Born with Secrets: A Political Thriller Page 8

  He nodded brusquely at her as he walked by. She looked like she wanted to tell him something, but he ignored her.

  Inside his office, Doyle realized what she probably had wanted to tell him. Luther sat in his chair, boot-clad feet propped up on Doyle’s desk. He was reading on Doyle’s tablet.

  Doyle sighed and went to sit on the couch.

  He asked, “Progress?”

  “I sent the email,” Luther replied. “Wheeler’s been stalling me since then. ‘Who are you, I need some proof she’s really who you say she is, I can’t convince the President without more evidence’… blah, blah, blah. It doesn’t really matter if they ever formally agree to our terms or not. They just have to know that, if they endorse Vincent, then the whole world learns about the President and Ms. LeBlanc. That’ll be more than enough to keep them out of our race.”

  Doyle nodded. “So basically it’s a done deal now? Just keep enough money coming in to keep our ads on TV and wait for the 55% win on Primary night?”

  Luther made a low grumbling noise in his throat for a second or two.

  Finally, he said, “Well, I wouldn’t say done deal.”

  At once, worry spread over the older brother’s face. “The consultants say I’m up five points. I don’t like hearing about problems.”

  Luther shrugged and said, “You’ll be fine. I’ve just got to keep one tiny little complication from blowing up into a big deal.”

  Doyle said, “We’ve got the girl. You sent the email. I thought she was enough to settle that.”

  Luther replied, “Yes, we have her. But the means by which I got her is posing a small problem.”

  When his brother just lifted his eyebrows, Luther continued speaking.

  “She wasn’t doing us any good hidden away in a prison, so I had to do something to get her out. It wasn’t exactly… well, it wasn’t pretty.”

  The older brother’s only reply was a wordless worried rumble coming through pressed-together lips.

  “Short version, some video of that ugly little business found its way out of the prison and into the hands of a reporter.”

  Doyle took a deep breath then asked, “How bad is the video?”

  Luther didn’t reply right away. He just sat there wordlessly.

  Finally he said, “It’s me arranging to have LeBlanc beaten.”

  Doyle exclaimed, “To have… what the… how… Luther! Beaten?”

  “I had to get her out of prison. If we left her there, then as soon as we sent the note telling the President to butt out of our primary or we’d expose her, then he’d just get her under his control and put his own spin on it. We needed her in our hands to make the plan work, but it’s not exactly a trifling matter to just walk out of a Federal prison with a convict under your arm. My idea was to have her wounded bad enough that she’d have to go to the hospital. From there, it would have been way easier to grab her and bring her here. It didn’t exactly work out like that but… well, we’ve got her and now I’ve got to clean up the mess.”

  Doyle said, “Normally, I’m happier when I don’t hear anything about the ugly side of this business. Whatever you get up to with all your black ops contacts and whatnot isn’t my business. I don’t want to know. But… make me feel confident that the mess is really going to get cleaned up.”

  “Relax,” Luther said. “I sent some guys to get the video back. The reporter who has it tried to give us the slip, but then he left his car right where we could find it. I’ve got an old buddy at the NSA who can help me trace credit card numbers so now we know that the guy he left his Camaro with rented him a hotel room. We’ll have this wrapped up by tonight.”

  Luther figured it was better if his brother didn’t know that the guy who rented the hotel room was the one and only Mike Vincent. Doyle would get cold feet over the risk of exposure.

  Doyle asked, “You’re certain?”

  Luther replied, “Dead certain.”

  CHAPTER 10

  “Is this really her?”

  “The one and only. Except for being pretty, you’ll be shocked by how ordinary she is.”

  “Judging by the news coverage, I keep expecting to find her in a straightjacket to keep her from getting out. I mean, she’s supposed to be this master of escape and disguise.”

  “She’s never once tried to escape. We haven’t had trouble with her for a almost two years until that fight in the yard. She’s only been in the SHU for the past day because everyone suspects she was somehow involved with LeBlanc’s escape. The picked lock in the server closet is the kind of skill she’s famous for.”

