The Gemini Deception

Chapter Fifteen

The White House

Shield sat in her usual chair by the window as the president had her breakfast in the private dining room. If she was confused about Thomas before, she was completely baffled after last night. Any doubts she might have had about whether Thomas had been flirting with her were erased by what she heard after the president retired to her room.

The bug Shield planted while Thomas ate dinner had picked up the president’s monologue and thoughts about her. But none of this made sense. Every news and tabloid report throughout her political career and presidential campaign had portrayed Thomas as a very happily married woman, one who was now mourning the loss of her beloved husband. The intel she’d gotten from Pierce even seemed to confirm that.

Could it be the marriage was a sham, covered up to make her more palatable to the conservative, pro-family electorate? It had happened before—similar rumors existed about the Clintons, among others.

Clearly a lot was going on, and as much as Shield wanted to take a peek at the truth behind the curtain, part of her hoped she wouldn’t find anything. Yet whoever was on the phone with Thomas last night, and Shield was convinced it was Moore, had sure taken a lot of interest in what Shield had to say to the president. What was Moore afraid of?

Shield had spent the night reviewing her conversation and evening with Thomas. She was no stranger to sexual attraction and fulfillment of physical needs, but she couldn’t remember ever having had a more erotically charged encounter, and definitely not with a straight woman. Matters had only gotten worse when she found out the feelings had been mutual. She’d spent the late-night hours dwelling on her unprofessional behavior and the early-morning ones wondering what would have happened if she’d kissed Thomas.

Sleep had been elusive; she hadn’t gotten more than a couple of hours. Thomas’s words, Oh, my God. What did I just do? kept ringing through her head, and although she felt the same way, she couldn’t help getting flustered over the fact that this beautiful, yet cold and powerful woman, had cracked.

Thomas, nevertheless, was different this morning. She had barely nodded her good morning and was now sitting with her back turned to Shield while she had her breakfast and watched the news. It was all for the best, Shield thought. It was how it should be.

Still, as she watched the president eat, shoulders tense and with no one to talk to, Shield couldn’t help but feel for her loneliness. Thomas had selected a demanding and accountable life for sure, but having no one to share the weight of her choices and give her strength only made the burden heavier.

Thomas alternated her attention between the various news channels broadcasting from three flat screens mounted on the wall in front of her. She currently had the sound up on MSNBC, which was replaying stock footage of the president as it announced there had been no new leads in the investigation into the assassination attempt. The video included older shots of her giving speeches during her presidential campaign and ended with the press conference she’d held announcing she was all right and would continue business as usual. Shield noticed that the more recent footage showed Thomas looking almost younger and a bit thinner. People lost weight all the time because of loss of a spouse, or stress, but that still didn’t explain her fresher, more appealing appearance now.

Shield turned her attention back to the president when she saw her fumble with the remote, muting MSNBC and turning up the volume on CNN, which was broadcasting a report on a fugitive wanted for the murder of a divorced couple. The suspect was a forty-year-old florist. Thomas listened closely, almost frozen, except for the slight tremble of her hand. She dropped the remote when the picture of the wanted woman came on the screen.

Definitely not what you expected a murderer to look like, Shield thought. The suspect was more the cute bookworm type, with her long brown hair and warm green eyes behind thick myopic glasses.

“Authorities in Philadelphia are asking the public for help in finding Ryden Wagner, indicted by a grand jury yesterday in the stabbing deaths of Tim and Rhonda Lauden. The divorced couple was found murdered nearly three months ago, in the home they once shared on the northeast side,” the anchor reported as photos of the couple replaced the mug shot of the suspect. “Detectives who went to Wagner’s apartment to take her into custody say she’d not been seen there since she was questioned following the deaths. She’d also not reported for work at the flower shop where she’d been employed.”

The next video on the screen showed a diminutive, older woman with olive skin and dark hair, in front of an establishment called The Bloom Room. “I’m sure Ryden didn’t do this,” the woman said, as a title identifying her as MAGDA PAGONI, SHOP OWNER appeared beneath her face. “It has to be a misunderstanding. I’ve known her for years, and she wouldn’t hurt a fly. She probably left town because she’s scared, that’s all. She’s innocent. I just know it.”

A photo of two young boys on bicycles appeared on the monitor as the anchor said, “The Laudens left behind two sons, who are being taken care of by their maternal grandparents.” Then the mug shot of the suspect came back on. “Ryden Wagner is forty years old and has green eyes and light-brown, shoulder-length hair. She is five feet five inches tall, weighs approximately a hundred and twenty, and wears thick glasses. Her car, an older Subaru Outback, was found parked outside her apartment. If you see the suspect, you are asked to call Philadelphia homicide detectives at the number on your screen.”

*

Ryden opened her mouth, gasping for air. She had forgotten to breathe when her old-self mug shot appeared on the news. How would she ever forget that horrible picture of her, with WANTED FOR MURDER written under it? And the picture of those poor orphaned kids, and the footage of Magda in the shop, who kept repeating Ryden was innocent.

