Since learning from Martha that Charles was willing to talk, Aaron had spent the best part of a week conferring urgently with Attorney General Haslett. He had immediately realized the extreme risk of Logan's situation and felt frustrated that the federal government's legal officials could not recognize the need to move faster.
"We have to find a detention facility with the proper level of security, Agent Pierce," the Attorney General had explained. "If what you're telling me is accurate, these people were able to get to Logan even though he's in one of our tightest prisons."
"We know who was responsible for that, sir. He's my primary target. Once we get Whitcomb I don't think security will be nearly as much of an issue."
"But how do you know they won't send somebody else?"
Aaron was silenced.
"I appreciate everything you've done, Aaron," Haslett added. "I want to thank both you and Ms. Powell and I'm going to make it clear to President Gardner that we're in your debt. If it weren't for both of you we would have gotten nowhere. But my people need to make the arrangements. That's their job. I promise you I will do everything in my power to move this along."
Knowing he had to be satisfied with this, Aaron thanked the Attorney General and closed the conversation. He found himself thinking back to his interview with Logan, wondering what had finally made him agree to talk; he could tell that Martha's interview with Charles had upset her somehow, but she had not told him the details of what had passed between them. Curious as to what motive could have caused Logan's change of heart, Aaron thought it possible that he was still hoping to win Martha back, but then told himself that Charles had to know that would never happen. He sensed that Martha was holding back either to protect his feelings or to shield Charles' privacy, possibly both. She knew he preferred to avoid the topic of her ex-husband whenever possible.
Angie had been successful in solving Martha and Aaron's housing predicament. When Martha had discussed the issue with her, she had wholeheartedly agreed that a larger apartment was a priority and had pointed out to Aaron that moving to the Federal district would save him a great deal of commuting time. He had countered that the cost of a larger apartment in Martha's building would be prohibitive. This had concerned Aaron more than anything else about the prospect of moving (even he had been forced to admit that her current residence was too small for both of them). Angie's negotiating skills were more than a match for this problem; when she gently pointed out the multiple security breaches to Martha's apartment, the building manager blanched at the threat of publicity. He hastily offered a lower rent for the first eighteen months, contingent upon Martha and Aaron agreeing to a long-term lease. "I'd take it, Martha," Angie counseled. "This really is a fantastic deal." After an inspection of the new apartment, Aaron had to agree. He gave notice to his landlord and began packing.
"What days does the grocery shipment deliver?" Whitcomb asked. He and Ryan had met again at the park to discuss details of their plan.
"Tuesdays and Fridays," Ryan answered. "He usually gets there around ten. I can hold up the truck long enough for you to get under it; if you can hang on to the undercarriage that would be the easiest way to get you in."
Whitcomb nodded. "That won't be a problem."
"Once you're in I'll have a spare guard's uniform waiting for you. Logan is scheduled to work the library nearly every day. I'll show you how to get there. Once you're finished we can get you out on the catering truck again. I'll just have to make sure I'm there to do the inspection."
"Do you have a map? I think it's safer if we leave you at the inspection point. The more I know about the layout the less chance of something going wrong."
Ryan quickly sketched a map indicating the relative positions of the gate, kitchen area and cellblocks.
"Get me the uniform as soon as you can. I'll wear coveralls over it. That's one less step."
"Okay." Ryan drew a deep breath.
"I don't blame you for being squeamish, Mr. Ryan. This is a dirty business. I'm trying to spare you as much responsibility as possible: The less you know the better."
"Thanks, I appreciate it." Ryan looked determined. "I won't let you down."
In the event Whitcomb's plan passed off very much as he had intended, though with additional details he had not discussed with Ryan. Once inside the prison walls he waited until the truck had been unloaded, rolled out from under it and beckoned to Ryan from the shelter of a doorway just beyond the kitchen. Ryan muttered an excuse to his partner and moved inside, escorting Whitcomb. The latter quickly stripped off his coveralls, pulled a revolver from one pocket and attached a silencer. "Which way is the library again?" he asked, removing the safety lock from the gun.
"That way—" Ryan turned to point, but never finished his sentence. Whitcomb shot him twice from behind.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Ryan," he murmured as he dragged the body out of sight, "but I really didn't have a choice." He quickly removed Ryan's identification pass and clipped it to his shirt pocket, then moved stealthily toward the library.
Logan was sorting books and barely looked up as the guard entered; he froze in place as he recognized Whitcomb's voice.
"Hello, Charles. Or should I still be addressing you as 'Mr. President'?"
"Hello, Christian." Logan turned slowly. "It's been quite some time, hasn't it?" Any hopes he had harbored of survival vanished as he saw the gun in Whitcomb's hand. "I thought better of Graem," he muttered.
