The First Lady Page 25

  Her smile widens. “It was an unusual story, was it not?”

  “Not as unusual as your … disappearance,” I say. “So far, the cover story about your falling in the stream, striking your head, and injuring your finger is still holding. How long do you think it’ll stay that way?”

  She picks up her own coffee cup. “May I ask why you’re here, Agent Grissom?”

  I say, “By the end of the day, it won’t be Agent Grissom. It will be plain old Sally Grissom. Too much has happened over the past few days.”

  “I’m sorry about that.”

  “I’m glad you are,” I say. “I had a nice career with the agency, a nice record, and now … it’s gone.”

  The First Lady says, “Then come with me. I need someone with your experience.”

  “You’ll always have Secret Service protection, even if you and the President eventually divorce.”

  “I know that,” she says. “But I’m not saying I need someone to help with my protection.”

  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.

  Are you a fan of thrilling dramas that provide a glimpse into the lives of the rich and famous?

  If so, you’ll love …

  THE PRIVATE NOVELS

  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.

  Discover the series with an extract from Private Princess

  Out now in paperback

  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.

  Today he did it for pride.

  He did it for justice.

  The hunter-killer turned his eyes up to the sky. Rain was beginning to fall, bouncing from the thick green leaves of summer. The hunter-killer welcomed it. It was his ally. It would cover him as he slid and crept his way closer to his target. Closer to justice.

  He could see his prize now, and the proximity caused his heart to beat against his scarred chest, endorphins flooding his body as he pictured his kill and the satisfaction it would bring.

  It had been a long stalk, but the prize would justify the suffering and the cost. This kill would come at a price – a great price – but he would not shirk it. The butcher’s bill would be paid in full, and then there would be justice.

  Fifty yards away now, and the hunter-killer begged his heart to still, despite the thrill of what was only moments away. Wet branches pulled at him as he moved forward, checking his pace. He forced himself to slow, too close now to fail.

  He looked down at the pistol in his hand, checking it for dirt. There was none, as he knew there wouldn’t be. Inside the weapon in his hand, a bullet rested snugly in the chamber, ready to shatter on impact, and to tear out a great chunk of flesh in the body of his prize.

  The hunter-killer smiled as he pictured that carnage.

  Then he brought the pistol up into the aim, and centred its sights on the back of his target. A target that had caused pain and misery and suffering.

  With a smile on his face, the hunter-killer pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 1

  One day earlier

  JACK MORGAN WAS alive.

  For a former US Marine turned leader of the world’s foremost investigation agency, Private, that could mean a lot of things. It could mean that he had survived knife wounds, kidnap and helicopter crashes. It could mean that he had survived foiling a plot to unleash a virus on Rio, or that he had lived through halting a rampaging killer in London.

  Right now, it meant that he was twenty thousand feet in the air, and flying.

  Morgan sat in the co-pilot’s position of a Gulfstream G650, the private jet cruising at altitude as it crossed the English Channel from Europe, the white cliffs of Dover a smudged line on the horizon. To the east, the sun was slowly climbing its way to prominence, the sky matching the colour of Morgan’s tired, red eyes.

  He was exhausted, and it was only for this reason that he was a content passenger on the flight and not at the controls.

  The pilot felt Morgan’s hunger: ‘You can take her in, if you’d like, sir,’ the British man offered.

  ‘All you, Phillip,’ Morgan replied. ‘Choppers were always more my thing.’ He thought with fondness of the Blackhawks he had flown during combat missions as a Marine. Then, as it always did, the fondness soon slipped away, replaced by the gut-gripping sadness of loss – Morgan had walked away from the worst day of his life, but others hadn’t.

  What is it the British say on their Remembrance Day? ‘At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.’ Morgan liked that. Of course, he remembered those he had lost every minute between the rising and the setting as well. Every comrade of war, every agent of Private fallen in their mission. Morgan remembered them all.

  He rubbed at his eyes. He was really tired.

  But he was alive.

  And so Morgan looked again at the printed email in his hand. The friendly message that he had read multiple times, trying to draw out a deeper meaning, for surely the simple words were the tip of a blade. As the sprawl of London appeared before him, he was trying to figure out if Private were intended to be the ones to shield against that weapon, or if it would instead be driven into the organisation’s back.

  He was trying to figure this out because the email had not come from a friend. It had come from Colonel Marcus De Villiers, a Coldstream Guards officer in the British Army. Though no enemy of Morgan’s, he was certainly no ally, and when in doubt, Morgan looked for traps. That was why he was alive.

  But De Villiers was more than just an aristocratic gentleman in an impressive uniform. He was the head of security for a very important family. Perhaps the greatest and most important family on earth.

  And that was why Morgan was flying at full speed to London.

