Triple Threat Page 8

  “Wait!” Ellie cried out. She hurried to his side.

  “You won’t do that to me. But even if you did, I’m sick and tired of—”

  “Wait!” she said louder, touching Nate’s shoulder to get his attention.

  His tired gaze met hers.

  “Let me talk to him.” She lowered her voice. “I think I might have a solution to all of this.”

  He stared at her for a moment, then—with no warning or explanation to Hawes—he handed Ellie the phone.

  “You’re not stupid enough to throw away eleven years of service over a fu—” Ellie held the phone an arm’s length away and gave Murtaugh a sympathetic look. It wasn’t the language but the volume of it that was objectionable. “Mr. Hawes!”

  He continued to rumble on. Nate held her hand with the phone in it and brought it to his face.

  “Listen, goddammit! Ms. Littlefield has something to tell you.”

  She took back her hand and spoke into the phone again. “Mr. Hawes?”

  Silence filled the line.

  “Mr. Hawes, I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to assist Agent Murtaugh in locating the original Betsy Ross flag, if that’s what it is that may be out there.”

  “We have no time for ‘maybe I will, maybe I won’t,’ Miss Littlefield. This is not the way the FBI conducts operations, and we’ve got only two weeks to accomplish this assignment.”

  “That’s what he’s been telling me.”

  “What are your leads?”

  “Before we get too specific here, you need to hear my demands.” Ellie returned Nate’s narrowed glare.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stay out of it.”

  “Come again?” Hawes asked in a higher pitch from the other end.

  Ellie leaned her back against the counter and watched a trace of confusion cross the tough expression of the man sitting beside her. “In addition to the guarantees that I understand Sister Helen asked of you, and a financial arrangement allowing me to bill you for my time, I’m demanding that you stop micromanaging us. This is my life and my reputation I’m putting on the line here. Agent Murtaugh appears perfectly qualified to go undercover to do this job, but I can only be effective if you leave us alone and let me make the contacts for him. We have to make his interest in the Robert Morris flag known in the proper circles. To do that, you need to keep your hands off. Wherever we go or whoever we see, we’ll be the ones to decide that from here on out. We’ll call you when we need you, but other than that, my demand is that you cease to exist.”

  From the breathing on the other end of the line, she envisioned a bull pawing the earth and preparing to charge.

  “Do we have a deal, Mr. Hawes?”

  Eight

  Washington, D.C.

  Sunday, June 20

  The television ad featured split-screen images—on one side, views of prosperous farms, impressive waterfalls and industrial complexes amid the wheat fields of the Midwestern plains; on the other, a dramatic contrast, with stark images of crowded classrooms, the homeless huddled in rags along alley walls and silent factories behind chained and padlocked gates on the eastern seaboard. The pithy comments on the planned expenditure of billions of dollars on the Water for America irrigation project, with its pipelines running from the national parks in the Rockies to the storage facilities in the lower Midwestern states, were just overkill. A picture speaks a thousand words, and the way things were presented here, an idiot could see who was benefiting from this project and who was being left out.

  President Ron Kent punched the TV remote as his opponent came on the screen to add his two cents. He leaned back in his leather seat and studied the furnishings of his private sitting room in the west wing of the White House. Four years wasn’t enough. He was only beginning to see progress in getting Congress in line on his programs. He looked at the painting of Mount Vernon over the fireplace. In spite of all the security and the formalities of being the country’s head of state, he no longer felt this place was just temporary. The White House was just starting to feel like home, and he had no intention of giving it up after only one term.

  He stood up abruptly and turned to his chief of staff. “How many points did this cost us?”

  “I don’t think I have those numbers….” George Street glanced through the folder on his lap, shaking his head. “They started running the ad on the six o’clock news on all the major networks and affiliates, and on CNN, of course. They’ve been repeating it—”

  “How many points?” Kent asked impatiently, snatching up his glass and going to a side table to pour himself another two fingers of Chivas.

  “Our 8:00 p.m. poll showed a four-point drop.” George cleared his throat and thumbed through the pages again. “We believe there may be a problem with the tabulations of the 10:00 p.m. poll, though.”

  “How bad was it?”

  “Mr. President, it would be counterproductive to pay attention to a temporary dip in these numbers right now. With more than four months left till the election, we have plenty of time to counteract this kind of negative advertising. With the situation in the Middle East and our options regarding escalated action there, the mood of the nation can be—”

  “Don’t tell me about the mood of the nation, George.” Kent banged his glass down on the table, and the drink sloshed out onto the polished mahogany. “Facts and numbers. That’s what you’re best at. Give them to me, damn it.”

  “The ratings registered another seven-point drop in the ten o’clock poll.”

  Kent moved to the fireplace and gazed at the picture of Mount Vernon for a moment. “Get the key players from Congress in here tomorrow morning.”

  “But you have the Turkish foreign minister scheduled for—”

  The President turned to his chief of staff. “Reschedule. I want bipartisan faces behind me for a press conference in the Rose Garden at noon. It’s time I made it public. Voters need to know that I’m planning to veto the Water for America program.”

