Loyalty in Death

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Eve scanned every file and disk in Branson's office. He'd covered his tracks well. Even his private 'link had been wiped clean. She'd send it to Feeney, but she doubted he'd find any overlooked data on the logs.

She pigeonholed his assistant, then his brother's assistant, but got nothing out of them other than shock and confusion.

He'd kept his area clean, she decided.

She did a run through the labs, examined the droids in development. She nailed another piece into place when the lab foreman, in the spirit of cooperation, told her they had produced replica droids of both Branson brothers. As a surprise, he explained, ordered by Clarissa Branson. A personal request, kept off the books and logs.

They'd been completed and delivered to the Branson townhouse only three weeks before.

Very slick timing, Eve thought as she wandered through production with its orderly shelves loaded with minidroids, tyke-bykes, and space toys.

She picked up an excellent reproduction of a police issue stunner, shook her head. "This sort of thing should be outlawed. You know how many 24/7s are knocked over with these every month?"

"I had one when I was a kid." Peabody grinned with nostalgia. "Bought it on the sly and hid it from my parents. No toys of violence allowed in our house."

"Free-Agers got that one right." Eve set it down, walked farther down the line and into the maze of souveniers. Her energy was flagging. It felt as though she were walking through a wall of water. "Shit, who buys this stuff?"

"Tourists love them. Zeke's already loaded with key chains and globes and friggie magnets."

The New York section was filled with replicas – the key chains, the pens, the dash figures, the magnets and trinket boxes that crowded the stores and stands for eager tourists.

The Empire State Building, the Pleasure Dome, the UN building, the Statue of Liberty. Madison Square, the Plaza Hotel, she noted, frowning at the detailed reproduction of the hotel inside a water globe. Lift it, shake it, and glitter rained like confetti on New Year's Eve.

Good business, she wondered, or irony?

"I bet that kind of thing is going to sell like crazy now." Peabody scowled at the globe when Eve replaced it. "Hot ticket item."

"People are sick," Eve decided. "Let's do the house." Her eyes were feeling gritty now from lack of sleep. "Got any Alert-All in your bag?"

"Yeah, I've got the official limit."

"Give me one, will you? I hate that stuff, makes me edgy. But I'm losing focus."

She swallowed the pill Peabody handed her, knowing the false energy would annoy her.

"When's the last time you caught some shut-eye?"

"I forget. You drive," Eve ordered. God, she hated to give up the control, but it was Peabody or auto. "Until this crap kicks in."

She slid into the passenger seat, let her head fall back, her body relax. Within five minutes, her system was on the gallop. "Man." Her eyes popped open. "I'm awake now."

"It'll give you a good four hours – maybe six – then, if you don't get horizontal, you'll crash hard. Go down like a tree after 'timber.'"

"If we don't close up some of these holes in four to six, I might as well crash." Revved now, she contacted McNab at EDD. "Did you get the 'link from Maine?"

"Working on it now. She had a class-A jammer on it, but we're getting there."

"Bring everything you get to my home office. Bring the whole 'link if you don't have clear data by five. Save me a call and tell Feeney I've sent him Branson's personal. It's been wiped, but he might jiggle something."

"If there's anything, we'll jiggle it."

She put the next call through to Whitney. "Commander, I've finished at Branson T and T and am en route to his residence."

"Progress?"

"Nothing solid at this point. However, I suggest steps be taken to scan and secure the UN building." She thought of the pretty, pricey souveniers. "Apollo's next hit was the Pentagon. If Cassandra continues to follow the theme, that location is the logical choice. Time-wise there would be a lag of several weeks, but we can't risk them sticking to the schedule set by Apollo."

"Agreed. We'll take all necessary steps."

"Do you think they'll make contact again?" Peabody asked when Eve broke transmission.

"I'm not counting on it." She made one last call, to Mira.

"Question," she began as soon as Mira's face came on-screen. "Given the tone of the demands, the fact that those demands have not been met. Adding on that the targets were not destroyed and loss of life was kept minimal, will Cassandra contact me again to play guess what's next?"

"Doubtful. You haven't won the battles, but neither have you lost. Their goals have not been accomplished, while yours have come closer to the mark in each instance. According to your report, which I've just finished reading, you believe they are now aware of your line of investigation. Aware that you know their identities and their pattern."

