breathe,” but no words would come out.
“You gonna lay still?” he said. He spoke softly, an ominous near-whisper, but clearly and with authority. He moved so that some light fell on him and she saw that his head was bald and he wore only one gold earring.
He wasn’t masked, not hiding his identity. Yes, he was going to kill her.
He let up enough on her throat for her to drag in a choked breath, then another.
He sat Hypatia on her chest. “I could kill this cat right now. I could kill you right now. Right?”
She nodded. Clever Hypatia leaped off the bed and headed for a safer place.
“I got in here, I can get to you anywhere. I have a message for you. You listening?”
Again she nodded. That seemed to be all he wanted from her so far. To listen. Her mind was going lickety-split, thinking what a woman was supposed to do. Try and talk to him.
“The Supreme Court’s decision in the case of Sharansky versus the United States Government is due in eight days. On the twenty-seventh of December. I’m telling you that you are to vote against Sharansky.”
This is insane. It doesn’t make any sense. What the hell is he saying?
“You hear me? In Sharansky versus the U.S. Government, you are to vote against Sharansky. And if you don’t, your grandson, Alex Hailey Hill, will be killed.”
She got it. He was here to make her vote for the U.S. Government in this bitterly fought case brought by New Hampshire’s lieutenant governor and the lieutenant governors of seven other states. The court was split. Their deliberations were secret, but it was widely assumed that the decision would be up to the new justice, Suleema Johnson, the swing vote, the tiebreaker. And this assumption was, in fact, correct. And someone choking off her breath claimed to be able to kill Alex unless she voted against her conscience and her judgment.
But Alex wasn’t even in the country. The threat seemed preposterous.
“Now here’s the way it’s going to be,” he said. He leaned his knee hard into her groin. “You will not tell anyone—and I mean anyone—what I’ve just told you. You will vote for the government. That is why I’m here. To make sure you do. If you tell anyone, the boy will be killed. You understand?”
She nodded, wondering who she could safely tell. Someone would have to be told.
“I know that when I leave, you’ll want to call your daughter to check whether the boy is safe or not. Don’t. She won’t know yet that we have him. Your calling would tip her off you know something you shouldn’t, and we will be listening.”
The very mention of Regina from this thug sent Suleema’s mind bounding off in a rabbitlike panic.
“You just wait a day. Watch the news. Maybe give your daughter a call tomorrow. She’s in for a nasty surprise.”
“Get off me!” she managed to hiss out.
With his free hand, he pulled something from his pocket. A knife. The blade—short and thick and serrated along the top—gleamed silver in the moonlight.
One quick stroke toward her chest. She felt nothing at first, then a stinging sensation and then liquid trickling warmly across her skin.
“That’s just a little taste,” he said, his voice still that ominous whisper, “of what could happen to the boy. And to you.”
He released her, stood, turned and strode out of the bedroom.
Suleema lay still, afraid to even move enough to touch her chest. How badly had he cut her? Maybe he was still in the house.
No. He’d want to get out.
She forced her hand to move, touched the cut beneath the cotton, and felt a surge of relief that it was sticky but superficial.
She should get up. Call 9–1-1. Call the federal marshal’s office.
But what if he, or whoever had sent him, did have Alex? How could that possibly be? Maybe Alex hadn’t gone on the trip. Maybe they had taken him from school. Kidnapping was FBI responsibility. She must call the FBI, of course, not 9–1-1.
But the FBI could only help if Alex was in the States. Wasn’t that so? What if Alex wasn’t? She crossed her hands as if lying in a casket and hugged herself, still terrified to get out of the bed, nightmare images and thoughts scrambling through her head. How could they know how much Alex meant to her? The man had been so confident that he wasn’t even wearing a mask.
What if she didn’t call the FBI at once, if she waited until tomorrow to call Regina to find out if the threat was real? If she called the federal marshals, they would insist on putting a bodyguard on her, even when she was away from the court. Except occasionally at high-profile speaking engagements she had never felt the need for a bodyguard, provided when requested to Supreme Court judges by the marshal’s office. Until now. Having her driver, Sam, with her had been reassurance enough. Asking for protection now would wave a red flag.
Someone was trying to influence the vote of a justice of the United States Supreme Court. Surely duty required her to call in the authorities at once.
But at the risk of Alex’s life?
Chapter 9
S mith’s raised eyebrows indicated genuine surprise. “Come on, Nova,” he said. “You don’t expect me to take your dislike of VP Ransome seriously. When has politics ever affected the Dove’s decision to take on a job for Langley?”
She allowed herself a soft laugh. “Dove” was her Company code name. “I do seriously dislike the vice president’s politics.”
Smith grinned and lifted his glass as if in a toast of agreement and then continued, all business again. “Surely I needn’t point out that these poor people are all innocents. And Colette Stone certainly can’t be blamed for her uncle’s bad political judgment. In fact, the word is that Ms. Stone and the VP don’t get along. And she loves birds. She’s a bird painter, Nova. They all love birds. Shit, it was a goddamn birding trip!”
She smiled at his urgent attempt at persuasion. But it was true that it did tick her off that people who simply took a trip to the jungle to soak up some of the Earth’s beauty were being brutally mistreated. And she knew the Bennings. They were real to her, names and faces and voices. She could not say no and live with herself. She gave Smith an exaggerated smile. “Oh, well then, that decides it.”
He grinned and leaned back. “Just jerking me off, right?”
“Right.”
Smith set his glass on the table and clasped his hands together as if warming them over a fire, ready to get down to business. “Okay, then. Your cover will be that you are the sister of one of the San Diego women, Linda Stokes, and you’re looking for her on your own dollar. You don’t trust the government, and so on. I have people setting up your cover as her sister as we speak. Another reason you’re ideal for the op is that you already know San Diego, which will save the preparation time we’d otherwise have to spend with someone else.”
“It does look like saving time would