"Graem didn't have anything to do with this." Christian shrugged. "No matter how much I tried to reason with him, he insisted you weren't going to talk. Rather touching really."
"I stayed quiet as long as I could. Living with the knowledge that I was responsible for what happened is more difficult than you'd think."
"I knew it." Whitcomb gave Charles a look of disdain. "Guilt is an unaffordable luxury in our line of work, Charles. I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now. I tried to tell Graem you were cracking but he wouldn't hear of it, so I took matters into my own hands."
"You killed Gene Dunlap, didn't you?" Logan was playing for time, hoping against hope that someone would come into the library.
"Yes, I did. That was a special favor for Graem. Dunlap was panicking; he was ready to give all of us up and cut a deal, so Graem came to me for help. It was easier than you'd think. I arranged for Dunlap to pick me up to discuss how we could get him out of the country. Once I was in his car he never had a chance."
"You never used to be a killer, Christian."
The other man shrugged. "Desperate times, desperate measures and all that. The scary thing is, Charles," he looked up, "I'm enjoying it. There's an adrenalin rush that comes with being a complete outlaw – you've no idea. I'm afraid that brings me back to my original purpose for being here," he lifted the gun. "Don't worry, you aren't going to feel a thing. I know what I'm doing."
"Just one thing." Logan spoke urgently. "Leave my wife out of this. I don't want her hurt."
"I have no intention of hurting her, Charles." Whitcomb spoke gravely, having no wish to taunt the man he was about to kill. "I'm leaving the country today. I think I've worn out my welcome."
Logan closed his eyes in relief, and Whitcomb immediately fired twice. Charles collapsed without a sound. Heaving glanced around to make sure the body could not be seen from the window, Whitcomb turned and left, glancing at his watch. Returning to his previous station near the kitchens, he flagged down the driver of the catering truck. "I need to check back here," he said sharply. "Open the doors."
Protesting, the driver opened the rear doors to the van. "Your partner already checked—" he began, but Whitcomb clubbed him over the head with the gun, knocking him unconscious. He shut the doors to the van, stripped the driver of his coveralls and quickly changed. Putting on the driver's sunglasses, he drove out by the gate, nonchalantly waving to the guard on duty as he left. Half a mile from the prison, he left the van by the side of the road and returned to his car. "And now for part two," he chuckled, dialing Slater's number.
Martha ran down the service stairs and unlocked her door. She had been planning the furniture layout in the new apartment and smiled to herself, thinking she had found the perfect place for Aaron's favorite chair. Glancing at the kitchen table, she suddenly stopped as she saw a mug and used teabag that had not been there when she left. How did that get there, she thought before she was grabbed from behind.
"Duct tape. Such a useful item," Whitcomb commented as he placed a strip of tape across her mouth. "You may not remember me, Mrs. Logan, but we met briefly at a White House party some time ago." He was now wearing janitorial overalls and had ransacked Slater's office for rope, tape and a knife after hiding Slater's body in one of the lockers; Martha was now tied to one of the kitchen chairs. "I had to deprive your building of its janitor, by the way. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it's no great loss. You should warn your landlord to screen his employees more carefully. Now, if you'll excuse me for a moment, I need to make a phone call. You and I have some traveling to do." He moved out of earshot and dialed Graem's number.
"It's Christian. Listen carefully. I'm leaving the country today and I need transportation."
"What are you talking about?"
"Charles Logan is dead. He was going to give all of us up, Graem. I had no choice."
"Oh, my God. You've killed Logan? Do you realize every federal agent in the country will be after you?"
"Yes, I do, and that's why you're going to help me. It's in your best interests to do this, Graem. Get me a helicopter with a pilot and have a boat waiting at your father's beach house. I'll need it stocked with enough supplies for two weeks, just to cover all contingencies."
"Where are you planning to go? Don't you want the jet instead?"
"Planes are too easily tracked. I'm heading to Cuba to start with. I can make further arrangements once I get there."
"How do you know you won't be stopped?" Graem demanded.
"I have an insurance policy with me. Her name is Martha Powell Logan. If anyone tries to stop me, she will be killed."
"This is a mistake, Christian. The public loves Martha Logan; they don't give a damn about her ex-husband. If you just leave—"
"I'll be stopped within a day. I can't get away without her. The Feds may be glad Logan is dead, but that doesn't mean they'll just stand by and let his killer out of the country. I think I'm safer with her than without her. There's no time to argue about this, Graem. Get me that helicopter, and make sure it's piloted by somebody that you trust."
"Okay." Graem capitulated. "Where do you want to be picked up?"
Whitcomb gave him coordinates for a spot about an hour outside of the city. "There's a shopping mall there that closed about six months ago, with a big empty parking lot. He can wait for us there. It'll be safe for takeoff and landing, and very few people should be around."
