Concealment, p.19
Concealment, page 19
“Uh-huh.”
“And then I showed her the award he gave Alex’s father,” Dylan continued.
“Uh-huh.”
“Maggie was looking at the statue and noticed this impression on the bottom. At first, I thought it was just the manufacturer’s symbol or something.”
“But?”
“When Maggie turned it, she saw the outline of the plane. I should have seen it. It seemed crazy, but it fit. And—”
“And it opened the compartment,” Claire guessed.
Dylan nodded. “What do you think it means, Claire?”
“I wouldn’t begin to guess what’s on that drive—if that’s your question.”
“They were doing something together,” Dylan said. “My father and Alex’s father.”
“Dylan, your grandfather was the broker. He handled money transactions for the Collaborative and the CIA. Just because he hid something doesn’t mean it relates to your father.”
“Come on, Claire. Why else would my father’s toy plane that he always carried be the key? They were working on something together,” Dylan said. “I found a letter from Alex’s dad to mine. They were working on a project, Claire. My father took that plane with him everywhere. Jane told me that.”
Claire sighed. “That’s true,” Claire admitted. “But, Dylan, your father wasn’t only the president. You know that. He was a company man. That drive could hold anything.”
“Claire, I feel it. Whatever is on this drive is about the project.”
Dylan’s intuition was likely accurate, but Claire knew logical assumptions didn’t always lead to expected outcomes. Dylan possessed a remarkable aptitude for solving puzzles, reminiscent of John Merrow’s analytical mind. She worried Dylan might place too much hope on this discovery, believing it would reveal some profound truth about his father. Experience told her that no matter what information the drive held, it would lead to more questions than any definitive answers.
“Listen, you might be right,” Claire conceded.
Dylan smiled.
“You might be, Dylan. We won’t know anything until we see what’s there.”
“How do we do that?”
“It’s not difficult. It’s also not going to happen tonight.”
“Claire—”
“It isn’t happening tonight,” Claire repeated. “We need to handle this in a secure location and with the right tools. We don’t know how old that drive is or what it holds. It’s just as likely to carry a virus as to contain any meaningful secrets. We do know that someone went to great lengths to keep it hidden. It needs to be handled carefully. I’ll make the arrangements.”
“But—”
“Dylan, please. I know you’re anxious to get to work.”
“This could tell us something we need to know.”
“It could tell us anything. It could also tell us something we already know or nothing at all. It’s a terrific discovery, Dylan. Spend the weekend with your girlfriend.”
“Claire.”
“I mean it. If anything on that drive matters, we need to ensure we recover it safely. That will take a little time. You have plenty to work on without adding this.”
“I need to know, Claire.”
“And you will. Soon enough. I promise. Okay? You need to trust me. Let me get things set up on my end.”
“That means you need to talk to Alex.”
“Don’t you think she deserves to know?” Claire asked.
“Yes. But she won’t want me anywhere near it when she finds out where it came from.”
Claire sucked in a deep breath and released it forcefully. “Stop underestimating your mom, Dylan.”
“I’m not.”
“Yeah. You are.”
“Claire, she avoids this office. She doesn’t want anything to do with her father.”
“Stop,” Claire said. “Stop it. John was her best friend—a mentor, Dylan. They nearly died together.”
“I know the story.”
“Yeah. You do. You didn’t live it. You haven’t lived that kind of horror, and I hope you never do. It’s hard for Alex to be reminded of him—of losing him. As far as Alex’s dad—you should know better than most people how much it hurts to lose a parent.”
“Alex hated her father, Claire.”
“No, Dylan. She thinks he hated her. Don’t mistake one for the other,” Claire advised. “I understand how you feel right now. I do. Give me a chance to work things on my end, okay? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Dylan sighed.
“I get it,” Claire said. “You can’t get lost in it. Okay? That’s not how we win.”
Dylan nodded. “Okay.”
“Good. Get some rest.”
“I don’t think I can sleep.”
“Go find something to do that will wear you out,” Claire suggested. “Just do it safely.”
Dylan laughed. “Goodnight, Claire.”
“Mm-hm. Keep that drive where you found it until you hear from me.”
“Understood.”
“Good. I’ll talk to you soon.” Claire tossed her phone onto the coffee table with a groan and flopped back into the cushions. “Shit.”
“That doesn’t sound good,” Cassidy said.
Claire sat up and accepted a mug of coffee from Cassidy. “Your son is determined.”
“To?”
“He thinks John and Nicolaus were working on a project together.”
“Were they?” Cassidy asked.
Claire sipped her coffee and shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably.”
“And, Dylan?”
“He’s smart,” Claire said. “He found something in Alex’s office at the house.”
“What did he find?”
“You know that globe thing on Alex’s desk?”
“The Civic Medics Award?” Cassidy asked.
“Is that what it is?”
Cassidy smiled and nodded. “What about the award?”
“You won’t believe this. It shouldn’t surprise me, and I can’t believe it.”
“Believe what?”
“That statue?” Claire asked.
“Yeah?”
