The Gemini Deception Page 7

  The time elapsed between the start of the attack and when the elevator began moving again, this time with Ryden in it, was only about a minute. Had the Secret Service agents not been wired, no one would have known something was wrong.

  Ryden heard the panicked shouts and screams as the elevator slowed, then stopped. She closed her eyes and crossed her fingers. Please give me the strength to do this. The rustling of people on the other side of the door told her the show was about to begin. She opened her eyes and began to struggle as it slid open.

  A voice shouted, “Clear!” and the bodies of the dead agents were being lifted off her. Soon after, another voice shouted, “She’s alive! The president’s alive!”

  Chapter Six

  Bibbona, Italy

  Next day, February 25

  Harper Kennedy lifted her glass of red wine in a toast. “See you on the other side, buddy.” She rested the shovel against a tree by the grave and took a sip, swallowing hard as she realized another decade had gone by. Angelo had been her second companion since she’d moved to Italy, but he was not the first dog to bear that name.

  Harper had inherited the vineyard she loved, together with her first dog, from Pepo, short for Giuseppe. Pepo couldn’t imagine the vineyard or his life without his Weimaraner. He’d started the winery in 1953, when Angelo the first was just a pup. Pepo came to love that adopted stray so much he’d labeled the wine after him: Il Grigio Angelo, The Gray Angel.

  When she had first come to Italy on assignment with the EOO thirteen years earlier, Harper had never imagined she’d find not only a home but also a job she loved. She’d run into Pepo, already nearly eighty, at the local village café. They had started out talking about every Italian’s favorite topic and one Harper could relate to—politics—but the chat soon turned more personal. Ordinarily, Harper hated polite conversation and never volunteered much, but she surprised herself by opening up to Pepo about her hopes and dreams. She told him about her love for the country and how she never wanted to leave but had to find a job. It took but a few hours for them to become friends, and soon Harper moved into a small cottage he’d built next to his farmhouse. His only request was that she help out around his vineyard.

  Before long, she couldn’t fathom her life away from Tuscany or grapes. The work thrilled her and gave her a satisfaction nothing and no one ever had. When Pepo passed away and left her his sixty acres, she relished the challenge of making it her own and within five years had taken the vineyard to another level. She’d found investors who believed in her vision and the wine, and with the funds she expanded the vineyard and improved the earth, flavor, bottles, and label. She poured money into marketing and distribution, and soon she had taken Pepo’s popular local wine and turned it into an internationally renowned label now going for almost one hundred euros a bottle.

  The Bibbona region, eighty kilometers southwest of Florence, was ideal for producing quality wines. The silty soil was rich in minerals and the weather was moderate, with a minimal variation in temperature during the long growing season. Harper’s estate was also ideally situated, facing west, which gave her grapes optimum sunlight and exposure to the gentle sea breezes.

  She’d also renovated the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, which had a glorious panoramic view of the Mediterranean. Built of stone, with dark wood beams and floors, the two-story structure now had an updated interior and modern conveniences, as well as a large gun safe where she kept her weapons. Outside, where she spent most of her off time when the weather was pleasant, was a large stone terrace with a massive brick fireplace that she and Pepo had built together.

  Harper walked the short distance home and built a fire in the fireplace, like she did every evening, and relaxed before it with a glass of her own wine. Normally, Angelo would lie at her feet and she would occasionally pat him and talk to him about what needed to be done the next day, but now she quietly stared at the flames and listened to the trees rustle in the soft wind.

  When Pepo had fallen gravely ill five years ago, he told her he would always be with her in the wind and in the leaves. Now, every time Harper heard that sound, she imagined him watching over her, giving her strength when she was tired and praising her when she managed to come back home in one piece.

  Although the EOO held its operatives to strict privacy regulations concerning their work and involvement in whatever they were hired to do—they all were raised to conceal their identity—Harper had confided in Pepo. Living as closely as they did, it hadn’t taken him long to realize something was different about her. She would disappear for weeks at a time, sometimes returning beaten and broken, at other times distant or angry. At first, he thought it had to do with family matters, until she told him she didn’t have a family. Then he thought it involved a man, until she told him she was gay, and finally, when he thought it concerned health issues, she sat him down and told him the truth, or at least part of it. Harper didn’t mention the EOO, but she did tell him she worked security for an international private contractor.

  Pepo vowed to never ask anything about her work or her physical or mental state when she returned from assignments. From then on, he would seat her by the outdoor fireplace, pour her a glass of wine, and talk about vines. Harper came to love him like the father she never had and considered him her family. When he died, a small part of her died with him, but she knew he would live on in the wine.

  She heard a sound in the far distance, too brief to make out precisely what it was. She didn’t get up, but she did grab the shotgun at her feet. Here, up in the mountains, she would regularly spot a wolf, and although she’d never had any problems with the animals, other villagers had been attacked. She listened a while longer, then smiled and set down her weapon. “Hey, you missed the ceremony,” she said without turning around.