"I'll call you back to confirm," Graem hastily agreed. "Before you get on that helicopter, get rid of your cell phone. Destroy it if you can. If it's found it'll lead them straight to me. Once the Secret Service figure out Martha Logan's gone, they'll use GPS to track you; you won't be able to use that phone again." Christian agreed and ended the call. Graem slumped at his desk wondering what to do, but realized after a few moments that he had no choice. He dialed another number, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach.
"This is Graem Bauer. I need to speak to my father. It's urgent!"
Agent Mitchell, now officially recognized as Aaron Pierce's administrative assistant, had just finished checking Aaron's schedule for the coming week when his phone rang. The display registered "Blocked," highly unusual since the Service offices had equipment capable of tracing most telephone numbers. Frowning, he picked up the phone and sat in shock as he heard the tense voice of the man on the other end:
"I'm only going to say this once. Martha Powell has been kidnapped by a man named Christian Whitcomb. She's about to be taken out of the country. If you want to stop him you need to write this down."
Mitchell fumbled for a pen. "Okay, I'm listening." He quickly noted the address and the fact that Whitcomb was planning to leave by helicopter. "Who is this?"
"Somebody who wishes her well." Graem hung up the phone and left his office. I hope Dad was right about this, he thought, or we're all in trouble.
Mitchell quickly dialed the number to Martha's apartment. Receiving no answer, he tried the number of the Service agent assigned to Martha's building.
"Tyler? This is Mitchell. I just got an anonymous tip that Martha Powell has been kidnapped. What's going on?"
"Nothing. I haven't heard anything. Want me to check things out?"
"Get in there and look." Mitchell drummed his fingers nervously on the desk, waiting as he heard the agent call distantly, "Ms. Powell? Are you there?" followed by a few muffled sounds of movement. Suddenly Agent Tyler came back on the line, reporting in clipped sentences.
"She's not here. There's been a struggle and it looks like somebody's been tied to a chair. That's all I can tell you."
"Get down to the basement and find the janitor. His name's Slater. Call me back as soon as you can." Mitchell pushed his chair back and ran down the hall to Aaron's office; his phone rang again just as he finished telling his story to Aaron.
"The janitor's dead, and Ms. Powell's car is missing," Tyler reported. "I'm calling Agent Cardona now."
White-faced, Aaron grabbed his phone and called Angie. "Angie? Martha's missing. We think she may have been kidnapped. Where are you?"
"I've been out running errands; Martha needed some stuff done for the wedding. The last time I saw her was this morning. When did this happen?"
"We just got an anonymous tip about ten minutes ago." Aaron forced himself to think clearly; panic was slowing his ability to reason. "Angie, I've got to go. I'll call you as soon as I get any news of Martha." He hung up and turned to Mitchell. "Okay. We know where they're going and we know they're using Ms. Powell's car. Put out an APB on it but make it clear that if they're spotted, no one is to stop them, just report in on their location. We're going out there with every agent I can get."
Meanwhile Whitcomb had taken Martha to the garage via the service stairs and had forced her into the car at gunpoint. She was now driving slowly through the mid-afternoon Washington traffic, following his instructions. "Take your time," he commented. "We don't want to get stopped for any traffic violations." He leaned back in the passenger seat and looked at Martha with curiosity. "Your pictures don't do you justice, Mrs. Logan," he commented, smiling. "Not many women of my acquaintance would look this good after being taken hostage."
"I don't go by that name anymore." Martha was gripping the wheel tensely.
"Ah, yes. You've gone back to your maiden name, haven't you? I was respecting your ex-husband's wishes. He still refers to you as his wife."
"You worked with Charles." Martha made it a statement, not a question.
"We've had a long association, yes."
"And Walt Cummings? I do remember you, Mr. Whitcomb. Walt introduced us at that party."
"So he did. Yes, I worked with Walt, but that got a little tricky. I was working for your husband at the same time, you see, and I couldn't allow Walt to know that." Whitcomb gave a snort of amusement. "A conspiracy within a conspiracy, if you will."
Martha felt a jolt of anger go through her. "I'm surprised Charles had time to run the country with all this going on."
"He had plenty of help. Myself and my associates on one side, and Walt and your friend Novick on the other. All Charles had to do was look helpless and people fell over themselves to step in and show him what to do." Christian shrugged. "It worked well for a while, but of course it all blew up in his face eventually."
"What about Gene Dunlap?"
"What about him?"
Martha took her eyes off the traffic long enough to give him a sharp look. "I'm assuming you killed him. That's the theory the Washington police had, from what I understand."
"Well, who am I to argue with the police? Speculate as you will."
"And Walt Cummings? We know he didn't commit suicide."
