The End Game

Mike said, “Nicholas always has the right clothes. I think I can muster something out of my bag as well. No heels, though.”

The golf cart stopped at a green painted cabin with redwood steps leading up to a porch. To the right of the door, the rustic brown wood placard read DOGWOOD in white lettering. Flowers bloomed, the heady evening scent of night-blooming jasmine was heavy in the air around them. Mike could tell they were meticulously cared for, even in the growing dusk.

The vice president gave them a wave. “I’m sure you’ll have everything you need, I’ll see you in twenty minutes.” She got into the cart that had been following them, and buzzed away.

The door was open, and they went inside. It smelled woodsy, like lingering fires and evergreen and the sharp scent of starched sheets. They were very casual here, Mike saw. The whole setup screamed “Kick back and eat chips and dip,” and that suited her perfectly.

The cabin had two bedrooms with updated en-suite baths, a lounge room with tall fireplace, a table with four chairs. Bookshelves lined the walls, with a section near the floor full of cards and poker chips and board games. It was cozy, and the two bedrooms afforded individual privacy. Mike didn’t want to think about what sleeping under the same roof as Nicholas meant, but on the other hand, this cabin had more privacy than some of the hotel rooms they’d shared in Paris and London. Ah, but that was before—no, she wasn’t about to think about that, not now when she would be meeting the president of the United States in fifteen minutes.

“I’ll take left, you take right?” Nicholas said. “Okay with you?”

“Fine. Please don’t tell me you don’t have white tie and tails in your go-bag. If you do, prepare to die.”

“No, not quite tails. Come, now, I know you, you have something black and a little slinky in there, right?”

“Yep. After our last trip to Paris, I thought something showing more leg than bloody, ripped jeans might come in handy.”

“Mike, we need to talk.”

She held up her hand, palm out. “No way. There’s nothing to talk about. How many times do I have to tell you? Forget it, Nicholas, forget everything.”

He looked startled, then gri

“Oh. Well, I knew something was wrong,” she said, as she set down her go-bag and headed to the small kitchenette. “You want a Diet Coke?”

“No, nothing.” But he grabbed a bottle of water and took a swig.

“You’ve been distracted since before we landed. You’re worried about Damari, aren’t you?”

He took another drink of water, then faced her. “After reading how my father emphasized what a chameleon he is, how he can fit into any situation, uses makeup and prosthetics to alter his looks regularly, I think I’d be remiss not to worry. Could he somehow be here? Yeah, I know, that sounds crazy, but still, I can’t shake it off. If he is, could he have one of Spenser’s bombs and plans to set it off?”

She’d never seen him quite like this. She felt her heart begin to pound. “Nicholas, we know he hasn’t had time to have plastic surgery since Vanessa took his photo at Tahoe. So we’re not completely in the dark.” Well, that was a lie. “With what your father told us, maybe it’s enough of a baseline.”

He tipped his water bottle in salute. “Every photo of him we looked at on our flight here, he didn’t look anything like the photo Vanessa sent in. So, a baseline? Oh, no.” He raised his hand, swiped it through his hair. “I’m still hyper, ignore me.” He stared around the cabin. “It’s just a bad feeling I can’t seem to shake.”

“The vice president is safe here, Nicholas. Camp David’s security is legendary. I mean, this is a working naval base. Even if Damari had been able to track us, or the vice president, this place is crawling with military. Did you see the men with dogs walking the perimeter? They had HK416s, you know, that’s the updated M4 the SEAL teams like to carry now. I don’t know what their security measures are here on a usual basis, but they’ve clearly stepped things up.” She walked to him and lightly laid her hand on his arm. “It will be all right. Like the vice president said, tonight we celebrate.”

He nodded, everything she’d said was true, but still . . . He finished the water, sent the bottle in a looping arc toward the trash can, where it slipped in without touching the sides.

“Nice shot. Not quite a three-pointer, but close.”

He lightly touched his hand to her arm. “Humor me, Mike. Promise me you’ll keep your eyes open. Just in case.”

79

KING TO B1

The president of the United States met them at the door of the Aspen Lodge. Up close and personal, Mike thought Jefferson Bradley looked pretty impressive. He was sixty-four, in excellent shape. He had gleaming silver hair, dark eyebrows, a chiseled jaw, and, best of all, he was tall with a commanding presence, seemingly a must to win an election in the United States. He looked the part of fighter pilot turned politician, still had the cocky walk.

When he folded his hands around hers, they were warm and smooth, a long time since he’d been the wild-hair pilot back in the day.

He leaned close. “A pleasure, Agent Caine. Thank you for all your help today. I hear your father’s in law enforcement, too. Pretty impressive pedigree you have.”

“Thank you. Both my father and I love what we do. He tells me I’m very lucky to be working for you, sir.” Not quite the truth, but it would do.

He laughed. “Yes, I am your boss, aren’t I?” He turned to Nicholas, took his hand and simply looked at him silently for a long moment.

“I owe you my life,” he said simply. “Without your intervention, I’d be fish food right now, as well as my staff and all the people aboard the plane. I owe you a debt of gratitude which can never be repaid.”

Nicholas felt the pull of the man’s power, and he felt the emotion in his words.

“I am very grateful everything worked, sir.”

“I won’t forget, Agent Drummond.” He stepped back, smiled at both Mike and Nicholas. “Now, welcome to Camp David. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you two making the journey on such short notice. Come on in, I want you to meet some people.”

Mike thought it was a lovely room; the ceiling had brown rafters and a cozy fire was burning. She could see the lights gleaming off the flagstone back terrace, and the lit pool beyond.

So the party was an intimate affair, if you considered forty or so people in the living room intimate. She saw everyone was buffed and polished and so very happy to meet her and Nicholas. She recognized congressmen and -women, some military bigwigs, and was that a justice of the Supreme Court? She was glad she had stashed a little black dress rolled in the bottom of her go-bag. No heels, as she’d told the vice president. She wore her motorcycle boots, better than the sneakers, Nicholas had told her. Chic and funky, he’d said. And he’d watched her as she’d twisted her hair into a chignon and set her black-framed glasses on her nose.

He’d looked her up and down, nodded. “Yes, you are armored up and ready to go, Agent Caine.”

She could only shake her head and feel like a bag lady next to Nicholas, who, naturally, was dressed impeccably in gray worsted-wool slacks, a light-blue button-down open at the collar, and a dark purple suede jacket, all of it screaming Savile Row, she’d told him.

“No, like I told you, Nigel has found Barneys and fallen in love. I think our days on Savile Row are now in the past. Except for shirts, of course.”

“Of course.” Handmade for him—of course. “Aren’t we a pair?” She looked down at herself, then over at him.