  “I’m sorry,” Monica replied as she bent to kiss Harper’s shoulder. “I couldn’t get away from work.”

  “I figured.”

  “Are you coping?”

  “I’m fine.” Harper tried to smile as the attractive blonde came around to face her. “You know how it is.”

  Harper had met Monica three years earlier on a flight back to Italy from the U.S. Monica was in the olive-oil business and had her own production factory. They spent the whole flight talking about the differences between the tree and the vine and the similarities between the business aspects of selling. What had started out as a friendship soon turned into a sexually open relationship, and both were content with that status since neither had the time nor interest in anything serious or binding. Harper had come to care a lot for her but actually cared about their friendship, not the sex.

  “I assume it won’t be long before a new Angelo comes running to greet me.” Monica sat on her lap.

  “It wouldn’t be right to leave the vineyard without a Grigio Angelo.”

  “We can go look together, if you want.”

  “It’s something I do alone, you know that.” Harper massaged Monica’s shoulders and Monica leaned back into her. Maybe a good night’s sex session would help her out of the funk she was in.

  “I just thought you might want company.”

  “I do, but not for picking out a dog.” Harper kissed Monica’s neck.

  Monica turned her head and kissed her. “Why don’t we go inside?”

  “What’s wrong with here?”

  The woman glanced around as if to make sure they were alone. “Nothing. Nothing at all,” she replied with a grin before attacking Harper’s mouth with her own.

  Harper’s cell phone vibrated on the table next to them. She never had the sound on because she hated the meddling, annoying contraption. She checked the caller ID and sighed. “Give me a second, okay?”

  Monica reluctantly got up off her lap. “I’m going to get a glass of red. How about you?”

  “Sounds great.” Harper took the call as soon as Monica was out of earshot, answering, as she always did, with her code number to verify her identity. “Shield 29041971.”

>   “You’re babysitting.”

  Harper appreciated the fact that EOO chief Montgomery Pierce didn’t waste words. “How exciting.” She didn’t try to conceal the irritation in her voice.

  “You sound tired.”

  “I sound bored. Bored numb with self-proclaimed VIPs. All of them, without exception, think they’re especially important to the human race. Meanwhile, they’re either as deep as puddles or as pleasant as a rash.”

  Pierce didn’t laugh. “I assure you, this one’s different.”

  “As in a whole new kind of skin condition.”

  “As in highly significant.”

  Harper arched an eyebrow. “Where are you sending me?”

  “Washington, D.C. 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.”

  “The Castle.”

  “Be here ASAP for the briefing.”

  “Is this about the attempt on POTUS?”

  “Correct. Still bored numb?”

  “Less so. I’m on my way.”

  *

  Southwestern Colorado

  Next day, February 26

  Shield hadn’t been back to the EOO headquarters southwest of Colorado Springs in six months. She’d gotten all of her recent protection assignments through intermediaries, since they’d all been brief details guarding dignitaries throughout Europe. Her plane was delayed, so she floored the rental car in order to make the briefing on time.

  The sixty-three-acre EOO complex, set high in the snow-capped Rocky Mountains and adjacent to the nearly half-million-acre Weminuche Wilderness Area, looked much like a private boarding school except for the high razor-wire-top fence that surrounded it and other obvious and not-so-obvious security enhancements. The Elite Operatives Organization was still as virtually unknown to the world at large—with a few exceptions, Interpol being one of them—as it had been in its infancy more than sixty years ago. Its remote location helped shield it from outside scrutiny.

  An array of squat red-brick dormitories and classrooms dominated the campus, but once Shield was admitted by the guard at the gate she headed toward the massive Neo-Gothic administration building, where Montgomery Pierce’s office was located, along with those of the two other members of the governing trio. Once she’d passed the retina and hand ID scan required to get inside, she rode the elevator up to the conference room where they held all their briefings.

  She had spent nearly half her life at the compound, from the time they’d adopted her from an orphanage in Australia at age six until she began taking missions seventeen years later. Like the rest of the ops, they gave the infant Harper the surname of a U.S. president and provided her with the best education possible. But she held no fond memories of the place. Her formative years had mostly been filled with weapons training, survival exercises, hand-to-hand combat drills, and other similar pursuits, not the normal fun of childhood, and she’d made no enduring friendships here. The ops were discouraged from making close attachments either inside or outside the organization, though many had disregarded that directive. Harper, however, did feel a sense of responsibility and gratitude toward the organization that had given her a higher education and the opportunity to discover and love Italy.

  The dozen men and women gathered in the conference room were all ETFs, members of the organization’s Elite Tactical Force, comprised of seasoned agents who had the training, skills, and resourcefulness to handle almost any situation. Most had specialties: Fetch was skilled at infiltration and hostage rescue, Chase was a top-notch tracker, Domino’s marksmanship with any kind of gun was unparalleled, and Reno could hack into nearly any computer in the world.

  When Shield joined them, the other ops were admiring a photo of Domino’s new daughter—who’d been born to her partner, Hayley.