"And their response to that would be…?"

"Anger, a need to win. A desire to thumb a total victory under your nose. I don't believe they'll feel compelled to issue any sort of warning or jeer the next time. The rules of war, Eve, are, there are no rules."

"Agreed. I have a favor to ask."

Mira tried to hide her surprise. Eve rarely asked for anything. "Of course."

"Zeke's been informed of the setup, Clarissa's part in it."

"I see. This will be difficult for him."

"Yeah, he's not taking it well. I've got him at my place. Mavis is with him, but I think he could use some counseling. If you've got time for a house call."

"I'll make time."

"Thanks."

"Are unnecessary," Mira said. "Good-bye, Eve."

Satisfied, Eve ended the call, and glanced over to see that they'd arrived at the Branson townhouse. Peabody had already parked. "Let's get started." Then she saw that Peabody was clutching the wheel, and tears were swimming in her eyes. "Don't even think about doing that," Eve snapped. "Dry it up."

"I don't know how to thank you. For thinking of him. After he acted that way, with all that's going on, for thinking of him."

"I'm thinking of me." Eve shoved her door open. "I can't afford to have my aide's concentration split because she's worried about a family member."

"Right." Knowing better, Peabody sniffled as she got out of the car. But she'd blinked her eyes clear. "You have my full attention, sir."

"Let's keep it that way." Eve disarmed the police seal and entered the house. "The droids have been deactivated and taken into holding." But she hitched back her jacket so her weapon was in easy reach. "The place should be empty, but we're dealing with people with solid tech and electronic skills. They could have gotten through the seal. I want you on alert while we're in here, Peabody."

"Full alert, sir."

"We'll start with the offices."

Branson's was masculine, distinguished, in burgundy and green with dark wood, leather chairs, heavy crystal. Eve stopped in the doorway, shook her head.

"No, she's the force, she's the one who's driving this train." Her mind was clear again, achingly so. "I shouldn't have wasted time at his plant. She's the button here."

She strode across the hall and into the feminine grace of Clarissa's office. Sitting room, Eve decided it would have been called, with its rose and ivory tones, its dainty chairs with pastel cushions. There were pretty little vases lining the marble mantel, each with tiny flowers tucked in. The flowers were faded and dying and added a sick scent over the fragile fragrance of the air.

There was a day bed with a white swan painted on the cushions, lamps with tinted shades, curtains of lace.

Eve walked to the small desk with long curved legs and studied the small-scale communication and data unit.

The disc collection proved to be filled with fashion and shopping programs, a smatter of novels – heavy on romance – and a daily journal that spoke of household matters, more shopping, lunch dates, and social events.

"Got to be more." Eve stepped back. "Roll up your sleeves, Peabody. Let's take this creepy little room apart."

"I think it's kind of pretty."

"Anybody who lives with this much pink has to be insane."

They went through drawers, searched under and behind them. The small closet held more office supplies and a filmy robe. Again pink.

They found nothing behind the watercolor paintings of formal gardens, not even dust.

Then Peabody struck gold. "A disc." Triumphant, she held it up. "It was in this swan cushion."

"Let's run it." Eve slipped it into the slot, then looked less than pleased when it immediately engaged. "She hides it, but doesn't bother to passcode it. Oh, I don't think so."

It was a diary, written in the first person, and detailing beatings, rapes, abuse.

"I heard him come in. I thought – he'll think I'm asleep, he'll leave me alone. I've been so careful to do everything right today. But when I heard him coming up the stairs, I knew he was drunk. Then I could smell it as he came to the bed.

"It's worse when he's drunk, when he's just drunk enough.

"I kept my eyes closed. I think I stopped breathing. I prayed he was too drunk to hurt me. But no one listens when you pray."

"Playing possum, little girl." The words, the voice, the memory snapped out at Eve like fangs. The smell of liquor and candy, the hands pulling, bruising.

"I begged him to stop, but it was already too late. His hands were on my throat, squeezing so I wouldn't scream, and he was pushing himself into me, hurting me, his breath hot on my face."

