The Gemini Deception

Chapter Fourteen

Ryden dropped on her back on the bed and covered her face with a pillow. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What just happened? What did I just do?” She had little to no experience with flirting, but even she knew what had just taken place, and for the first time in her life, she had flirted back.

Not that guys had ever swamped her with flowers, romantic dinners, and heated insinuations, but her limited practice had been one-sided and uninteresting. In her forty years she’d had three relationships, although that term was overrated when trying to characterize what they’d really been. Not one had lasted longer than a few months, and all had involved infrequent, uneventful, physical obligations. The men were nice enough but had done nothing for her libido. Hell, the only reason she knew about the existence of the G-spot was because she’d accidentally read about it when she clicked on an evidently dubious website called Fun With Candles.

Ryden might have carried on with the men for the sake of having someone in her life, but the prospect of having to endure the occasional sex was unbearable. They weren’t rough or indifferent to her needs; they would try everything short of performing circus acts to satisfy her but never could. And in the end, they’d all call her frigid and leave, blaming her for making them feel incompetent.

Seven years ago, she’d concluded that her loveless childhood had made her incapable of feeling what she was supposed to feel and had stopped dating altogether. She had no desire to put herself through that kind of disaster again.

But if she was indeed frigid, why was her body aching? How did Kennedy, a woman, make her feel more desire and desired than she had ever imagined possible? No man had ever looked at her the way Kennedy had, and no one had ever made her feel the need to scream I want you. There was no doubt Kennedy had flirted with her, was there?

“I’m going through a stress-induced mid-life crisis,” she muttered to herself. “Give me a break. That’s obscene. That’s impossible, not to mention crazy. What’s wrong with me?”

Maybe, she mused, the attraction came from the fact that Kennedy had been adopted, was an orphan like she was, a kindred spirit. But since when does empathy produce bodily fluids? Ryden looked in the direction of her crotch. “God. I’m a total mess.”

And Ratman would have a stroke if he found out. She’d almost laugh if she wasn’t scared shitless of him. “There’s the silver lining everyone talks about.”

She got up and paced the room. Could Kennedy be playing around just to have something extra to blackmail her with? “No, that can’t be.” Kennedy had seemed sincere and almost uncomfortable with herself during their flirtatious banter.

Although the evening was chilly, Ryden felt like she was on fire. She opened the window and hung her head out. “What’s happening to me?” she asked the stars. Once she’d cooled off a little, she shut the window and turned to stare at the door. It had never looked more appealing. “Who am I kidding? I don’t have the guts to run.”

The ringing phone interrupted her monologue.

“Yes?”

“You sound breathless.” Ratman.

“So?”

“Is something wrong?”

Not if you consider me wanting to run the hell away from this place normal. “No,” she replied instead.

“I was told you were in the Yellow Room with Kennedy.”

“That’s right.”

“What were you doing?” he asked.

Oh, you know me. I love to wine taste with attractive women and wish to hell they’d kiss me. “Nothing much. I had a glass of wine.”

“And Kennedy?”

“She doesn’t drink on duty.”

“I meant,” he snapped with irritation, “did she say anything?”

“Like what?” What was up with the interrogation? “Kennedy talked about wine.” And I hope to hell she doesn’t say otherwise. “Why are you asking about Kennedy?” Did the Rat hear something? Had Kennedy just spoken to him?

“Just want to make sure she’s taking good care of you.”

You have no idea how good. “She’s very professional. Doesn’t talk much and is quite boring.”

The answer apparently satisfied him because he changed topics. “Have you checked your schedule for this week?”

“I’m prepared for tomorrow. I’ll read the rest of this week’s schedule tonight.” Ryden glanced over at the folder, which she’d tossed on the bed earlier. She’d apparently lain on it when she came in and hadn’t even noticed; it was crumpled and folded at the edges.

“Good.”

The only thing good, creep, she thought, is that the phones are tapped, because it means you refrain from saying, “So far, so good. Keep it that way and you’ll live.”

“Well then, get some rest for tomorrow.”

Fat chance since my body feels more wired than a guitar. “I will.”

“Good night, Elizabeth.”

I hope you slip in the shower and break your neck. And FYI, Elizabeth only sounds good when Kennedy says it. “Good night,” she replied, and hung up.

Kennedy even makes Elizabeth sound sexy. “Yup, time for a shower,” Ryden told herself as she headed toward the bathroom, still tingling from the interaction with Kennedy. “A bucket of ice and tranquilizers wouldn’t hurt, either.”

*

Houston, Texas

TQ watched the maid pour her nightcap—bourbon, neat—and set it on her desk atop a coaster. She smiled. “The eye patch becomes you. You finally look interesting.”

The young woman bowed. “Thank you, madam.”

The phone rang and TQ sighed when she saw the number on caller ID. “Get out,” she told the maid before she answered the phone. “And?”

“She asks a lot of questions,” Yuri Dratshev replied.

“I’m sure.”

“My men say nothing.”

“Your family’s life depends on it, after all. Is that everything?”

“She is asking for a TV. She wants to hear the news.”

