To the Brink (41 page)

"Oh yeah. The nonexistent Ted."

"Oh, he exists. It's just that he was my freshman science teacher. Haven't seen him since I graduated."

She was not amused. But she was putting it together. "So that's why you were repeating the address of the shop and the street names on the way here. You were feeding them information."

"Dishing it up with a shovel. Fortunately, they ate it up and walked directly into the trap."

She finally took a lick of her ice cream. "Now what happens?"

"Now they'll be questioned, shaken down, and threatened within an inch of treason. Now
there's
a word that'll put the fear of God into a man. With luck, they'll roll over fast—not that we figure they were taking direct orders from Gatlin, but it won't take long for the minor monkeys to fall out of the tree and drag the king ape with them once they start talking."

"And what happens to us?"

The freckle-faced ice-cream scooper, who looked like he should be playing pickup basketball on a neighborhood court instead of taking down bad guys, walked up to their table and answered her question.

"Ms. Prescott. Mr. Garrett. If you could both come with me, please, I'd appreciate it. Oh," he added with a polite smile, "and I'll take that tape now, if it's no imposition."

Ethan fished the tape out of his pocket and handed it over. "With my blessings."

OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY OF STATE, WASHINGTON, D.C.

THREE DAYS LATER

It was nearing 3:00 p.m. as Darcy waited beside Ethan in a small vestibule to the rear of Secretary of State Hugh Morgan's office.

She'd met the secretary only moments ago. He reminded her of Al Hayden. And she'd felt an immediate sense of security in Morgan's presence.

Even so, her pulse thrummed in anticipation as she crossed her legs, then smoothed a nervous hand over her hair.

"Easy, babe," Ethan said with an approving nod. "You look amazing."

Darcy composed herself, gave him a tight smile, and looked away from the truly amazing picture he made sitting there on a green silk brocade wing chair identical to hers.

Today was the first time she'd seen him since they'd been driven from the ice-cream shop to the State Department Complex three grueling days ago.

She'd fought missing him. Every minute, every hour, she'd fought the good fight.

Just like she was fighting her reaction to finally seeing him again today.

He'd shaved. Gotten a haircut. And evidently, like her, he'd been allowed a quick shopping trip—on Uncle Sam's tab. His summer-weight suit was a stunning charcoal blue, and though there couldn't have been time for tailoring, it looked as if it had been designed to fit his tall, athletic body. His shirt was white; his tie was an understated stripe of navy, gray, and red.

To say he was impressive was to say the president was the most powerful man in the world. It was a new look for Ethan—at least in her experience. And just sitting there, not touching her, not saying a word that might indicate he'd been missing her, too, the power he wielded over her was stunning.

"Like the suit," he said, the same way he might have said,
Nice day.

She wasn't normally the power suit type. At least it was a power suit in cut—the skirt was short and slim, the jacket fitted and sleek. And red.

The occasion had called for red.

The past three days she and Ethan had been separated and grilled and required to write down to the last microdetail everything they could remember about the Abu Sayyaf cell, their location, their members and weaponry ... everything. Many things she'd just as soon have forgotten.

Amy remained a huge question mark but, it seemed, a benign one as far as the CIA was concerned. Ambassador Charles Gatlin, however, had a lot of questions to answer.

Darcy heard the murmur of voices in the secretary's office and her pulse jumped again.

"Almost showtime." Ethan shot her an encouraging grin.

"Yeah." She wiped damp palms on her skirt, refused to give in to the urge to reach out her hand to him, and focused on what was to come. She forced a brittle smile. "Almost showtime."

Charles Gatlin flicked a speck of lint from the sleeve of his six-thousand-dollar raw silk suit that he'd had tailor-made the last time he'd been in Paris to attend a state dinner. He paced in restless anticipation around the anteroom outside the secretary's office, shot his cuffs, squared his shoulders, and congratulated himself on a job well done.

In fact, he felt smug as hell that he'd been called back to D.C. for an audience with the Secretary of State. It continued to amaze Charles just how ineffective the "machine" that ran the government was. How little anyone knew about what happened in the real world. And how easy everyone was to deceive.

Take the Amanda Stover-Darcy Prescott episode. Although he'd had a few anxious moments, in the end, handling that little problem had almost been too easy.

But that was all behind him now. He breathed a satisfied breath, then checked his watch. He had an hour to make his next appointment. Should be plenty of time. Once he finished here, he'd make the scheduled meet and retrieve the tape that had added a few gray hairs. At this stage of the game, he didn't trust the transfer to anyone but himself.

That's why he was where he was today. Because he knew how to get things done. And that's why he'd been called back to the states. Ambassadors weren't pulled away from their posts unless there was something major on the horizon. Something like a commendation.