"Don't. Please, don't." It hadn't done Eve any good to beg. Hands on her throat, yes. Squeezing until red dots danced in front of her eyes, and the burning, tearing pain of another rape. With that sick-sweet breath on her face.

"Lieutenant. Dallas." Peabody took her arm and shook. "You okay? You're really pale."

"I'm all right." Damn it, goddamn it. She needed air. "It's a plant," she managed. "She knew someone would find it during the investigation. Scan through to the end, Peabody. She wants us to finish it."

Eve walked to the window, unlocked it, threw it open. She leaned out, had to lean out and breathe. The frigid air stung her cheeks, scraped her throat like little bits of ice.

She wouldn't go back there, she promised herself. Couldn't afford to go back there. She would stay in the now. In control.

"She talks about Zeke," Peabody called out. "It goes on – pretty flowery love language here – about meeting him, how she felt when she knew he was coming."

She looked over, relieved to see color in Eve's face again, though she suspected it was mostly from the slap of cold wind. "She talks about going down to the workshop; it runs with what they'd told us before. Then she's saying that she found her strength because of him, and was leaving her husband at last. It stops with her writing that she was packed and about to call Zeke and begin her real life."

"She covered her ass. If she decided not to run straight off, she'd have the disc, dated and logged, as verification of the story. I guess she figured Testing was too big a risk."

"Doesn't help us any. Everything here's just as you'd expect it to be if her story was on the up."

"But it's not, so there's more. This is a front." Eve closed the window, turned to wander the room. "This is image – what do you call it – veneer. Under this we've got a tough, determined, bloodthirsty woman who wants to be treated like a goddess. With awe and fear. She's not pink." Eve lifted a satin pillow, tossed it. "She's red; rich, powerful red. She's no delicate flower. She's poison – exotic, sensual, but poison. She wouldn't have spent any more time in this room than it would have taken to set it up."

Eve stopped, waiting for her racing mind to slow. Damn chemicals, she thought. She deliberately closed her eyes. "She'd come in here, probably sneer at all the little trinkets. False front. Society's trappings. She hates it. Uses it. She goes for the bold, but this is part of the stage. She's been acting for years. This room is to show people how soft and female she is, but it isn't where she works."

"The rest of the house is guest rooms, baths, living and kitchen area." Peabody sat where she was, watching Eve, watching her work. Watching her mind. "If she didn't work here, then where?"

"Close." Eve opened her eyes, studied the little closet. "Master bedroom's on the other side of that wall, right?"

"Yeah. Big he and she walk-in closet takes up the facing wall."

"All the closets are big. Except this one. Why would she settle for this little corner here?" She squeezed herself in, started running fingers over the wall. "Go around the other side, into the closet. Knock on the wall. Give it three good raps, and come back."

While she waited, Eve crouched, dug her mini-goggles out of her field kit.

"Why did I do that?" Peabody asked when she came back.

"You knock hard?"

"Yes, sir. Rap, rap, rap. Stung my knuckles."

"I didn't hear a thing. There's got to be a mechanism, a control."

"Hidden room?" Peabody tried to angle it. "That's so iced."

"Back up, you're in my light. It's got to be here. Wait. Hell. Give me something to pry with."

"I've got something." Peabody dug in her bag for her Swiss Army knife, selected the slim opener, and offered it.

"Were you a Girl Scout?"

"All the way to Eagle level, sir."

Eve grunted, slid the opener into the minute crack in the glossy ivory wall. It slipped out twice before she got some leverage, and hissing out an oath, she shoved it hard. The little door swung open to reveal a control panel.

"Okay, let's bypass this sucker." She worked for five cramped minutes, shifted her weight on her knees, wiped sweat off her face, and started again.

"Why don't you let me have a go at it, Dallas?"

"You don't know any more about electronics than I do. Hell with it. Step back." She rose, her shoulder bumping solidly into Peabody's nose. Peabody had a minute to yelp, check for blood, then Eve had her weapon out.

"Oh, sir, you don't need to – "

Eve blasted the control lock. Circuits sizzled, chips flew, and the panel of ivory slid smoothly apart.