“Good. It’s time we gave her one.” She reached for her bourbon and took a sip. Disciplining the maid had ensured no further problems. The amount in the glass was precisely to her specifications, and the glass had been placed exactly where she wanted on her desk.

“But she will find out,” Dratshev said.

“Yes, Russian genius.”

“You want her to.”

“The president has to be prepared, for when the time comes.”

“When the time comes?”

“Were you listening at all while I outlined this operation? I honestly don’t know how someone who needs to be reminded to blink can be so successful.”

“I pay people to remind me.”

“Don’t get cocky. I can have your family wiped out before someone has the chance to remind you.”

After a long silence on the other end, Dratshev came back on the line, his voice much more subdued. “I also talked with Jack.”

TQ sat up and leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Yes?”

“She will see you.”

“You told her who I am?”

Dratshev hesitated. “Da.”

“I don’t recall asking you to do that.”

“You did not say I should not,” he hurriedly explained. “I told her you want to talk. That’s all.”

“What did she say?”

“She never says a lot. She said she does not know you and to give her your number.”

“So she wants my number,” TQ said, amused.

“Do you have a job for Jack?” he asked.

“You could say that.”

“She asks for big money, but she is good. She is the one who brought me Owens’s head. You know—the serial killer.”

TQ had read about the Headhunter being caught and killed in Vietnam a couple of years back. “They said the feds found him.”

“No,” Dratshev replied. “His ugly head is buried in my garden. She asked for three million, I gave her half in front.”

“Up front.”

“She never accepted the rest after she personally delivered his head.”

“I wonder why.”

Dratshev laughed. “Maybe because she liked killing him. She’s a very good killer and she can find anyone. You will be happy with her work.”

“Tell her to call me at 713-555-2457.”

“Good.”

“And get the president a television.”

“Da.”

TQ hung up and leaned back in her chair. So you’re that good, are you, Jack? Let’s see how long it’ll take to make you scream out my name for mercy.

Now she just needed a way to force Jack to come to her, and Dratshev might have given her some ammunition. The death of Walter Owens had been all over the news, and she recalled something about the leader of a Vietnamese skin-trade organization being captured in the same assault that had brought him down. Perhaps he could shed some light on Jack and her involvement.

TQ had good contacts all over Asia, particularly in prisons, because that’s where she procured many of her black-market human organs. She telephoned her primary contact in Saigon and asked him to personally visit the skin-trade chief. If the man could provide her with Jack’s Achilles’s heel, she had the means to make his confinement much more comfortable than it probably was.

*

Southwest of Baltimore, Maryland

Next morning, March 2

Elizabeth Thomas restlessly paced the perimeter of her comfortable but claustrophobic confinement, wishing like hell she knew what was going on in the outside world. Without a watch or window, she had to rely on the number of breakfasts served to measure how long she’d been here, and she knew more than a week had passed now since they’d abducted her in the elevator.

Cleanshaven had come to take away her breakfast tray some time ago, so it was probably mid-morning. Apparently they had decided to ignore, yet again, her pleas for a television or radio so she could keep up with what was going on and pass the long hours with something other than the books they’d given her, none of which could hold her interest.

Was the Secret Service having any luck tracking her down? Did they believe her dead? Had her kidnappers made ransom demands? And how and what was the vice president doing in her absence? She’d selected her running mate largely because, as a popular Southern governor, he could deliver the block of votes needed to win the election. He also, fortunately, supported much of her agenda, but not all of it. He’d been frank in opposing her health-care plan and energy-alternative initiative when they’d both been campaigning for the Democratic nomination. Would he use this opportunity to forestall some of her key directives?

She paused in her pacing and tensed when she heard the sound of the key in the lock. From her reckoning, it was much too early for lunch, the next time she would usually see one of her guards.

Cleanshaven stuck his masked face through the doorway and motioned for her to move to the farthest corner of the room.

She complied. “What’s happening?”

A few seconds later, Beard carried in a flat-screen television and set it up on a table opposite the bed. Cleanshaven plugged a cable from the wall into the back, while Beard handed her the remote.

“Thank you,” she said as she flicked the set on, eager to find out what was happening with the investigation into her kidnapping.

Without a channel guide, she had to flip past several sitcoms and soap operas before hitting any sort of news broadcast. A local TV channel was showing a live broadcast of a police chase. The video, taken by a news helicopter, tracked a stolen truck speeding along a highway, with several cruisers in pursuit. Though the report contained no relevant information about her abduction, she stayed tuned long enough to hear the station’s ID: WBAL. She was being held somewhere in, or near, Baltimore. Shocked that she was being held captive so near D.C., she viewed the development nonetheless as good news. Surely that would make it easier for authorities to find her.

She surfed some more channels and stopped when she hit CNN. They were in the middle of a sports wrap-up, showing highlights of last night’s NBA games. After a couple of minutes of clips, the sports anchor threw back to the news desk, where the anchor team teased some of the stories that would be reported at the top of the hour following the commercial: the latest on a massive, late-season snowstorm that had buried the Rockies, the search for a missing murder suspect in Philadelphia, and details about the Argentine president’s upcoming visit to the White House.