“You know the toy plane Jane gave to Alex?”
“Claire, I love you—please get to the point.”
“Sorry. John’s toy plane unlocked a compartment under the globe of that statue.”
“What are you talking about?” Cassidy asked.
“John’s toy plane was a key. It fits into the base of the award and unlocks the globe. When Dylan took the globe off, he found a compartment that held a Microdrive.”
“You’ve got to be joking.”
“Nope,” Claire said. “I watched Dylan unlock it.”
“Does it ever end?” Cassidy mused.
“No.”
“Great.”
“What do you want me to say?” Claire asked. “I wish it would, but it doesn’t end, Cass. People like the game too much.”
“Don’t ask me to understand.”
“I can’t ask you to understand something that doesn’t make sense to me. That doesn’t change the fact that it’s true.”
“What do you think about it—what Dylan found?” Cassidy wondered.
“I don’t know,” Claire said. “Alex’s father moved money all over the world. It’s kind of ironic he hid something under a globe.”
“Do you think that’s what is on the drive? Money transactions?”
“Well, it seems like a safe bet, but it could be anything,” Claire said. “I think Dylan hoped I could help him unlock it tonight.”
“But you couldn’t?”
Claire shrugged. “I probably could—if I wanted to involve someone else, which I don’t. And I think he needs to step back, Cass.”
“From Carecom?”
Claire held Cassidy’s gaze and shook her head. “I’d like to say that. But no.”
“You think Dylan wants to follow you and Alex.”
“Not the way you’re thinking,” Claire said.
“Do you mean he doesn’t want to carry guns or break into buildings?”
“I don’t know about the latter—but that would prove difficult unarmed.” Claire smiled. “He likes the challenge, Cass. And he likes the mystery.”
Cassidy sighed.
“Do you want me to lie to you?” Claire asked.
“Yes.”
Claire laughed. “I think that’s partly why he loves the idea of being a pilot.”
“What do you mean?” Cassidy asked.
“It’s kind of mystical, isn’t it? Like you’re in a different world. It’s a challenge and an escape from everyone else’s reality.”
Cassidy never considered flying the way Claire described it, but the observation made sense.
“John was the same way,” Claire said. “I remember sitting next to him on a plane before the election. He loved to look at the clouds—like he thought they held secrets or portals.” Claire chuckled. “He liked science fiction, you know?”
“I didn’t know. I’m not sure Alex knows that.”
“He did,” Claire said. “I think he just wanted to escape sometimes.”
Cassidy sighed.
“Cass, Dylan isn’t John. It’s a little different for him. He’s looking for John—looking for himself.”
“I know.”
“It’s hard,” Claire said. “He told me tonight he thinks Alex hated her father.”
“That’s not true.”
“I know. I told him that.”
“You did?”
Claire nodded. “Dylan loves Alex. He sees how the other kids resemble Pip and her—and sometimes, he forgets how they resemble him. I get it.”
“Claire.”
“Well, I do,” Claire said.
“You think Dylan wants to stay at Carecom, don’t you?”
“I think he’s discovering something about himself—something he enjoys that connects him to Alex and his father, Cass. I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“Yep. You’re thinking that you don’t connect to our father,” Claire said.
“Not if it means following in his footsteps.”
“You’re a lot like him, Cassidy.”
Cassidy shook her head.
“You are. I don’t pretend to agree with his choices,” Claire said. “But he cares about family more than anything—even if that doesn’t look like it does with you. Dylan will be okay. I could lie to you. I won’t. He has an aptitude for this work. Most people working for the CIA sit at desks, Cass. They’re legitimate analysts—not agents. They do the groundwork for the agents. So, yeah—I could see him working for the company. I could also see him working for someone like Candace. He’ll figure it out. Maybe he’ll get bored and decide to be a pilot full-time.”
Cassidy smiled. “I’m sure he’ll fly planes. I think we both know he’s found his niche.”
“Maybe,” Claire said. “Time will tell.”
Cassidy sipped her coffee. “I can’t sleep.”
“What do you want to do?” Claire asked.
“Do?”
“Pool?”
“You want to play pool at three in the morning?” Cassidy asked.
“Maybe. If you agree to trade this coffee for whiskey.”
“How about if I add the whiskey to our coffee?” Cassidy suggested.
“I like the way you think.”
“I learned from the best.”
“Mom?” Claire asked.
“No. Mom is married to her wine.”
“Dad?”
Cassidy chuckled. “No, Dad’s mom.”
Claire listened with interest.
“I wish you could have known her,” Cassidy said.
“You look a lot like her,” Claire commented.
Cassidy smiled. It was interesting to her—she resembled her father’s mother, and Claire looked a lot like their mother’s mother. Cassidy wished Claire had gotten the chance to know their grandparents. She counted herself lucky to have had relationships with all her grandparents. She’d been close to both her nana and her grammy. “And you look like our Grammy,” Cassidy said.
“Mom’s mother,” Claire commented.