  The two men were Correctional Officers. One was middle-aged and very physically fit, with a graying crew cut and wire-rimmed glasses. The other was younger, overweight, and shorter. His hair was sandy brown.

  Cold concrete walls wrapped the two men in a cocoon of impersonal space as they walked. The utilitarian environment did not encourage smiles.

  The younger CO said, “When I heard I was being assigned here, I looked the place up online and practically every single link is about her. If you believe what’s written on the Internet, she’s half ninja and half Catwoman.”

  The older CO replied, “The testimony at her trial – not Internet sensationalism, but the real sworn statements – all paint her as a champion martial artist, award-winning small-caliber marksman, and genuine expert at disguise and concealment. I don’t know about all that, but she’s an extraordinarily skillful woman. I’ve seen her in fights.”

  “No way, really? You’ve seen her fight?”

  The older officer nodded. “It doesn’t happen much anymore, but it used to. Some idiots had to test themselves against the legend.”

  The younger correctional officer asked, “What’s it like seeing that?”

  The older man chuckled. “'See' her fight is sort of an exaggeration. She’s so fast you don’t see much. I saw four women – all members of the same gang – try to take her on once. Before I even realize what’s happening, one of them flies across the room and breaks a table by landing on it. Another one gets thrown into the wall. I’m just reaching for my baton when I see a fist to the nose of number three. Then the fourth collapses right where she’s standing somehow, without me being able to see anything hit her.

  “And then she stood straight – like a raw recruit at FLETC standing at attention.”

  He pronounced it “Flet-see” and referred to the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center. All Federal law enforcement agents started there, including Correctional Officers.

  The older CO paused for effect and then said, “Get this: then she bows – no kidding, just like a Bruce Lee movie. When the fight’s over she nods at me, beckons me over, and puts her hands behind her back, waiting for the cuffs. We’re lucky she’s a model prisoner. There’s not a CO here who could take her in a fight. You and I together couldn’t do it.”

  The younger man said, “Sheesh, that’s intense. I wish I’d seen that. I heard that when she was on the run, she fought five Secret Service agents at once and KO'd them all.”

  His older colleague said, “That's in some of the testimony from her trial. Her friend – the guy who visits her all the time here – was under guard because they thought she would contact him for help. She knew he was secured and went in anyway. She snuck past four guards outside – all wearing night vision – got inside, then beat up five more on her way out. I don't think she actually knocked them all unconscious, though.”

  The younger man grinned, then asked, “A guy who visits her all the time? I was hoping she was single.”

  The older one laughed. “Like I said, she's got a couple guys who visit her a lot. I think one of them is her boyfriend. But anyway, that’s so far against the rules we’re not even supposed to joke about it.”

  As the two men approached the cell, they could hear fast, strong breathing. It wasn’t panting so much as the deliberately focused exhalation of an athlete in the middle of exertion. Once they arrived at the cell, in addition to the brea
thing, they could hear a count.

  “One forty-six. One forty-seven. One forty-eight.”

  Through the thick steel bars, the COs could see she was doing pushups, and she gave no sign that she was aware of their presence.

  The younger man glanced at the older and said, “One forty eight? At FLETC, I topped out at thirty-nine.”

  From inside the cell they heard, “One forty-nine. One fifty.”

  She pulled her knees in and rose to her feet, turning to face the cell door.

  “Good evening, gentlemen.”

  Chambers managed a small smile. She wore sweatpants and a tank top. Her chest rose and fell as she caught her breath from the workout. A sheen of sweat glistened on her forehead, sticking her bangs to the skin.

  “Evening, Chambers,” the older CO said. “We’re here to take you to a visitor.”

  She made a show of looking at her wrist, where a watch might have sat if she had worn one. Then she looked back at the bars and raised her eyebrows. The question was obvious. They were far outside of normal visiting times. In addition to which, prisoners being held in the SHU were not allowed visitors.

