Sins of the Titanic (A James Acton Thriller, #13) (38 page)

The
stage was filled with his senior staff, none of whom knew what was about to
happen. It felt lonely. Normally when back on his home turf his children would
be on stage with him, but he had told them to stay home.

He
feared what might happen.

As he
reached the podium, he let go of Constance’s hand and she stepped slightly back
to give him the spotlight. He glanced over to see Agent White and his men
manning either side of the stage, hundreds of camera flashes blinding him, all
the major networks with their own crews recording this historic event.

It
will be forgotten within a week.

He
gripped the side of the dais, squeezing hard, trying to draw strength from the
pain of the wood eating into his palms.

Pain
is weakness leaving the body.

His high
school football coach had used that line on them. It was about the only useful
thing the man had ever said. Or at least the only thing Jones could remember
him ever saying.

Why
are the painful memories always the ones you remember?

He had
so many distinct memories from his early childhood, but they all involved pain.
Getting bit by the neighbors terrier, skinning his knees on the neighbor’s
driveway, stepping on a nail in the neighbor’s yard.

Kids
should be avoiding their neighbors.

As he
looked out at the cheering crowd he thought of today’s helicopter parents.
They’d never let their kid near the neighbor’s dog, let them run for their Big
Wheel or go near a yard where a fence was being built.

If
kids don’t learn about these things, how will they be able to teach their own
children?

From
those moments onward he was always cautious around strange dogs, tied his
shoelaces and watched out when men were working.

All
without his mother hovering over him.

He
raised his hands, quieting the crowd.

He
decided to open with the joke his wife had suggested.

“The
reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated!”

Laughter
filled the room followed by a roar as a smile spread across his face, his wife
clapping and laughing just behind him.

“It’s
been a crazy year, a busy year, and I think we’ve done a lot of good, don’t
you?”

More
cheers, a chant of his name struck up until he raised his hands again.

“I
appreciate that, I appreciate that.” He paused, leaning forward over the podium
slightly. “Now, you’ve all heard the news reports from earlier today.”

Boos.

“I know,
I know, I’m not happy about them either. But unfortunately the evidence
presented appears to suggest that the stories are true.” Shouts of dismay
erupted and he gave them a moment. “I know, I’m as shocked and disappointed as
you are. I can assure you that I had no idea, but the evidence seems to
indicate that the majority of the funding provided to my campaign through the
late Mr. Quaid has ties to Russian companies and possibly Russian criminal and
even
political
elements.”

Fists
were thrown into the air, the anger clear.

“You’re
right to be angry. I’m angry as well. In fact, I’m livid. You
know
me,
you
know
what I stand for. I believe America needs to be strong in the
face of its adversaries, and to think that these very adversaries were
financing my campaign is an outrage.”

He
paused, holding his hands up to keep the audience quiet. He looked over at his
wife for a moment.

“I
almost lost my wife last year.”

His
voice cracked, eliciting awws from the audience. He held out his hand and she
took it. He gave it a squeeze and whispered an “I love you” before letting go.

“My wife
is my rock; I don’t know what I’d do without her.” He took in a deep breath.
“What happened to me the other night made me realize just how precious life is.
Two people I had known for years are dead, directly as a result of my campaign.
During the time I was a hostage, I was told to tone down my speeches about
Russia and the sanctions I believe should be toughened. I was told that should I
become president, I should drop those very sanctions. And if I didn’t, they
would kill my entire family, including my precious little grandchild.”

Rage and
horror were written across the faces. He stole a quick glance at his wife, a
tissue dabbing at her eyes.

“These
events, and these recent revelations about the source of the funding of my
campaign have forced me to make some tough decisions. Everything I do I do for
my family and for my country. If the Russians believe that me being president
is in their best interests, then there is no way I should be president. And for
this reason, as of tonight, I am withdrawing from the race.”

Roars of
protest filled the room, the crowd clearly as disappointed as he was.

If
only they knew the whole truth.

“I’d
like to thank my wife and family for their support during these difficult
times, my staff for their unwavering efforts from when this was just a crazy
idea, and to all of you who have been steadfast in your belief in me and a
better America. I know you’re all disappointed, and believe me I am as well,
but I cannot in good conscience allow a foreign, belligerent power, to have any
influence in the campaign for the most powerful post in the world. It is time
to make America strong again! It’s time to take America back!”

The
campaign slogan began to be chanted again and he raised his hands, reaching out
to his wife, who raised hers as well.

“God
bless you all! And God bless America!”

He
stepped back from the podium, waving to the chanting crowd, many of the faces
stained with tears as the press corps rushed forward, shouting questions at
him.

But he
blocked them out, turning for the stage exit and quickly disappearing. He
turned to Agent White, deciding against going back to his dressing room.

“Get me
out of here.”

“Yes,
sir.”

Within
moments they were in the limousine, just he and his wife in the back, White and
the driver behind the partition.

No one
would see him tonight.

He
turned and buried his head in his wife’s shoulder and sobbed, a life’s work
destroyed, wiped out by the act of one man, a century ago.

He
squeezed his eyes shut, stemming the tears as his wife patted his head, saying
nothing, knowing words weren’t what he needed now. He sat up, pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks dry.

