The End Game

“Uncle Nicholas? I woke up when you left our bedroom. Is Aunt Mike okay?”

He touched his forehead to hers, managed to grab a breath. “Sean, sure, Aunt Mike is fine.” Was that his voice, all deep and gravelly, like he was in pain?

He felt her heart pounding, cleared his throat, gave her a final fast kiss, then felt her legs loosen at his waist. He lowered her feet to the floor but didn’t let her go. He wanted to cry, maybe howl. He called out, “Sean, I always have to say good night to her or she doesn’t sleep well. And I forgot.”

“Are you telling her a story? Do you want me to sing to her? I know lots of words to Papa’s songs.”

Mike cleared her throat. “Thank you, Sean, but that’s okay. I’m really tired and Nicholas already sang me ‘Soft Kitty’; it’s one of my favorites.”

“Mine, too,” Sean said, and both of them pictured his small hand on the doorknob.

Nicholas took a fast step back. “Good night, Mike, sleep well. What’s ‘Soft Kitty’? I don’t know that one.”

She waved him away. He was nearly back to the door. She saw his pajama bottoms were riding even lower and his lovely tight black T-shirt was ripped. How had that happened? Surely she should remember. She stood perfectly straight.

“Good night, Nicholas. I will sleep well, as will you. We will have nothing to speak about tomorrow. This did not happen, do you hear me? This. Did. Not. Happen.”

He gave her a grin and was out the door in the next second. “Hey, Sean, let’s go back to bed.”

“Sean, Nicholas?”

All he needed. Slowly, Nicholas turned to see Savich standing in the doorway of his and Sherlock’s bedroom. Unlike Nicholas, he wasn’t wearing a T-shirt, only pajama bottoms.

“Papa, everything’s okay. Uncle Nicholas had to sing Aunt Mike a song, like you do me, so she could go to sleep.”

“I see,” Savich said, and Nicholas knew he saw very well, particularly the tear in his T-shirt. “Both of you sleep well. Sean, don’t keep Nicholas up. He’s had a very long day.”

You don’t know the half of it.

Wednesday

6 a.m.–Noon

65

PAWN TO H4

Georgetown

Mike woke to a quiet knocking at her door. She rolled over to see Nicholas standing in the doorway, already dressed in one of his crisp handmade white button-down shirts, and, oddly, a pair of jeans. Tight jeans. He looked like a prep school boy gone rogue. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she liked him better in the low-slung pjs, but she didn’t. But it was close.

He was all business. “Get dressed. We leave for a briefing in ten minutes with Vice President Sloane.”

“You’re wearing jeans to the White House?”

“We’re heading to her place. And they’ve requested we dress down.”

“What in the world is going on?”

“I don’t know, but you need to hurry. I’ll see you downstairs.”

•   •   •

Five minutes later, Mike presented herself in the Savich kitchen, her hair in a ponytail, dressed in jeans and motorcycle boots, a short lightweight black leather jacket over a boatneck black-and-white-striped shirt. Without a word, Nicholas handed her a cup of coffee.

Savich was sitting at the kitchen table, two laptops open in front of him. She recognized magic MAX, wondered what in the world was happening.

He looked up from one of his computers. “Good morning, Mike. You slept well?”

“Yes, yes, thank you.” Was there something in his voice? Nah, she was imagining it. She had to stop it.

She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. A dollop of milk, nothing else.

“The lord and master of the coffee universe made it,” Sherlock said, and smiled. “Enjoy.”

“Five minutes,” Savich said, “and we’ll need to hit the road.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I’m sorry, sweetheart, but with Gabriella down with a cold, you’re elected to take Sean to school.”

“Yeah, yeah, curses on all of you,” Sherlock said. “Good luck to you guys.” And she immediately left the kitchen when Sean’s voice came loud and clear from upstairs: “Mama, where’s my special Batman shirt?”

Mike said, “Do I need to know anything in particular?”

Savich packed up MAX. “The vice president set a plan in motion last night and has decided to bring us in.”

Mike stared at him. “So the vice president is behind the leak about Vanessa? I guess it makes sense, after all, she was in the CIA.”

Savich nodded. “Yes, a pla

They piled into Sherlock’s sturdy Volvo and headed toward the Naval Observatory. Mike knew the vice president’s mansion was on the grounds, and it must be close to Savich’s home in Georgetown. She was right.

Savich drove straight up Wisconsin, turned right onto Observatory Lane. They were checked through a tall gate, then wound around the circle to park in front of an impressive white Victorian mansion. She wished she weren’t so nervous, so on edge, to fully appreciate it. The vice president’s house, and wasn’t that something, Mike from Omaha visiting the VP? She tightened her ponytail, then checked herself to make sure she was put together.

But still, meeting the vice president of the United States wearing jeans and biker boots and no makeup, it would make her mom cringe. So unlike Nicholas, curse him, who looked very cool, she felt like she should be going to a bar to drink beer and line dance.

She said to Nicholas, “Savich didn’t tell you what was going on?”

He shook his head. “I think this is a command performance. He woke me, I threw on some clothes and grabbed you.”

She saw half a dozen Secret Service agents patrolling the house, each of them focused, each of them ready for anything, and she wondered how they could keep up the edge day after day. A tall, fit gray-haired man who looked like he’d never taken crap from anyone in his life came down the steps to greet them.

“I’m Tony Scarlatti, no relation to the dude who wrote all that cool music for the harpsichord back in the day. I’m the vice president’s lead agent. Thanks for coming to us this morning. Come meet Vice President Sloane.”

They all shook hands, introduced themselves, then trailed after Tony into the house. Mike immediately wanted to whisper, it was so quiet inside. It was also more modern than she’d expected, all cool grays and creams with a few sprinkles of pale green. There wasn’t much time to admire the house; Tony herded them through the round entrance foyer toward the back of the house.

Vice President Callan Sloane was in a large modern kitchen overlooking the gardens, sitting at a Carrera marble countertop, a large cup of tea in front of her, The Washington Post in her hands. She looked completely relaxed, at ease, as if she was used to a bunch of FBI agents interrupting her breakfast every day.

“Thank you, Tony. Hello, come in.” Introductions, handshakes, then, “May I get you coffee? Tea? Tony, could you ask Maisie to bring the trays into the dining room? And I’m sure you can smell the ci

The few times Nicholas had seen the vice president on TV, he’d thought her impressive, an in-charge type, probably scary competent. In person, though, he realized not only did she look like the ruler of her world, she was also a stu