"What's that fairy tale code? Open sesame." Eve stepped inside a small, pie-slice room, eyed the sleek control panel, the snazzy equipment that reminded her, a bit uncomfortably, of what Roarke had behind a locked door. "This," Eve said, "is where Cassandra worked."

She ran her fingers over controls, tried manual and verbal commands. The machines stayed silent.

"They'll be passcoded," she murmured, "and unregistered, and likely have a couple of traps laid in."

"Should I send for Captain Feeney?"

"No." Eve rubbed her cheek. "I've got an expert only minutes from this location." She dug out her 'link and called Roarke.

– =O=-***-=O=-

He took one look at the fried control panel and shook his head. "You'd only to call."

"I got in, didn't I?"

"Yes, but there's something to be said for finesse, Lieutenant."

"There's something to be said for speed. I don't mean to rush you – "

"Then don't." He moved into the room, let his eyes adjust to the dim light. "Set up your night flash until I can get the room controls working."

He took a slim penlight out of his pocket and, sitting at the controls, clamped it between his teeth in a technique favored by burglars.

Eve saw Peabody's eyes register appreciation and speculation, and moved between them. "Take the vehicle and get to my home office. Get ready to receive data. We'll send through what we find here. Put the rest of the team on alert."

"Yes, sir." But she craned her neck to see over Eve's shoulder. Roarke had removed his jacket, rolled up the sleeves of his white silk shirt. The man had fabulous definition in his arms. "Are you sure you don't want me to assist here?"

"Beat it." Eve bent to dig a light out of her field kit. "I still see your shoes," she said mildly. "Which means the rest of you has yet to follow orders."

Her shoes pivoted smartly and marched away.

"Do you have to look so sexy when you do that?" Eve demanded. "You distract my aide."

"Just one of life's little hurdles. Ah, I won't need that flash after all. Lights," he ordered and the room brightened.

"Good. See if you can find the controls that open this paper file over here." She turned to a cabinet. "I'd blast it, but I might damage the data inside."

"Try a little patience. I'll get to it. She had excellent taste in equipment. These are my units. Locks, yes, here we are." He keystroked and Eve heard the click.

"That was easy."

"The rest won't be. Give me some quiet here."

She pulled out a drawer, hefted it, and carried it into the sitting room. She could hear the beeps and hums of the machines as Roarke worked on them. His occasional terse voice commands. Why she should have found it soothing, she couldn't say, but it was oddly satisfying to know he was in the next room working with her.

Then she started going through the paper files and forgot him, forgot everything else.

There were letters, handwritten in bold, sprawling script from James Rowan to his daughter – the daughter he didn't call Charlotte. The daughter he called Cassandra.

They weren't the sentimental or fatherly correspondence between parent and child but the rousing, dictatorial directives from commander to soldier.

"The war must be fought, the present government destroyed. For freedom, for liberty, for the good of the masses who are now under the boot of those who call themselves our leaders. We will be victorious. And when my time has passed, you will take my place. You, Cassandra, my young goddess, are my light into the future. You will be my prophet. Your brother is too weak to carry the burden of decision. He is too much his mother's son. You are mine.

"Remember always, victory carries a price. You must not hesitate to pay it. Move like a fury, like a goddess. Take your place in history."

There were others, following the same theme. She was his soldier and his replacement. He'd molded her, one god to another, in his image.

In another file she found copies of birth certificates. Clarissa's and her brother's, and their death certificates as well. There were newspaper and magazine clippings, stories on Apollo, and on her father.

There were photographs of him: public ones in his politician suit with his hair gleaming and his smile bright and friendly; private ones of him in full battle gear, his face smudged with black and his eyes cold. Killer eyes, Eve thought.

She'd looked into them hundreds of times in her life.

Family pictures, again private, of James Rowan and his daughter. The fairylike little girl had a ribbon in her hair and an assault weapon in her hands. Her smile was fierce, and her eyes were her father's.

She found all the data on one Clarissa Stanley, ID numbers, birth date, date of death.

Another picture showed Clarissa as a young woman. Dressed in military fatigues, she stood beside a grim-faced man with a captain's hat shading his eyes. Behind them was a dramatic ring of snow-covered mountains.

She'd seen that face before, she thought and dug out her magnifying goggles again to get a better look.

