Then it all clicks into place, like the times I’ve helped Amelia put together a puzzle. You struggle, struggle, and struggle some more, until one last piece makes everything clear.
“This was one well-thought-out operation, with the ransom note, the severed finger, and everything else,” I say.
She says, “I thought the note would be a puzzle and make you think I committed suicide. But from what I’ve learned, the suicide question was never really pursued. Why?”
“You didn’t seem like someone bent on killing herself,” I say. “No, you’re the type of person who wanted to punish the President, destroy his chances for reelection, and along the way … steal a hundred million dollars.”
“I prefer to think of it as a reallocation,” the First Lady says. “A hundred million dollars that I will be able to administer as I see fit, without strings or obligations attached, to help tens of thousands of children. For years I pleaded with my husband and Hoyt to make the necessary budget requests and allocations to do just that, and I was always laughed at, or ignored, or patronized. And then I decided to do something about it.” She holds up her bandaged hand. “Not a bad exchange.”
I sit there with Grace Fuller Tucker and just let the thoughts race through my mind. In my long years with the agency, I’ve always protected the office … the Office of the President, the Office of the Vice President, the Office of the First Lady, and so forth and so on. Who was there wasn’t as important as the office itself.
But I’m not seeing an office or a protectee or a cipher in front of me. I’m seeing a strong woman—stronger than me—who has made compromises and suffered setbacks, who has regrets about never having children of her own, but who’s going to set her own path and now make a difference.
Not as the First Lady.
But as a woman.
The First Lady says to me, “My father has already set up the charity I intend to lead. I’m going to need someone smart and tough enough to get those funds secretly removed from that numbered account and quietly distributed to my charity and others. It probably won’t be as exciting as your previous position, but I guarantee you’ll be spending more time with your daughter from now on.”
Amelia, I think. Poor, sweet Amelia, who saved me with her love and her gift.
The First Lady says, “Will you join me?”
I don’t even hesitate.
“You can count on it,” I say.
CHAPTER 91
AT HIS LUXURIOUS home in McLean, Virginia, Parker Hoyt is in his plain and clean kitchen. He finishes his morning cup of coffee before going out for his daily bit of fun.
He looks out the window over the sink and sees the crowd waiting for him at the end of the driveway. It’s been like that every day since his surprise departure from the White House, and the reporters and photographers have camped out on the street, waiting for a comment, a bit of news, anything to feed the demanding maw of the nation’s press corps.
Well, he thinks, putting the plain black mug in the kitchen sink, they’re going to have to wait a long, long time.
He goes out to the entryway, slips on a jacket in preparation for picking up that morning’s Washington Post, tossed on his front lawn. He has certainly kept himself busy these past few days, and there are plenty of opportunities out there beckoning him. For while he may be temporarily down, he will never, ever be out.
Parker opens the door, starts strolling down his driveway. The beast down there notices him, and there are murmurs and a couple of shouts, and the lights from the television cameras flare on. He enjoys playing with them, teasing them, pleading ignorance and puzzlement over his sudden departure.
There’s no way he’ll tell those fools what he’s been up to, the phone calls overseas to certain countries that want him to advise them on negotiating with what looks to be a new administration coming in, phone calls with his old employer, who’s confident that there will be a position open for him in a couple of months, and even a New York book publisher who wants him to pen his memoirs for an obscene price.
Memoirs.
Why not?
But one thing is for sure, what won’t appear in his memoirs are the recorded phone calls in that woman’s iPhone, said iPhone being quietly delivered to him by the Secret Service agent in his employ, and then being torched in his fireplace.
Phone calls.
Funny that old crone Amanda Price hasn’t called him back, but Parker doesn’t care anymore. His future is bright, secure, and above all, safe.
“Mr. Hoyt!”
“Can you tell us why you left the White House?”
“Have you talked to the President lately?”
“Who will win the upcoming election?”
He smiles the best he can at the group of people he loathes, and he says, “As I’ve said before, I really have no comment.”
Hoyt looks to the lawn, and damn, his newspaper isn’t there.
Where is it?
From the questioning crowd, a voice says, “Here’s your newspaper, Mr. Hoyt,” and the paper is held out to him; he steps off his property to get it, and since he’s not on his property, he’s fair game for the baying crowd of reporters, who gather around him, press him with their questions, their demands, the flash-flashflash of cameras, a sharp and quick sting to his neck—
His neck?
He staggers back to the driveway, puts his right hand to his neck, pulls the fingers away.
A spot of blood.
Now he’s sitting in the driveway, feeling very tired, wondering how he got there.
And the last thing he sees, before the blackness descends upon him, is a slim, dark-skinned woman, who walks away from the chattering crowd and then turns.
Blowing a final last kiss in his direction.
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Jack Morgan has a powerful investigative mind, and is trusted with the most high-profile cases across the globe. As the lead detective for his private investigation firm, he is privy to the scandalous secrets of the world’s elite. From thwarting murderous plots to protecting lives, Morgan is relentless in his desire to get the job done. Featuring high-octane action and thrilling twists and turns, the Private novels will not disappoint.
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Prologue
CRACKED LEATHER TOUCHED rich soil. Knee in the dirt, the man thought of what was to come, and smiled. A broken nose took in the smell of the damp earth, memories carried in its dank scent. Memories of digging spades, pleading eyes and shallow graves.
The owner of the gloves wiped them against his camouflage trousers, his memories cleansed as easily as the leather. To him, the image of those graves was as inert in his mind as the way a postman views the mail. It was his job to fill holes in the ground, and with pride – the man knew that he was good at it. Better than good. He had been born as just another shitbag on the estate, but now he was a hunter.
He was a killer.
He’d tracked in forests, stalked in deserts, kidnapped in jungles and killed in cities. He had done these things for service, for his country and for his brothers. Sometimes, he’d done it for money.