“Mm-hm. Grammy Mackenzie was great, but Nana McCollum was hysterical. She always made me laugh,” Cassidy said. “Grandpa met her when he was in Belfast in 1942. He was in the army. She was visiting her grandmother. He got pneumonia and nearly died. They sent him back stateside. Nana moved here two months later.”
“Wow.”
“She gave me my first taste of whiskey in coffee when I was fourteen.”
“No way! Did Mom know?”
Cassidy shook her head. “It’s how I developed a taste for whiskey.”
“I’m sure.”
“I’m serious,” Cassidy said. “Nana and Grammy took me to dinner the weekend after my eighteenth birthday. They ordered Scotch and Irish whiskey and tried to convince me which was better. Grammy Mackenzie insisted it was the Scotch. Nana? Nana told her the scotch smelled like the fireplace in her parents’ house.”
Claire laughed. “What did you choose?”
“I didn’t. It was my first real lesson in diplomacy. Otherwise known as training for a future in the classroom.”
“And with five kids.”
“And that.” Cassidy held out her hand. “Come on. You beat me last time. Maybe the whiskey will give me an advantage,” she said.
“Mm. But what about the coffee?” Claire asked.
“I guess we’ll see.”
Saturday
Moscow, Russia
“Pytor,” Popov said. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“Mr. President.”
“No need for formalities,” Popov said. “Sit.”
Pytor Gregorovich followed the president’s direction, sitting across from him.
Popov regarded the younger man silently. He’d known Pytor since he was a boy and had considered Pytor’s father, Artem, a friend. He also understood that Pytor Gregorovich’s mentor had been his predecessor and that Pytor likely suspected him of playing a role in Nika Kapralov’s death.
Popov leaned back in his chair. “I assume you know why I’ve called you here.”
“I have my suspicions,” Pytor replied evenly. “Why don’t you enlighten me?”
Popov smiled. He appreciated Pytor’s directness, a trait he had inherited from his father. “We have an opportunity to strike a blow against our enemies,” he said. “One that will give us the advantage we seek.”
“I’m listening.”
Popov looked at the antique clock on the wall. “Before the two o’clock hour, the British Foreign Secretary will come under attack.”
Gregorovich remained silent, offering the president an impassive gaze.
“You have a question, Pytor?”
“No. It seems strange to attack an ally. Unless its purpose is to divert attention.”
Popov smiled. “You are as perceptive as Nika suggested.”
“Might I inquire what you aim to accomplish with this diversion?”
“Reid and the German Chancellor have Prime Minister Webb’s full support and endorsement of their agenda.”
“Not surprising.”
“No. It is not,” Popov agreed. “But it is more problematic than politics, Pytor. Martin Ward and Webb have a close alliance.”
Gregorovich nodded. “Perhaps, but the Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service reports to the Foreign Secretary, Yuri. Have you lost faith in Blaire’s ability to control Chief Ward?”
“Ward will almost certainly apprise the prime minister of any directives he finds questionable. There is no choice but to remove him. And I believe the American president may have questions about Mr. Blaire.”
“About his allegiance?” Gregorovich asked.
“Perhaps. A close call may ally those concerns—for a time.”
“I see.”
“I sense disagreement,” Popov observed.
“Not disagreement, Mr. President. Concern.”
“I’m listening.”
“Do you intend to remove them both?” Gregorovich asked.
“No. Mr. Blaire will experience a close call—nothing more.”
“Manner?” Gregorovich.
“A gas explosion.”
“That’s becoming tired, Yuri.”
“It provides cover.”
“It provides a trail—to you,” Gregorovich warned the president.
“Henri set the wheels in motion.”
“That does not bode well for either of you.”
“What do you suggest?” Popov asked.
“Blaire has made some enemies within the Nigerian community in Greater London.”
“And?”
“A more direct attack would provide the cover you seek.”
“That carries more risk,” Popov said.
Gregorovich shrugged. “There is always a risk.”
“The foreign secretary engineered this plan, Pytor. How do you suggest changing course in less than two hours?”
“Leave it to me.”
Popov smiled. “Nika would be proud.”
Gregorovich remained expressionless. “I’ll see to the diversion. What of the MI6 Chief?”
“His demise will appear natural on inspection,” Popov replied.
Gregorovich nodded. When it came to execution, the Russian government had a particular fondness for poison. No nation had allocated greater resources to developing covert weaponry. Russia had successfully concealed some of the world’s deadliest toxins within seemingly harmless aerosols and oils.
“Very well. I have arrangements to make,” Gregorovich said as he moved to the door and turned the handle.
“Pytor?”
Gregorovich turned.
“See that they scramble.”
“Sir.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Chevening House
Kent, England
“This is absurd,” Michael Blaire argued.
“I don’t believe you have a choice,” Carly told her stepfather.
“And this comes from whom?”
“Pytor called. He didn’t say. I think it’s safe to assume Popov made the call.”
Blaire threw his coffee mug in frustration. “Madness!”
“Calm down, Daddy.”
“Calm down? Carly, you’re suggesting I take a bullet!”
“Only one.”