And my God, Kennedy, behind her all this time, silently watching; she’d heard it all. Ryden didn’t dare turn to look at her. She didn’t know how she could ever face her after this.

If Kennedy was in on this fiasco with Ratman, how much had they told her about Ryden and her previous life? Was she aware of how they’d set her up to blackmail her to cooperate? And did she know what Ryden looked like before the surgeries and other alterations?

Ryden could see the resemblance between her old self and new. Sure, they’d tweaked a few of her features: cheekbones, chin, nose. But the changes seemed minimal. And most of the other alterations—the stylish haircut and coloring, the Lasik to get rid of her glasses, the dental work, contacts, the classy makeup and flattering clothes, all were changes she could have made on her own but never had any interest in.

Maybe she should have taken more notice of her appearance in the past. In the photo on the news, she appeared older than she really was, haggard and unkempt. Only now did she fully realize how much she’d let herself go. If Kennedy had met her before all the changes, she probably wouldn’t have noticed her even if she’d slapped Kennedy on the ass. Why am I even thinking about another woman? Is this latent lesbianism?

If it was, it couldn’t be happening at a more unsuitable time with a more inappropriate person. She was trying to gather the strength to get up and go to the Oval Office but didn’t know how to face Kennedy. Think of an icebreaker.

Ryden made a point of looking out the window. “So, how about the weather? Pretty mild for March,” she said, not daring to turn around.

Kennedy cleared her throat. “Quite.”

Way to go on picking a topic, Ryden. What kind of exchange could she expect from that? A breakdown of this week’s forecast, accompanied by a statistical pie chart? “Anyway, I have to deal with some matters, so…” She actually had a lot to do to prepare for tomorrow’s state dinner, her first as host.

In addition to memorizing the speech Ratman had written for her welcoming the Argentine president, she had to familiarize herself with the many protocols that surrounded the event. One of her first meetings this morning was to finalize preparations with the key White House staff who were involved in organizing the massive undertaking: the chief of protocol, executive chef and executive pastry chef, social secretary, chief floral designer, chief usher, and chief calligrapher, among others. Tonya had already briefed her to a large degree on what to expect at such functions, and Ratman would be present today to help her with any last-minute decisions, so she didn’t expect any snags that might tip off any of them that she was doing this for the first time.

“So…?” Kennedy repeated.

Ryden finally turned around. “I just mean, I…” God, think of something. A knock interrupted the process of sticking her flat-heeled shoe in her mouth.

“Come in,” she said, and both of them turned toward the door. Ryden felt almost giddy for the disruption.

Ratman came in and handed Ryden an envelope. “It just arrived.” He looked from her to the envelope, as if asking her to see what it contained.

She tore the envelope open, and he stood over her as she read. Her hands shook and she had to steady her elbows on the table. “It’s from Juan Carlos.”

“What does he want?” Ratman asked.

“The president is asking for my permission to dance with him at the state dinner tomorrow,” Ryden replied.

“You can always decline, Madam President, but I advise against it. We have certain common interests.”

“I haven’t danced in years. You know my husband wasn’t much for it.” Tonya hadn’t included dancing in her training. Higher priorities dominated, and it wasn’t expected that she’d have to, since Thomas was newly widowed and rarely if ever had danced in public.

“It’ll just be a waltz.”

“But I…I don’t know how to,” Ryden mumbled.

Moore hesitated before saying, “You have a day to learn.”

“Or I can tell him I’m mourning my husband and find dancing premature.”

Ratman looked at her sternly. “We have common interests, Madam President, and we need his…cooperation.”

Ryden sighed. “How am I supposed to learn in a day?”

“We’ll find you a teacher.”

Ryden gasped at the thought of going through such a thing. The idea alone was excruciating. Not just because she’d never danced in her life, but the touching…she hated the touching. She couldn’t stand anyone so close to her, invading her personal space. “I can’t.” Ryden stood her ground. “I don’t want someone touching me, even if it’s a teacher. I’m not ready for that.”

“Just one dance, Madam President. It’s important.” When Ratman loomed over her, her hands began to shake again.

“With all due respect, Madam President,” Kennedy said from behind them.

Both Ryden and Ratman turned to look at her.

“Yes?” Ryden replied.

Kennedy took a step forward. “I can teach you the basics, if you will allow me.”

“You know how to?” Ratman asked.

“I wouldn’t offer otherwise.”

Ratman turned to Ryden expectantly. “Kennedy can teach you.”

“What can I possibly learn in a few hours?”

“Anything is better than not at all.” Ratman glared down at her.

Oh, peachy. She could barely stand to look at Kennedy this morning. How in the world was she going to dance with her? “But…she’s a woman.”

Kennedy turned to her and said stoically, “I can teach you, Madam President, even if…I’m not a man.” The words were polite but the tone icy.

“We need this,” Ratman said.

She got up and walked past Kennedy without looking at her. “Fine. I’ll be ready in an hour.” Because that’s how long it’s going to take me to mentally prepare myself for humiliation.