  “Ours is not to reason why,” the CO said and then added, “Whoever it is has some serious bureaucratic muscle. Our orders are to drop you in a conference room, and we're not allowed back until called for. This kind of thing literally never happens. Never.”

  He moved his finger in a circle to indicate she should turn around.

  This Alyssa did, crossing her wrists behind her back to wait for the cuffs. The two men unlocked the door, came in and cuffed her, and then led her down the hall.

  The older one said, “I think my young colleague here has a bit of a crush on you, Chambers. He says there’s a lot written about you on the Internet.”

  “Hey–”

  Before the younger man could go very far with his rebuttal, Alyssa said, “I don’t expect to go on any dates for about 28 years.”

  The older CO laughed. “Come on, Chambers. Good time, credit for time served before your sentencing, parole… you could be out in ten.”

  She replied, “I think my good conduct time credits went up in smoke since everyone thinks I helped LeBlanc escape.”

  Rather than respond, the older Correctional Officer opened the door at which they had arrived. He gently urged Chambers through it ahead of him, stopping short of a push. He removed her cuffs, then shut the door behind her.

  She heard the sound of the door locking. Massaging her wrists, she looked at the room. It was obviously a conference room that the COs and prison staff used. There were motivational posters, as well as advisories about work comp coverage, thumbtacked to cork boards all the way around the room. A cheap conference table dominated, with chairs arranged around it. They were swivel chairs with wheels on the base, made of fake wood and fake leather.

  Sitting in one of them, at the far end of the room from Alyssa, was the explanation for how she could have a visitor so far off hours when she was stuck in the SHU. It would take a man with a lot of Federal government horsepower to make all this happen. And the one at the far end of the conference table had more than enough.

  “Tom Wheeler,” Alyssa said. She wasn’t sure what else to say.

  His last-minute call to the Attorney General, back when he was managing the campaign of the man who would become the next President, had probably saved her life. But on the other hand, he was the one who had hired her to break into the West campaign headquarters. As far as anyone had ever learned in the investigation and trial, he’d had nothing to do with the assassination plot, including framing her. But she’d never fully trusted him anyway.

  He wore his gray hair in a high and tight flat top. Big, bushy eyebrows gave the impression that his hair would have been thick and unruly if he didn't cut it so severely. Green eyes tried to trade stares with Alyssa but looked away after only a moment.

  He wore a navy blue suit and a bright yellow tie. He slouched in his chair, though, spoiling the image.

  Wheeler, she knew, held the office of Counselor to the President in the current administration. Before they were elected, he had been the Communications Director on the campaign.

  It was in that capacity that he had hired Alyssa Chambers for a twofold job. The first part had been to clean up his candidate’s past, destroying evidence of his manifold indiscretions. The second had been “aggressive opposition research” on Rich West, their top opponent in the primary election. The actual conspiracy to kill West and frame Alyssa had been her father’s doing. But the fact remained: Wheeler had been the one who hired her for the job.

  He made eye contact with her again and waved toward one of the chairs near him at the conference table, indicating she should sit. Alyssa took the chair at the far end instead. She stared at him without saying a word, waiting for him to speak first.

  “You know it’s not my fault you’re here, Chambers. I had nothing to do with the plot to kill West. That was–”

  She cut him off. “I know who killed him, and I know who framed me. But whether or not you truly had 'nothing' to do with it remains to be seen.”

  Wheeler didn't reply. Instead, he lifted up a fat briefcase from beside his leg and opened it with the lid facing Alyssa so she couldn't see what was inside. Familiar with lawyer visits, she expected him to take some papers out. But she was wrong.

  Wheeler proceeded to set out two cut glass tumblers, an expensive brand of bottled water, and then a tall clear bottle of amber liquid. Chambers recognized it right away. It was 25-year-old single malt Scotch whisky. Not only that, it was her favorite distillery.

