House of Secrets - v4 (25 page)

Andy winced as the man hung up on him. An ambulance raced by on the street, silent but with its lights flashing urgently. A silent police car followed tight on its tail.

Andy returned to the couch and dropped into it. The three ugly photographs were laid out on the coffee table, in sequence. Despite himself, Andy stared down at them.

Here’s the end of my world
.

He picked up the first photo. A man and a woman making love on a large bed. The woman was diagonal on the mattress. The man was on his knees, vertical, his face turned partway to the left, in perfect profile for the camera.

A sob erupted from Andy. He imagined his daughter gaining access to this picture. That’s how things happened nowadays. He didn’t care about the rest of the world — they could have it — but not Michelle. Not Little Wizard. Daughter of the most loathsome daddy on the planet.

I
rena sensed trouble the instant the dirty-blond man entered the elevator with her. She hadn’t noticed him until she’d been halfway across the small lobby of the hotel. She paused before hitting the button for the fourth floor; the man made no move. Irena hit four and then the man leaned past her and hit the same button. He smiled into her face.

“Hello, neighbor.”

At the fourth floor the man waited until Irena got off the elevator, then remained several steps behind her as she moved down the hallway toward the room. As Irena reached the door she could hear the television set blaring inside. Her mind was racing to remember the code Dimitri had given her. She remembered the “all’s safe” knock, but not the other one. It had vanished from her head.

The man had stepped up behind her. Warm fingers rested on Irena’s neck.

“Do not be a fool, Mrs. Bulakov. Just open the door.”

Irena stammered. “I — I don’t have the key.”

“Well then, tell your husband to let you in. Or were you planning to just stand out here all night?”

There was a movement next to Irena’s right eye. A large knife blade came into view for a moment, then disappeared.

“Tell him to let you in.”

Irena knocked. It wasn’t the danger code, but it certainly wasn’t the “all’s safe” one, either. She rapped half a dozen times. The volume lowered on the television.

Irena spoke in a loud whisper. “Dimitri! It’s me. Let me in.”

For a few seconds, nothing. Then the sound of the door being unlocked. The door opened only a crack, and immediately the man shoved Irena through the doorway. As she stumbled into the room, she glimpsed Dimitri in his undershirt and boxers standing on a chair that he had pulled up next to the door. She fell forward onto the floor.

Dimitri was holding an empty beer bottle over his head. As the man pushed into the room Dimitri swung the bottle at him, but his aim was off and the bottle bounced ineffectually off the intruder’s shoulder. The blond man spun to his right. He whipped his arm in an arc, and a slice appeared across Dimitri’s undershirt. In a flash, the hoodlum brought the knife back, and this time it sank into Dimitri’s ribs, all the way to the handle. Irena let out a scream. A look of dumb confusion came to her husband’s face as his shirt began to redden. Using the embedded knife as a lever, Dimitri’s assailant pumped his arm forcefully and brought Dimitri down off the chair and crashing to the floor.

Irena screamed and scrambled up onto the bed.

The blond man jerked the knife free, and as Dimitri struggled to rise to all fours, the hoodlum launched a hard kick into his side. The two had cleared the doorway enough that he could reach over Dimitri and swing the door closed. Irena scooted farther back on the bed, her knees crunching right over Dimitri’s laptop.

Dimitri was trying to stand, but the blond man put a foot on his shoulder and toppled him easily. In an instant he was hunched over Dimitri, plunging the knife into his chest two, three, four times. His arm pumped as though it were a machine; the blood was spreading across Dimitri’s undershirt.

“Stop! Stop it!”

Irena’s screams ripped at her lungs. But the man was not stopping. He was grunting with his efforts. Dimitri, too, was making grunting sounds. But his were smaller. Weaker.

Oh, Dimitri
.

Irena grabbed hold of the laptop. In a single bounce she was at the foot of the bed. As she raised the laptop, she noticed the blue flash drive poking from its side, and she snatched it from the machine. She lifted the laptop over her head. Red bubbles were foaming from Dimitri’s mouth. His eyes met hers. At least, Irena thought they did. She had never before seen such sadness in them.

Irena brought the laptop down with all her might, hooking it at the last instant like a batter swinging for the fence. It caught the hoodlum full force against his face. Irena saw something the size of an aspirin propel to the floor as the man sprawled sideways on top of Dimitri.

Irena slipped off the bed. With the firmer footing, she brought the laptop down again, hard hits against the back of the man’s head. Two. Three. Four. The final swing of the laptop caught him on the side of his head, and Irena saw his eyelids flicker as he tumbled sideways onto the floor. She took one last look at her husband.

Stupid, stupid man
.

Irena jerked open the door. Her feet moved with a rodent’s swiftness, silent on the carpeted hallway. They steered away from the elevator and found the stairs. They brought her round and round and round, down to the ground floor, then carried her swiftly across the hotel lobby. They did not slow down for the man at the front desk, who was calling something out to her.

Clutching Dimitri’s computer to her chest, Irena hit the sidewalk at full speed. The sound of her own footsteps spurred her to run faster. She was undaunted by the light rain and the random puddles and by the fact that she had no idea whatsoever where in the huge, scary, lonely world she was going.

A
fter a set of early morning tennis, Whitney Hoyt and his wife showered separately then shared breakfast in their bathrobes out on the stone patio. Eggs Florentine. Tomato juice. Caffe latte.

While their plates were being cleared, a deer made an appearance at the edge of the trees. The deer grazed on the grass, then raised its head in alarm and stood stock-still for some twenty seconds before bounding back into the trees. Jenny went inside to change, and Whitney spent the next forty minutes with the
Times
and the
Journal
and
The Washington Post
. The world — no surprise — was still a mess.