  “Mr. President—”

  Kent began to pace the room, thinking out loud. “I should have done this a month ago.”

  “Mr. President—”

  The subtle change in Street’s tone of voice drew Kent’s attention. He ceased his pacing and frowned at his chief of staff. The younger man was wearing the look of a man trying to figure a way to get back on a horse that had just thrown him.

  “Sir, responding like this will look like a knee-jerk reaction at best.” Street laid the folders on the table beside his chair. “Mr. President, I am not your domestic adviser and I’m not the chair of your reelection committee, but there are a few things that I’d like to say about this, if I may.”

  “Spill it, George. You know I value your opinion.”

  “Something you need to consider is the fact that there are some very influential people—people who have contributed heavily to your reelection campaign—who will feel that you have strung them along on this for several years now. These people—acting on the basis of your support—have made huge financial investments in that region. Aside from them, however, the negative consequences of what could be construed as a last-minute change of heart—or even worse, as waffling—could be brutal.”

  “There’s nothing last minute about this, George. I warned Graham Hunt about the way I was leaning more than six months ago. He should have gone back then and asked the coalition of businessmen behind him to rethink their plans.”

  “Hunt told me he was not happy you were rethinking the project, but I don’t believe he knows that you plan to pull your support of it entirely. Nor do I think our party leaders in Congress know. Hunt and his people aside, we need to consider the impact of a veto on the other investors—the little guys in your home state, as well as the farmers and the construction industry and everyone else who’s been banking on this thing for so long. A lot of effort and expense went into the lobbying that it took to push this bill through both Houses.” Street lowered his voice. “Even the
Vice President is supporting this project, and he’s from New York. Talking this thing up handed you a landslide victory in those states in the last election, but you’ll lose them for sure if you veto this project.”

  “We’ll have to risk that. I won’t give that sonovabitch the high ground four months before the election,” Kent growled. “The people in this country know that things are different now. We were in a growth pattern four years ago. Now we’re struggling to beat back a recession. The economy is in no shape to handle this kind of expenditure on a program that will directly benefit only one region. I’m surprised they’re not running ads showing me taking food out of children’s mouths and putting it in my business friends’ pockets.”

  “We don’t want to give them any ideas. But nobody—except the radio hosts on the lunatic fringe—is blaming this recession on you. There may be real value in finishing what you started.”

  Kent looked over his chief of staff. The scion of an old political family, George Street was Ivy League smart, country club polished, and he had a knack for saying the right thing in every situation. He had been a trump card in Kent’s hand throughout this presidential term. But he had a strong feeling that he and Street had drifted apart on this project, and Kent now realized that it was critical for him to win the young man over. If he couldn’t convince his own man, then he had no chance against the pack of wolves that Hunt ran with. He sat down across from his chief of staff.

  “Do you remember what our intentions were at the beginning?”

  George nodded. “In your election campaign, we identified the benefits of Water for America to the Midwestern states in terms of jobs and an overall boost to the region’s economy. We spoke of the substantial improvement in agriculture. We also argued that the entire nation would benefit in times of drought. We—”

  “That was the campaign push. I’m talking about two years before the election, when we were still struggling to jump-start the funding for the campaign. Do you remember sitting down with Graham Hunt and looking for ways to entice some of his investors to join our camp?” There was a blank expression on Street’s face. “Cut the shit, George. We were both there together. This whole Water for America thing came about as a means of giving Graham and some of his investors a healthy return on what they were putting in. The program had merit, but the proportions of who benefited most definitely tipped toward those who were buying the land the pipes would run through and those who were investing in the construction outfits.”

  “I do remember, Mr. President. And don’t you think it’s important that you follow through with your initial promise?”

  The man’s eyes were as black as pools of crude oil on a sunless Oklahoma day. Kent got up and retrieved his drink from the table. Returning to his chair, he sat down and finished what was left in the glass.

  “No, George. I don’t.” The President stared at the sharp angles of the cut crystal in his hand. “I have a responsibility to act for the greater good. I have to make the right choices. And I don’t need to see the promotional spots of the opposition camp to know that a lot of people will be affected adversely by this program.”

  “Every decision you make affects people one way or another, sir. Your actions on this will affect you, the election and your place in history.”

  “Call the press conference. I’ve made up my mind.”

  George gave a curt nod, gathered the folders on his lap and stood up. Kent shook off the disappointment that he hadn’t swayed the young man. Street would stick with him, in spite of their differences on this issue. He’d grown up in politics. He knew the give-and-take of the business. Kent did, however, need Street to help him handle this whole issue smoothly. He needed him to handle the details, and to see to it that he said the right things to the right people at the right time. Details were crucial, and he needed his chief of staff to see to them.

  “If I might offer a suggestion, sir,” Street said, stopping at the door.

  “Of course.”