  Allegro, their breaking-and-entering expert and a close friend of Domino, was the only one not making a fuss over the redheaded infant, probably because, as their resident cutup, she was usually the center of attention at such gatherings. “I don’t know why no one is congratulating me,” Allegro complained. “I’m the godmother, you know. That kid’s future…” she pointed to the picture, “will depend on me.”

  Domino quickly stuffed the snapshot into her back pocket. “The hell it will.”

  The other ops laughed. Montgomery Pierce tried to keep a straight face, but as was often the case when it came to Allegro, he didn’t entirely succeed.

  “I saw that.” Allegro pointed to him. “You’re taking their side.”

  “You’re not exactly the…classic role model.”

  “Typical. It doesn’t matter what I do, you always hammer on the small things,” Allegro replied. “Say what you want, all I hear is blah blah blah.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be a wonderful example.” Joanne Grant, the Director of Academics and the second member of the EOO’s governing trio, chimed in. “The rest of you, stop goading her. That goes for you, too, Monty.”

  Several of the ops chuckled at her comment. They all knew that Grant and Pierce, both in their sixties now, had become romantically involved and were living together. Though they still refrained from publicly acknowledging that fact, in deference to the no-close-attachments directive, their affection for each other was clear.

  Pierce cleared his throat. “Everyone take a seat so we can begin.” He went to shut the blinds, a habit whenever anything important was to be discussed, then took his chair between Grant and Director of Training David Arthur, the third member of the governing trio.

  “You are so negative,” Allegro replied, and took her place at the table. She turned to Domino. “No christening invitation for him.”

  Pierce pretended he hadn’t heard. “By now, you all know about the attack on the president. Since all five of her guards were killed, we’ve been asked to provide additional security for her while the Secret Service conducts an internal investigation to determine how this could have happened.” He turned to Shield. “You’ll be assigned as Thomas’s primary or SAIC—Special Agent in Charge. The Secret Service Presidential Protective Division will fill out the rest of her detail but will be under your direction.”

  “I imagine Director Alexander hasn’t entirely embraced this development,” Shield said. The head of the Secret Service was well known for maintaining rigid control of his department and had always resisted any effort by others to dictate how it was run.

  Pierce nodded. “The request for our involvement came via a joint missive from the vice president and chief of staff. In light of what happened, Alexander really doesn’t have a say in the matter.” He gestured toward their crack computer op. “Reno will be your main contact, should you need any intel. The rest of you can consider yourselves on standby to provide additional support. Questions?”

  When no one replied, he withdrew a folder from his briefcase and slid it across the table toward Shield. “A copy of the Secret Service’s file on Thomas. As you know, the White House Communications Agency has assigned her the code name Beacon, but in your communications with us, we’ll be using Lighthouse. The file also has your credentials and flight documents. You’re booked to D.C. in three hours.”

  Chapter Seven

  The White House, Washington, D.C.

  Later that day

  Ryden swiveled in the cushy leather chair, away from the massive Oval Office desk to face the three large south-facing windows behind her that overlooked the Rose Garden. The sun was just setting, so the external security lights popped on, illuminating the grounds. Two days after the switch, she’d so far done a very convincing job deceiving the world and those close to Elizabeth Thomas. But she was already exhausted. They hadn’t told her exactly how long she would have to play president, but she felt every bit the imposter she was with every minute that passed. For some reason, she’d thought it would get at least slightly easier over time, but forty-eight hours later, her nerves were raw and the headache wouldn’t go away.

  The toughest moment had been when she appeared on TV that morning in the press briefing room, to show the world the p
resident was still alive and well. She wasn’t ready for a full-blown press conference with impromptu questions she might not know how to answer, but she’d delivered a statement that she was uninjured by the attack and vowed that justice would be served. No one would stand in the way of a better America, and so on. The most difficult part for her had been in praising Thomas’s Secret Service agents for their courage and sacrifice, and extending condolences to their families.

  Kenneth Moore, Thomas’s special advisor and her contact within the White House, had scripted every word that came out of her mouth. The whole operation to switch Ryden with the president would not have been possible without him. He had fed her mysterious employer the dates and location of the Democratic Party fund-raiser even before it was publicly announced, and he had been the one to pass on the president’s every move and details about her wardrobe, including her ensemble the day of the exchange.

  Moore knew virtually everything about Elizabeth Thomas, since he was her right hand the same way he was now Ryden’s. He’d been with Thomas since her early days in the Senate, so Ryden couldn’t imagine what had prompted him to turn on her. She wanted to feel confident knowing he was there to tell her what to say and when, but the guy simply terrified her. With black beady eyes that constantly observed her, and a thin face and lips, he looked like a giant, dangerous rat. When they were alone, he prefaced most comments by leaning close to her ear and saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.” She’d tried to pull away earlier today before he got too close, but he’d grabbed her by the hair. She already loathed him so much she now wanted to hurt him more than she did her anonymous employer.