It wasn’t that she was a slow learner or lacked grace. She found physical closeness difficult, and for some reason she didn’t want to give Kennedy that impression.

*

Near Colorado Springs, Colorado

Jack stuck her cell into her back pocket and went into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich. She was restless and had no appetite, but she should get something in her stomach since she hadn’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours. Cassady was in Boston and still not answering; the conductor required all the musicians to turn off their cells during rehearsals. She’d already sent a half dozen texts and left a voice mail for Cass to call her the minute she was free again. If she wasn’t careful, the constant barrage of I love you and I miss you like crazy. Is everything okay? messages might soon annoy Cass.

She retrieved the disposable prepaid cell she’d bought the day before and dialed the number Yuri had given her.

“So, how’s your brother?” Jack said as soon as the line picked up.

Without skipping a beat, TQ replied, “Dead.”

She snapped her fingers. “Oh, that’s right. I keep forgetting I killed him.”

“You called. How wonderful.”

“Yeah, well, once in a while someone amazing comes along…and here I am.”

“Indeed.”

“So, how do you see this playing out?”

“You’re going to come to me,” TQ replied confidently.

“How clairvoyant of you,” Jack said. “What else do you see in your crystal ball?”

“Options.”

“I can either bury or burn you. I’m open to both.”

“The options, arrogant friend, are for you.”

“Interesting. Do enlighten me.”

“You are either going to come to me out of your own free will, or I am going to force you.”

“Chilling scenario,” Jack said as she slathered some mayo on a piece of bread. “You should sell the movie rights.”

“I see the financial possibilities in that.” TQ laughed. “But I’m holding out for a conclusion.”

“I hate to keep you in anticipation, so here’s how many fucks I give: I’m holding up a finger. Guess which one.”

“Although I’m enjoying the banter, this conversation is becoming more counterproductive by the retort, and I’m a very busy woman. I suggest we bring it to a close fairly soon.”

“Good, because I’ve gotten more excitement out of a Cracker Jack box, and I’ve got things to do myself,” Jack replied. “That BLT ain’t gonna eat itself.”

“Very well.” TQ paused. “You either come to me, or I can come and get you.”

“I’m more than willing to meet you in person,” Jack said.

“And what would you do once we met?”

“Pretty much the same as you, and something tells me that doesn’t include dinner and drinks.”

“You’re wrong, Jack. I don’t want to hurt you. I merely want your cooperation.”

“Explain.”

“I want you to work for me,” TQ said.

“Say what?”

“You come highly recommended.”

“Have you been taking expired drugs?”

“I’ve experienced firsthand how…capable you are.”

“It doesn’t take a lot of skill to execute point-blank,” she said.

“But it takes a lot of nerve to kill someone like my brother.”

“Not really, him being a cripple and all.”

TQ chuckled. “It’s not polite to mock the physically challenged.”

Jack took a bite of her sandwich. “It is when they’re organ-stealing murderers. In other words, deranged assholes. Pretty much like you.”

“My brother was a talentless little man who depended on me for a reason—to wheel his sorry existence out of bed. I, on the other hand, Jack, am a savior. I give to people what doctors and belief cannot. I give them life.”

“I think I just heard harps play and angels sing. You do realize you kill people every time you save a life.”

“Some deserve to live more than others.”

“The ones who can afford you,” Jack said.

“Those who put a loved one above the costs.”

“Let’s just agree you’re—”

“God?” TQ sounded serious.

Jack laughed so hard she thought she might lose her lunch. “You…are…hysterical,” she said between spurts of laughter.

“You know what else is hilarious, Jack?”

Jack poured a glass of milk to wash down the sandwich. “Let me have a swig of milk before I choke.” She lifted the glass to her mouth.

It was TQ’s turn to laugh. “I hear a talented violinist is rehearsing for this weekend’s performance of Albinoni’s ‘Adagio in G minor.’ And I happen to know you’re not with her, since her every move is being monitored.”

Jack slowly placed her glass back on the counter. “This is between you and me.” She reached in her back pocket for her regular cell phone.

“Oh, and don’t bother warning Ms. Monroe. You see, a certain gentleman is seated in the dark auditorium as we speak. Should she happen to reach for her cell, he is instructed to execute her on the spot.”

“Don’t hurt her.”

“The only one who can harm her is you. It’s your call, Jackie. Had you agreed to come to me of your own will, you would have saved yourself the agony of option number two.”

“Where?”

“Someone will pick you up at the old Bingham’s warehouse in Denver.”

How the hell did she know they were in Colorado? “I can be there in two hours.”

“Oh, and Jack? Please come alone. My men are going to follow Ms. Monroe until you are safe and sound in my company. One wrong move or phone call and I will finish what Rózsa couldn’t.”

Jack’s heart rate accelerated. “That’s ridiculous. Anyone could call her, her work—”

“Then the sooner you get here, the less chance of that happening while she’s being watched,” TQ said calmly.

“Make it an hour and a half, bitch.” Jack hung up.