Thomas sat on the bed, puzzled, as a series of advertisements for laundry detergent, dog food, and diapers played out on the screen. Not only had she heard no mention of her abduction and the investigation to find her, but she also couldn’t imagine why the Argentine visit would be proceeding as scheduled.

Surely, she thought, she’d just missed some earlier update on the kidnapping. She got her answer ten minutes later, after sitting through the reports about the snowstorm and murder suspect.

“Argentine President Juan Carlos landed this morning at Andrews Air Force Base,” the anchor reported as video of Carlos emerging from his plane and being greeted by an American welcoming committee was shown on the screen. “His three-day visit to the nation’s capital will include a speech this afternoon before the U.S. House of Representatives and an evening reception at the Argentine embassy attended by key congressional and military leaders. President Carlos is seeking support for his initiative to hold joint military maneuvers with U.S. Forces this fall, among other issues. Tomorrow, he’ll be welcomed by an official state dinner, and the next day he will meet privately with President Thomas in a closed-door session at the White House.”

Thomas stared at the monitor, thoroughly confused.

The anchor came back on. “President Thomas will be spending the morning meeting with the joint chiefs of staff to get their reactions to the proposal,” he said. Video showing Elizabeth Thomas—at least she could have sworn it was her—started playing on the screen. “Yesterday, Thomas delighted a group of Australian and French tourists taking the White House tour with a surprise appearance as their guide led them through the Red Room. This video was provided by one of the Aussies, who said Thomas stayed for ten minutes to chat with the group, sign autographs, and pose for pictures.”

The sound on the clip was turned up as the video zoomed in on Thomas’s face. “I hope you all enjoy your visit,” the president told the group. “I’m afraid I need to get back to work.”

“In her press conference following the attempt on her life,” the anchor said as he came back on screen, “President Thomas vowed to carry on with business as usual, and this surprise appearance, along with the Argentine president’s visit, are clearly intended to reinforce that message. There have been no developments, meanwhile, in the investigation to determine who was behind the well-orchestrated attack that killed her five Secret Service agents, buried earlier this week, and no group or individual has to date claimed responsibility.”

She was too stunned by what she was seeing to even register whatever story came next.

It wasn’t her on the screen. But whoever had taken over for her was a perfect double in every way. Even the voice was the same.

Her heartbeat accelerated. An imposter was running the country, apparently very convincingly, too.

And no one was looking for her. They didn’t even know she was missing.

The realization was chilling. Who was behind this? Why was all this happening? And what the hell did her captors plan to do with her?

*

Houston, Texas

TQ snatched up the phone impatiently when the caller ID informed her that her contact in Vietnam was calling back, hopefully with something she could use to lure Jack into meeting her on her own terms. “Yes?”

“The man you asked me to see was very happy to take your deal,” the contact reported. “He was anxious to get a private cell with better food and his own guard who will see to his needs.”

“Only if he had something worthwhile,” TQ snapped. “And?”

“He said that this Jack was not alone when they came to his home, first posing as a skin-trade dealer and later to take Walter Owens. She had her girlfriend with her, a woman named Lauren Hargrave. Owens kidnapped this Lauren woman when she went snooping around his hideout, and it made Jack very, very angry. Before he died, Owens asked Jack if she would ever feel worthy of Lauren, and she said no.”

“Go on,” TQ said.

“It was Lauren who cut off Owens’s head, and the two of them together gunned down all of this man’s associates, so she was not the naïve mistress she pretended to be,” the contact replied. “The man is blind, so he could not tell me what either woman looked like, but he said his associate described Lauren as blond, young, and very beautiful, and Jack has a scar on her face.”

“Give him what he asks for,” TQ replied, and hung up.

So Jack did have a weakness—a woman, though Lauren Hargrave might not be her real name if the two of them were posing as skin traders, which they obviously were not.

She sat bolt upright. A young blond woman had also been involved in the whole affair that had killed her brother and resulted in the death of Andor Rózsa in France. She hadn’t paid much attention to the woman because she’d been too focused on trying to find Jack.

Typing a few keystrokes on her computer brought up news stories and images from the event. The unidentified blonde had been held captive by Rózsa and was taken to a hospital by helicopter after her rescue on Rózsa’s boat. The media reports said the feds were claiming credit, but TQ knew that Jack and a friend named Brett had been responsible both for saving the woman and for her brother Dario’s death.

She sent the news reports and a few stills she found of the blonde, all of her being loaded into the helicopter, to one of her contacts in France and told him to bribe whatever hospital officials necessary to get all he could on the mysterious kidnap victim.

Three hours later, he sent back an e-mail reply.

Her name is Cassady Monroe. She is twenty-eight years old, five feet seven inches tall, and weighed one hundred sixteen pounds when she was rescued. Her hospital records do not list a home address or phone number. The night nurse who tended her said a woman named Jack stayed at her bedside. Jack was tall, five-nine or so, with dark hair and a scar from her cheek to her lip. The two women talked frequently about going home to Colorado. They also talked about Cassady Monroe’s work as a violinist. Apparently she was going to miss a concert she was supposed to perform in.

A simple Internet search for Cassady Monroe violinist got TQ one step closer to finding the woman who dared challenge her.