"Henson," she murmured. "William Jenkins." She pulled out her palm unit and requested data to refresh her memory.

William Jenkins Henson, date of birth August 12, 1998, Billings, Montana. Married Jessica Deals, one child. Daughter Madia, born August 9, 2018. James Rowan's campaign manager…

"Right. Stop." She rose, took a turn around the room. She remembered, she'd scanned the data before. He'd had a daughter Clarissa's age. A daughter who hadn't been accounted for, hadn't been mentioned since the bombing in Boston.

A female child's body had been identified in the ruin of that Boston home. Henson's daughter, Eve thought. Not Rowan's. And William Jenkins Henson had taken Rowan's child as his own.

He'd finished her training.

She sat again, began to push through the papers looking for another letter, another photo, another piece. She found another stack from Rowan to his daughter and began to read.

"Eve, I'm in. You'll want to see this."

Taking the letters with her, she went to Roarke. "He'd been training her since she was a kid," Eve told him. "Brought her up through the ranks. He called her Cassandra. And when he died, Henson took over. I've got a photo of her and Henson taken a good ten years after the bombing in Boston."

"They trained her well." Damned if he hadn't admired her skill with the units and the codes and mazes she'd planted within them. "I have transmissions from here to a location in Montana. It may be to Henson. No names are used, but she's kept him up to date on her progress."

Eve glanced down at the monitor. "Dear Comrade," she read.

"I don't understand politics," she said after she'd read the first transmission. "What are they trying to prove? What are they trying to be?"

"Communism, Marxism, Socialism, Fascism." Roarke jerked his shoulders. "Democracy, republic, monarchy. One is the same as the other to them. It's power, it's glory. It's revolution for the sake of it. Politics, religion, for some it remains their own narrow and personal view."

"Conquer and rule?" Eve wondered.

"To feed. Have a look. On-screen," Roarke ordered, and the wall unit flashed on. "We have schematics and blueprints, security codes and data. These are the Apollo targets, starting with the Kennedy Center."

"They kept records," she murmured. "Property damage and cost, number of dead. Jesus, they list the names."

"War records," Roarke said. "So many for them, so many for us. Tally the count. Without blood, war's losing its sexuality. And here… secondary data, split screen. This is the data and images of Radio City. Note the red dots indicate the positioning of the explosives."

"Following in daddy's footsteps."

"I have names and locations for members of the group."

"Feed them to my home unit, to Peabody. We'll start rounding up. Are all the targets listed?"

"I haven't gone past the first two. I thought you'd want to see what we've got so far."

"Right. Get the data to Peabody first, then we'll go on." She glanced down at the letter in her hand as he started the transmission. And her blood froze.

"Jesus, the Pentagon wasn't the next target. They had an abort between the arena and the Pentagon. It doesn't say what it is here, just equipment problems, financial difficulties. 'Money is a necessary evil. Line your coffers well.'" She tossed the letter aside. "What's after the arena? What was next on Apollo's list?"

Roarke called it up and they both stared at the white spear on-screen. "The Washington Monument, targeted for two days after the complex."

She laid a hand on his shoulder, squeezed. "They'll move tonight, tomorrow the latest. They won't wait, they won't contact. They can't risk it. What's the target?"

He called it up. Three images popped. "Take your choice."

Eve yanked out her communicator. "Peabody, get an E and B team to the Empire State Building, another to the Twin Towers, one more to the Statue of Liberty. You and McNab cover the Empire State, get Feeney down to the Towers. Have one of the long-range scanners ready for me. I'm on my way home. I want everybody to move, move fast. Riot gear and armed. Evacuation immediately, cordon off entire sectors. No civilians within three city blocks of locations."

She jammed the communicator into her pocket. "How fast can that jet-copter of yours get us to Liberty Island?"

"A lot faster than those toys your department uses."

"Then shoot this data off, add your copter's computer to the spread. Let's go fire it up."

She raced through the door, out and down the steps. Roarke was behind the wheel of his car and had the engine engaged before she could slam her door.

"The Statue's your target."

"I know it. They'll go for the symbol. The biggest one we've got. She's female, she's political." He took the blocks home at a speed that had Eve pressed against the seat. "And I'm damned if they're going to take her down."