At ten o’clock, Whitney dressed. Jenny was off to a meeting of the Greenwich Flower Festival, of which she had volunteered to be co-chair. Whitney was in his study when she popped in to say goodbye.

“This is really happening, isn’t it?” she asked.

Whitney slid his glasses up onto his forehead. “Anything is possible. But yes. I’m beginning to feel a sense of inevitability.”

Jenny paused, her hand resting lightly on the doorjamb. “What do you suppose this is going to mean to Christine?”

“Christine understands. Whatever fuss she makes, it will remain private. You’ll help her with that. You’re a good sounding board for her.”

Jenny took off. Twenty minutes later Paul Jordan poked his head into the room.

“Whitney? The shoes are coming.”

Hoyt was flipping through some papers. A play of amusement crossed his face. He looked up.

“You’re certainly Mr. Cloak-and-Dagger these days, aren’t you?”

Shoes
was a term for federal agents that Jordan had picked up from the movies. Jordan and his wife were unabashed movie junkies, particularly American gangster films. For nearly a dozen years, the love of their life had been their Scottish terrier, which Hailey Jordan had named Baby Face.

Jordan adopted a tone of mock solemnity.

“The president, sir, and two of his men.”

Hoyt waved a hand. “Show them in.”

Jordan stepped back from the door, and two Secret Service agents appeared. The agents glanced impassively around the room, then took up positions on either side of the door. Paul Jordan bowed his head slightly as President John Hyland entered the room. Hoyt stood and started around his desk, but the president covered the distance in four long strides.

“Governor. It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise, Mr. President. Sorry to disturb your morning.”

The two men shook hands. Hoyt directed the president to have a seat in the mahogany red leather chair in front of his desk, while he took the rocker opposite.

“It’s not a problem,” Hyland said. “I was able to cancel a very boring breakfast.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time, however. The boring lunch is a little harder to nix.”

Hoyt nodded. “I understand that.”

Hyland gave a signal, and his shoes left the room. Paul Jordan surveyed the room intensely for several seconds, giving a terse nod to Hoyt, then joined them. The door clicked closed behind him.

The president leaned forward in the chair, grasping his hands together. If he looked like a man wearing handcuffs, the impression was not wholly inaccurate.

“Okay, Whitney. I gather from your message that you have a few things to tell me about Chris Wyeth. Not as if I haven’t been hearing more than enough the last couple of days.”

“True enough,” Hoyt said.

“Nothing good, I assume.”

“Chris certainly wouldn’t think so.”

Hyland studied the man in front of him. The relationship between the new president and the former governor had always been cordial and primarily superficial. Hyland was well aware that even in his role as private citizen, Whitney Hoyt still commanded respect and loyalty in certain political circles. He was far from being a person without influence.

Hyland asked, “Is it even worth my asking why you didn’t come forward with your information last year while we were vetting him?”

“Not worth asking, John.”

“I see.” Hyland waited, but it was apparent that Hoyt had no more to say. “Okay, Governor,” Hyland went on at last. “This is all in your court. I’m begging, you’re giving. How are we going to run this?”

Hoyt rocked his chair slightly. “We don’t have to be so arch here, Mr. President. It’s simple horse trading. The good old-fashioned style.”

“Wyeth is finished,” Hyland said. “I get that. That seems to be established. I take it you’re holding the nails to the coffin.”

“I doubt you’ll really need them. But yes, I am.” Hoyt leaned sideways and lifted a manila folder from the edge of his desk.

“It’s always been a real love-hate matter with you and Chris, hasn’t it?” the president said.

Hoyt brought the folder onto his lap, considering the president before responding. “It’s neither love nor hate, Mr. President. Either of those would suggest that the man holds a special enough place in my heart. That’s simply not the case here. It’s my country I have in mind, not Chris Wyeth’s specific failings. Granted, Chris is smart and he’s capable and he’s shrewd. It’s impressive how he’s maneuvered all these years. One really does have to respect a man who is good at his game. You, for example. I’ve enjoyed watching you, Mr. President. You’re immensely skilled. You’ve got the common touch down cold. People relate to you. They trust that you’re going to deliver. Hell, you’re the Joe DiMaggio of politics.”

Hyland scoffed. “I hope that isn’t to say I’ll end my days selling coffeemakers.”

Hoyt smiled blandly at him. “I hope not, too. And take this from one who knows. It’s definitely the final act that’s the trickiest. They take away all your toys, but you’re still expected to be having fun.”

“You’re doing okay for yourself, Governor.”

“Well, yes. I’ve got a good wife and fond memories and loyal friends. For the most part, I’m a happy man.”

Hyland eyed the folder in Hoyt’s lap. “But clearly something has made you unhappy.”

Hoyt cleared his throat. “I’m afraid you simply didn’t pick the best man for the job, John. I love my country. I want to see it thrive. For all his smarts and his obvious successes, Chris Wyeth sitting in the Oval Office does not say
thrive
to me.”

Hyland smiled. “Last time I looked, I was the one sitting there.”

“Of course you are. Let’s just say that Chris Wyeth is too close for my tastes. It’s not always a healthy thing for a man to get everything he wants.”

“And you think Wyeth wants my job?”

Hoyt waved his hand. “Christ, man, of course he does. Don’t play silly with me. Chris Wyeth has been aching for that job since he was in diapers. This is no secret. You took on an eager beaver, Mr. President.”

“Do you mind my asking you something, Governor?” Hyland said.

“Please.”

Hyland shifted in the chair. “You looked like a pretty eager beaver yourself at one point in your career. There are a lot of people who never understood your not taking a crack at the office.”

Hoyt continued rocking slowly in his chair. “That’s a statement. You said you wanted to ask me a question.”

“The question is, why didn’t you ever run for president when you were so clearly positioned for it?”