“Sorry
for that.”

She
smiled at him. “Never apologize for having feelings.”

He
laughed. “I wonder how many points I’d have dropped in the polls if they saw
that display.”

“You’d
probably pick up a few.”

“Always
my biggest supporter.”

“And
your biggest fan.”

He
sighed, stuffing the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I can’t believe it’s
over.”

“You did
what you had to do. You did the right thing.”

“I
know,” he said, looking out the window as the buildings whipped by. “But I
wonder who they’ll go after next.”

“Do you
really think they’ll try again?”

He
nodded. “Absolutely.” He tore his eyes away from the streets and looked at his
wife, fear in his heart. “These people want their president, and they have the
money to buy anyone they want.”

Ilya Mashkov Residence, Moscow, Russia

Dimitri opened the car door and Mashkov stepped out. It was a cool,
brisk morning in Moscow, the sun overhead a mere glow behind a dull gray sky.
In the distance storm clouds threatened any afternoon plans.

It
looked like he felt.

It was
going to be a tumultuous few days, but he would make it through them. There was
a reasonable explanation for the CIA investigation into him, and the press
conference he had just listened to, though infuriating, couldn’t possibly be
blamed on him.

Jones
had betrayed them.

And he’d
die for it.

As would
the entire lineage of Brett Jones.

It was
sad really. He took no joy in the thought. A lot of innocent people were going
to die. They wouldn’t be murdered all at once, that would raise too many
suspicions. Somebody would die on vacation in Mexico, there’d be a freak
natural gas explosion in someone’s home, someone would be hit by a bus. There
were thousands of ways to die that would appear to be accidents.

Though
Christopher Jones would die with a bullet to his head, after the rest were all
dead, so he’d have the opportunity to live with what he had done.

Because
nobody betrayed The Assembly.

He
stepped into his ridiculously ostentatious house and handed his gloves to
Dimitri who placed them on a nearby rack. His butler helped him out of his
overcoat.

“Can I
get you anything, sir.”

Mashkov
shook his head. “No. I need a little time alone.”

“Very
well, sir. Until lunch, then?”

Mashkov
nodded, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. Dimitri may work for The
Assembly, but he was
his
butler, and he’d be damned if he was going to
treat him any differently than any other butler.
He
was a member of The
Assembly, not his manservant.
He
was one of the twelve most powerful men
in the world and this was
his
home.

He
quickly crossed the marble floors into the living room, heading toward the wet
bar as he undid his top button.

A throat
cleared behind him.

He spun
around and smiled, the beautiful agent he had been unable to stop thinking
about sitting on his couch, her leather pants and tight top revealing every
luscious curve.

He had
asked Dimitri to find out who she was in the hopes that he could meet her at
some point, but he had never dreamed the man would actually arrange a meeting
with the woman.

Perhaps
I’ve underestimated you, my friend.

“To what
do I owe the pleasure, Miss—?”

“Katz.”

“Katz.”
He felt his heart race a little faster as she stretched an arm across the back
of the couch. “Do you have a first name?”

“Of
course.”

“And it
is?”

“Nadja.”

“May I
call you Nadja?”

“You
may.”

It was
odd. If she were here at Dimitri’s behest, she had to know why. She was a very
sexually attractive woman, so she had to be expecting this meeting to be for
the purpose of starting some sort of relationship. A business relationship, but
of a personal nature. He had them with many women, though none so attractive as
her.

Perhaps
it’s the gun?

Her
shoulder holster hung loose, as if she had made herself comfortable while
waiting for him.

A
good sign.

What he
couldn’t figure out was why her voice was so monotone.

Perhaps
she’s here against her will?

He’d
have to ask Dimitri what he had said to get her here. He’d hate for it to have
been some sort of threat.

Sleep
with him or else.

His eyes
explored her body, deciding he didn’t care why she was here, just that she
followed through with what he wanted.

Something
stirred below.

But her
stare was almost unnerving.

Cold.

That
wasn’t it.

Indifferent.

That was
it. Indifferent. It was as if she had no clue the effect her sexuality had on
him, or if she did, couldn’t care less.

She
obviously isn’t attracted to you.

That was
of no matter. He had slept with dozens of women, hundreds, that hadn’t found
him attractive.

Though
they had all found his money attractive.

And so
would she.

“So,
Nadja, can I get you something to drink?”

She
shook her head. “No.”

Curt. No
nonsense.

I bet
she likes it rough.

He sat
down on the other end of the couch, reaching his hand out across the back,
stopping only inches from hers. He breathed in, gently, not wanting to come off
as creepy. Her smell was intoxicating. It wasn’t a perfume, but something else.

Her
shampoo?

Whatever
it was she smelt like flowers.

His
fingers inched closer.

“To what
do I owe the pleasure?”

“I’m
here to clean up your mess.”

His
breath caught in his throat and his heart slammed a little harder.

She
wasn’t invited here, she was sent here!

He had
to get control of the situation, though he had no idea how. He resisted the
urge to look for a method of escape. “I assume you’re referring to what
happened in New Orleans? It was indeed unfortunate, however there’s nothing
that can trace back to us. And the Titanic incident was certainly not
my
mess. I had no involvement there whatsoever.”