  Because Jack Morgan had been invited to meet the powerful people under De Villiers’ care.

  He had been invited to meet the royal family.

  Chapter 2

  MORGAN STEPPED FROM the jet into a balmy morning of English summer.

  ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ the man waiting on the tarmac beamed.

  Morgan took in the uniformed figure – Colonel Marcus De Villiers was every inch the tall, impressive man that Morgan remembered from two years ago, when Private had rescued a young royal from the bloody clutches of her kidnappers. De Villiers had been a sneering critic of Morgan and his agents then, and Morgan was certain that, beneath the smile, the sentiment was still strong.

  ‘It is a beautiful day, Colonel, but you weren’t so keen to exchange pleasantries last time we met,’ Morgan replied. ‘After I refused to cover up the Duke of Aldershot’s involvement in the kidnapping of his own daughter.’

  ‘All’s well that ends well.’ De Villiers shrugged, trying hard to keep his smile in place.

  ‘The Duke died before he got to trial and faced justice.’ Morgan shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t call that ending well.’

  ‘One could say that death is the most absolute form of justice, Mr Morgan, but that’s beside the point. The whole business went away quietly, which was very well received where it matters.’

  ‘If you’ve brought me here to boast that a royal scandal stayed out of the papers, Colonel, then you’re wasting my time. I took this meeting out of respect for the people you represent, but I’m ready to step back onto this jet and head home if you don’t tell me in the next ten seconds why I’m here.’

  ‘Very well, Mr Morgan. I didn’t bring you here to boast about avoiding a royal scandal. I brought you here to prevent the next one.’

  Chapter 3

  MORGAN JOINED DE Villiers in the blacked-out Range Rover that waited beside the landed jet. The Colonel would divulge no more information, but he had said enough to get Morgan’s attention.

  The men were driven from London’s outskirts into the lush green countryside of Surrey, where multimillion-pound properties nestled in woodlands. It was beautiful, and Morgan watched it roll by the tinted windows as he considered who he might be heading to meet, and why.

  The British royal family was large, with Queen Elizabeth II at its head and dozens of members tied in by blood or marriage, but Morgan had some clue as to who they were driving to see in the English countryside. Colonel De Villiers had once told Morgan that the family’s inner circle was his concern, so the American was either on his way to meet the Queen herself, or one of her closest family.

  Morgan allowed himself a smile at the thought. Here he was, an American – and once an American serviceman at that – driving to meet the monarchy that his nation had fought against for their independence. The fact that the bloodiest relationships could be repaired made him pause and look to De Villiers. There were enough people in the world that wished Morgan dead. Why not take a lesson from the United States and the United Kingdom?

  ‘Thank you for inviting me here,’ Morgan said to the Colonel. ‘It really is a beautiful day, and a beautiful country.’

  ‘It is.’ The Colonel nodded. ‘But don’t let it fool you. At this time of year, you can get the four seasons in a day.’

  The Range Rover left the main road and entered a long driveway flanked by woodland. It would have been hard for anyone to s
pot the two armed men camouflaged amongst the trees, but Jack Morgan was not just anyone.

  ‘Relax.’ De Villiers smiled, seeing Morgan tense. ‘They’re ours.’

  As the Range Rover came to a stop and crunched the gravel, Morgan took in the exquisite Georgian farmhouse of ivy-covered red brick that stood before him.

  ‘It looks like something out of a fairy tale.’ He smiled, allowing himself to relax.

  But then, as the house’s green door opened, Morgan’s pulse began to quicken. It was not the sight of more armed men that caused it, but the figure that walked by them and into the dappled sunshine.

  Morgan stood straight as he was approached by one of the most famous women in the world.

  Her name was Princess Caroline.

  Chapter 4

  THE PRINCESS PUT out her hand, offering it to Jack Morgan as he stepped away from the Range Rover.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr Morgan,’ she said.

  ‘Please, call me Jack, Your Highness,’ Morgan answered, feeling himself bow on instinct.

  ‘Let’s take a walk, Jack. De Villiers tells me that you’re the person I need to speak to.’

  Morgan looked to De Villiers, surprised that such praise would come from the Colonel. De Villiers’ face gave nothing away, nor did he move to follow as Princess Caroline led Morgan away from the courtyard.

  ‘It’s too nice a day to be inside,’ she explained as they entered a walled garden. Bright red strawberries clung to the planters. ‘Try one,’ she insisted.

  Morgan raised his eyebrows as he bit down on the fruit and the juice hit his tongue. With food in his mouth, he had the excuse he needed to keep it shut – introductions to a mission always worked better when he let the client do the talking. Nothing brought out the little details as well as just keeping quiet and allowing the other person to fill the dead space.