  He quietly poured a couple fingers into each glass and splashed a tiny bit of water in. With a gentle shove, he sent the glass sliding all the way down the table to Chambers.

  She looked at the glass. She had been a scotch connoisseur once upon a time. Knowing different distilleries and at what ages they sold their product had even been a small clue in figuring out who framed her.

  But she hadn't so much as smelled it in almost two years.

  She picked up the tumbler and held it to her nose, breathing deep. “The best Scotch in the world” was a debate that connoisseurs could have for hours at a time but in Alyssa's opinion, this was it. MacAllan 25. She enjoyed the scent, then took a delicate sip. It was her first alcohol in almost two years, and the taste was like an electric current on her tongue. Smoke, peat, elegance, and a lifetime of privilege were all in the taste.

  Then she belted down the entire rest of the glass, set it back on the table, and slid it back to Wheeler.

  She nodded at the bottle and lifted her eyebrows expectantly.

  Wheeler smirked at her, filled the glass again, and sent it back down. When she wrapped her hand around it, he spoke.

  “I want to hire you again.”

  She waited for a moment before responding, letting the silence grow just enough to be awkward. She sipped the whisky and said, “Setting aside for the moment certain restrictions on my freedom of movement, I’m clean now Wheeler. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

  Wheeler sipped his own glass of whisky before replying.

  “That’s not what the staff here says. They say you helped another prisoner escape.”

  Alyssa shook her head and replied, “I was as surprised as anyone else when she turned up missing.”

  He nodded and drank the rest of his whisky. He carefully, deliberately set the empty glass down. He ran his finger around the edge.

  “I note that that is not a denial.”

  Alyssa put her nose in the tumbler, breathed in the sharp aroma of the scotch, then took another sip.

  “You’re not an attorney,” she eventually replied. “The prison staff is under no obligation to respect the privacy of our conversation.”

  Which was a roundabout way of communicating the message that the room could be bugged and anything incriminating she might say could be used against her.

  Here, Wheeler let a grin spread across his face.

  He
said, “Funny thing about that. Actually they are. They’re all Federal employees and subject to executive orders. We just quietly issued Executive Order 15342 this morning. It has a lot of really explicit provisions about how the staff at FCI Rocky are supposed to conduct themselves toward you.”

  Alyssa nodded and responded, “Must be nice to work in the White House. Whatever kind of executive order you need, just ask the boss.”

  “You have no idea,” he said. “In fact, speaking of that, I’m pretty sure I have the means to persuade you to do this one last job for me, no matter how clean you claim to be these days.”

  She shrugged and took another sip from her glass. It felt good. The sensation started as a bite on her tongue and spread out like the warmth of a campfire over her whole upper body. It wasn't just the alcohol. It was this particular alcohol and all the reminders it carried of her old life. Sitting here sipping two-hundred-dollar whisky and talking about politics and money made her miss it worse than ever.

  Her name was the same here in FCI Rocky. Her body was the same. Her skills were the same. But on the outside, she was an empress. She was the only child and last heir of one of America's oldest and richest families. She was powerful and connected to the mightiest leaders of the land.

  In here, she had to turn around and meekly wait for the cuffs whenever she was told.

  She paused, then waved around her to indicate the prison. “I'm not exactly in a work release program.”

  Wheeler went back to his briefcase and finally did what she had expected ever since she saw him open it. He drew out a piece of paper. With a grin like an all-in poker player turning over the fourth ace, he slid it down the table.

  Taking it, Alyssa felt that it was not plain paper. It was a rich, bonded vellum, a watermark in the middle.

  The watermark was the Great Seal of the United States.

  Turning it over, she saw it was letterhead.

  “Office of the President of the United States of America.”

  Alyssa's heart raced. The paper trembled in her hands as she skimmed through some legalese at the top, a summary of the charges to which she had plead guilty. At the bottom of the page were the words she had never until that moment even dared to imagine.