  “I believe it would leave you too open to potshots if you were to make such a public statement the day after the airing of these television ads. Your critics will have a field day, saying your good deed is just a reaction. They won’t give you any credit for it. Your sincerity and credibility will be the next thing they attack.”

  “What do you think I should do? Wait a day or two?”

  “I think you should wait and make the announcement in Philadelphia at the opening festivities of the Spirit of America celebration. We can circulate the rumor now that we’ve been holding off on a big announcement for several weeks. That event—which the polls show the country knows is your baby and is viewed favorably across the board—is devoid of controversy. It will give you the perfect opportunity for gaining the most credit for this monumental decision.”

  “As always, you know these things best. Take care of it. We’ll make the announcement on the Fourth of July.”

  The confrontation on the phone had brought out a pink shade in Ellie’s flawless cheeks. Nate found himself staring. She had long, dark lashes and large, dark eyes that almost overpowered her straight nose, her high cheekbones and her wide sensual mouth. Almost. In this wound-up state, she had a kind of Audrey Hepburn look, a classic beauty.

  “Very impressive.”

  “You mean the way you and Hawes tricked me into cooperating with you? What do you call that, the ‘good cop, bad cop’ routine?”

  “I don’t call it anything.” Nate took back his phone. “No. I mean the way you succeeded in shutting an FBI assistant director’s mouth. Not that it’ll last for more than a couple of hours.”

  “I could have asked for more. He won’t dare back out of our deal when he’s really getting his way.”

  “You don’t know what Sanford Hawes is capable of doing.” Nate pocketed his phone and looked at the door. “I’m going up to Ticonderoga first thing in the morning.”

  “And I’m coming with you.” She blocked his path to the door. “Agent Murtaugh, would you like me to give you an ultimatum, as well?”

  Nate found her tough talk very amusing, considering her elfish size. But he decided not to go there now.

  “As I said before, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to show your face up there right now. Besides, don’t you think you’d be more effective at looking for that flag if you actually started looking? What do you have to do, make some calls? Talk to people in the business?”

  She planted her hands on her hips and refused to back up. “Don’t tell me what I should do. You can be as annoying as your boss.”

  “Point taken. But I’ll call you tomorrow night to see what you’ve got.”

  “And I won’t be here. In fact, I can’t see any reason for your involvement at all. You’re only an added headache. I can do this perfectly well without you.” She went around him and reached for her phone. “I’ll call Sister Helen and have her change the arrangement. I can do all the legwork and even arrange for the purchase of the flag. Now, whoever Mr. Hawes decides to send for the final exchange is up to him. But I won’t be needing that person until then.”

  “You win.” His hand covered the handset before she could lift it from its cradle. “You can be pretty annoying yourself.”

  “Thanks.” She walked to the door and opened it wide. “What time are we leaving for New York?”

  “I’m planning on an early flight.”

  “I’ll meet you at the airport. You can call me with the time and the gate.”

  Nate paused before her by the door. The idea of walking away from all this had sounded very enticing when Sanford had been threatening him with his job over the phone. He’d caught himself thinking—in vague terms—about resigning from the Bureau several times over this past year. He was turning into a miserable middle-aged complainer with a bum knee, he had no personal life to speak of, and he’d been shoved behind a desk. There had to be a better life outside of this.

  “I won’t get in your way, Agent Murtaugh. And you don’t have to worr
y about me. I know how to become invisible when it comes to the authorities.”

  The soft voice was back. Beautiful, vulnerable…nothing like the tough-talking thief-turned-antique dealer who’d been bargaining with Hawes a few minutes ago.

  She was looking pretty damn good to him, in spite of her past. His judgment was clearly going to hell. Maybe he did need to make this his last job. Maybe he should walk away from it now.

  “I’m not too bad to work with. You might actually like it.”

  This was part of the problem. He knew he’d like it.

  “I’ll call you later,” Nate said as he went out the door.

  Nine

  Philadelphia

  Monday, June 21

  Ray Claiborne was one of the few people Ellie had a difficult time lying to. This was why she was relieved that she was doing this on the phone and not face-to-face.

  “Sister Helen introduced us. His name is Nate Moffet. Young, thirty-something, a lot of free time apparently. Bored trust-fund baby, I’m guessing. I think somebody told him it was cool to be a collector. He’s into a variety of niche collecting. Strictly Americana stuff, he says.”

  “Anything like that trophy wife from Newport two years ago? Remember how her interests broadened from Americana to French Empire as soon as I showed her those sex toys?”

  “I don’t think I ever met her.”

  “You ought to see what she’s collecting this year,” Ray said with a laugh.

  Ellie didn’t want to know. But she knew there was no sense saying it since Ray was already launching into a list of the woman’s latest purchases. She realigned the dozen sticky notes bearing instructions for Vic on the counter and looked down at her watch. Ten of seven. Nate was picking her up in ten minutes. For his sake and for her own, she hoped Ray would buy her story and put out the word about her client’s interest in the Morris flag. Last week, Ray had been the one who told her of the rumors of a Betsy Ross flag coming on the market.