"I'm quite certain he didn't, Mrs. Logan, but I don't know who was responsible for his death. I'm flattered that you think it might have been me, but I'm a creature of habit, and my habitat of choice is Washington. I haven't been in California in years." Whitcomb looked speculatively out the window. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were one of the Service agents that Charles recruited. Perhaps the same one that tried to kill your fiancé."
Martha shuddered, remembering that Adams had guarded her for hours after Walt's death. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were right," she answered, and fell silent.
"Down here," Whitcomb ordered a few minutes later, indicating an alley. Martha stopped the car and sat as he duct-taped her hands to the wheel. "This won't take a minute," he added and removed the keys from the ignition. She watched as he dismantled his cell phone, dropping broken pieces into various trashcans and down an open storm drain, and then returned to the car. "A basic precaution," he explained. "I don't want your friends tracing us."
"We're driving my car," Martha pointed out. "Anybody can trace a license plate."
"True, but we're nearly there and I think we can risk it. Just a few miles further." He gestured with the gun.
Soon they pulled into a large, empty parking lot. For a moment Martha hoped they might attract the attention of someone passing by, but noting the deserted buildings and "For Sale" sign she realized her chances of doing so were slim. She stopped the car and asked, "What now?"
"Now we wait." Whitcomb gave another quick look at his watch. "It shouldn't be too much longer—"
With a sudden roar half a dozen cars burst from behind the nearest building; additional agents, all of them armed, appeared from behind the walls. In less than thirty seconds they were surrounded.
"Whitcomb, listen to me." Martha felt a huge sense of relief as she heard Aaron's calm voice, magnified by a speaker. "Your helicopter isn't coming. We know you have Martha Powell with you. Let her go. Give yourself up now and you won't be hurt."
Whitcomb cursed bitterly. "They sold me out," he muttered in disbelief. "After all I did for them! Don't move," he added to Martha, who sat as if frozen. She forced herself to breathe deeply, fighting her panic.
"Aaron Pierce doesn't lie," she answered, trying to keep her voice calm. "If he says you won't be hurt, you won't be. You have information we need. If you want to negotiate with him, we'll have to get out of the car."
Whitcomb considered for a moment, then nodded. "Bring your hands over here." He taped her wrists together, reached over her and unlocked the car door. "Open the door and get out, slowly. I'll do the same. Remember, no sudden movements." He raised the gun to emphasize his point. "When you're out of the car, walk over to me."
Trying to hide her shaking, Martha did as he said. Looking around, she saw Cardona's anxious face; Aaron was just behind him.
"I'm not giving myself up to you, Pierce. I can assure you I have no intention of hurting Ms. Powell if you do as I say. I want safe passage out of the country. There's a private airfield not far from here. I am going to get back in the car with my hostage, we are going to drive there and you will make arrangements to supply us with a plane. If you try to stop me from leaving, I will kill her. If you cooperate I will leave her unharmed at my first stop."
"Why should we believe you?" Cardona bellowed back.
"I'm not a fool. I know that if I kill her, you won't stop until you find me. So I won't kill her."
An agent wearing an FBI jacket pushed forward to confer with Aaron. Under cover of this distraction, Martha whispered quickly: "This isn't going to work."
"Shut up." Whitcomb's hand tightened on the gun.
"If you tell us what you know they'll cut you a deal. You wouldn't have to do much prison time."
Whitcomb shook his head. "They won't cut me any sort of deal."
"They did it for Charles. They'll do it for you."
"Presidential assassins don't get deals," he answered tightly. "When they find out what's happened they'll lock me up for life, and frankly, I'd rather be dead."
"What?"
"Would I have drawn attention to myself by taking you hostage if I'd had any choice? I killed Logan at the prison earlier today. I knew he was going to talk. We couldn't allow that to happen."
Rage shot through Martha. "You bastard!" she screamed, shoving him as hard as she could. Christian had not expected her reaction and was knocked off balance; before he could recover himself she was running toward Aaron. Whitcomb spun around, raised his gun arm—
Cardona and Mitchell fired together and watched as the last connection to the Logan conspiracy fell dead.
Aaron held Martha tightly, not sure which of them was shaking more. "Martha. Thank God," he muttered. "It's all over. You're okay."
Martha willed herself not to collapse. "He shot Charles, Aaron! He told me he shot Charles. Call the prison now. Please!"
Aaron asked no further questions, but pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed. Cardona, having checked to make sure Whitcomb was dead, moved to stand next to them.
"This is Agent Aaron Pierce of the Secret Service. We have news that Charles Logan was attacked—" he paused. "Thank you," he said quietly, and passed the phone to Jon.
"They found him in the library, Martha. He's dead."
"Oh, God," was all Martha could manage. "It's my fault—"
"No, Martha! It wasn't!"
But Martha had collapsed.