And why not? He'd earned it. Relations between the U.S. and the Philippine government had remained status quo under his ambassadorship—no easy feat in today's international climate and with the threat of global terrorism.

Of course he was appreciated. Of course he was due for some sort of recognition for his hard work.

And of course they didn't know about his extracurricular activities, he thought with a smug smile.

The door to the secretary's inner sanctum opened with barely a hint of sound.

"The secretary will see you now." A pinch-faced, matronly support staff stood like a sentry at the door.

Charles walked into the office with a spring in his step. "Secretary Morgan," he said with a hearty smile, and extended a hand as Morgan looked up from his massive antique cherry desk.

"Have a seat."

When Morgan rudely dismissed Charles's offer of a handshake, a nuisance kernel of unease drew his brows together in a frown.

"It's good to see you, sir," Charles said, feeling his way carefully and wondering why he suddenly sensed a need to proceed with care.

Okay,
he thought.
Okay.
Maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe this command performance wasn't about a commendation. Maybe it was about Darcy Prescott after all. There was bound to be concern. Bound to be a little wrist slapping over losing two embassy employees. Yes. It should be expected.

"I hope you're well," Charles continued, and told himself he wasn't groveling. He would not grovel to anyone.

Morgan's expression remained unchanged as he opened a drawer, drew out a tape recorder, and set it on the desk's glossy surface.

Charles didn't have time to swallow back the alarm that sent bile shooting to his throat before Morgan pressed the play button.

"What... what's this about, Hugh?" Charles squirmed in his chair.

Morgan pinned Charles with a look that commanded silence.

And then Charles heard his own voice resonate from the recorder. He felt the blood drain from his face just as the earth dropped out from under him.

This couldn't be happening.

This couldn't fucking be happening.

He'd received word from his man in D.C. three days ago. Word that his "problem" had been taken care of. That Prescott and Garrett were out of the picture. That the tape was secured.

Charles was peripherally aware of a door to the left of the secretary's desk opening. He flicked his gaze in that direction—and almost swallowed his tongue.

He stood shakily. Backed up a clumsy step, stumbled when he bumped into his chair.

Darcy Prescott.

"How?" he mouthed inanely.

"Hello, Ambassador," Prescott said as a tall, hard-edged man joined her.

Garrett. Charles knew without a doubt it had to be Garrett.

"You look a little surprised to see us," Garrett said.

There was no longer any reason for pretense. It was over. "That's because you're supposed to be dead," he said flatly.

"Money isn't the only thing that buys loyalty," Garrett said with a smug look. "You should be more careful who you hire to do your dirty work. Some men will say anything, tell any lies—oh, say like lying about Darcy Prescott being dead when, as you can see, she's very much alive."

Charles sank back down on the chair, dropped his head into his hands. He was ruined.

All he'd worked for. All he'd risked.

"I hope you rot in a cell for the rest of your life for what you did to Amanda. For what you tried to do to me. For what you were doing to your country."

Charles lifted his head, met Darcy Prescott's eyes, saw the hate, the disgust—and worse, a measure of pity—that punctuated her words.

He looked away. Heard another door open. Two pairs of uniformed legs appeared in front of him.

"I want a lawyer."

"Get him his lawyer," Morgan said. "But first get him out of my sight."

"Are the handcuffs really necessary?" Charles made an attempt at a sympathy bid as the officers snapped on the cuffs.

But the secretary had already turned away.

"I want to thank you again, both of you," Morgan said as he extended his hand first to Darcy, then to Ethan. "The nation is in your debt. And so am I."

No one would ever know that, of course. For their own protection and privacy, no one would ever know that Darcy or Ethan had anything to do with bringing Charles Gatlin's little ring of traitors and terrorists down.

"What happens now?" Darcy asked as the secretary walked them to the door.

"The two men we took into custody have already given up their contacts. We were able to apprehend them within twelve hours. It didn't take them long to roll over, either."

He paused, smiled. "Gatlin's cohorts are bailing like rats from a sinking ship. And for the time being, at least, there will be no exchange of enriched uranium in the Middle East.

"The depth and breadth of Gatlin's sphere of influence is staggering," he went on grimly. "I can't give you specifics, of course, but as we speak, there are a number of individuals being systematically apprehended and taken into custody. Once Gatlin rolls over, there will, no doubt, be more."

"Why would he talk?" Darcy asked as they stopped by the door.

"He'll talk," Ethan explained when the secretary nodded for him to go ahead, "because he knows he has nothing left to do but try to negotiate for leniency."

"Don't worry," Morgan added, evidently reading Darcy's mind. "He'll talk, but he won't walk. What he's done, what he was about to do ... well, the fallout for the entire free world will be stunning.

"He's going to pay. Trust me on that, Darcy. Gatlin will never see the outside of a federal prison compound."