Chapter 24 Beck #2
Aubrey Taylor is not the kind of man I’ll ever relate to.
He is selfish and needlessly cruel. He takes pleasure in inflicting pain and will do anything for power.
I don’t know what it’s like to be any of those things, to do any of those things, so I can’t even begin to make sense of his mindset.
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save Selene and Cal, nothing I wouldn’t give to see them happy and healthy.
I would rip a hole in the sky, dig a tunnel to hell with my bare hands, end my own fucking life, before I let someone lay a finger on either of their heads, so it makes no sense to me that he would allow Sutton to be a pawn in a power struggle he went on to lose.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “But it looks like he learned his lesson because a month after Sutton’s death, he’s back at the table with Qatar and the military base is all but guaranteed to happen.”
Cal folds his arms, stepping back to observe the altered timeline. “The only question now is who stands to gain the most from that? If we figure that out, then we’ve got our third man.”
A week passes with us exploring and eliminating possibilities in our hunt for the point at the top of the power triangle Cordelia and Aubrey are a part of.
We turn our focus to the forces outside of the U.S.
first, knowing that owning an American President would be worth a lot to many international players.
That line of thought gets pushed aside quickly when we factor in the military base angle because we can’t figure out what another country would stand to gain from it.
Qatari leaders, of course, remain on the list simply because of the circumstances, but there’s no real motive there since we’re already their allies and it’ll be their country paying for the building of the base, not ours.
When Cal makes that point, the conversation changes, shifting from international considerations to domestic speculation that centers around the one percent because the richest people are always willing to do the foulest things to get richer.
From there, we turn our attention to the list of billionaires Selene compiled when the most important question to us was who could afford to buy not one, but two, spots within the Secret Service and have those fraudulent agents put in charge of the President’s detail.
That’s where we find him. The third man.
The mastermind. Cordelia’s benefactor and Aubrey’s boogey man.
Phineas Gambit.
Cal stares at his picture displayed on Selene’s computer screen and sighs incredulously.
“That’s the man who was with Cordelia at Dahlia’s,” he says, leaning in for a closer look. “He’s got more gray in his temples now, but those spooky ass green eyes are the same.”
“No wonder Aubrey was so scared when he showed up.”
Cal snorts a laugh, returning to his spot on the couch.
We’ve been up since five this morning, and now, nearly twelve hours later, neither one of us is showing any signs of slowing down.
Selene and Monique were up with us, but they left the living room within minutes of each other, both yawning and mumbling about naps.
After the early dinner Cal put together—a mushroom pasta reminiscent of the one he made when we were in Texas with Selene—I was ready to succumb to a post-meal nap as well, but I decided to work instead.
Now, I’m extremely glad that I did.
We’ve been at this for days with nothing to really show for it.
Every moment that passed with Leland still on the loose and no tangible proof that the third man existed felt like the tightening of a noose around my neck.
With Cal’s confident identification of Gambit, I can feel the rope slackening just a little.
“What do we know about him?” Cal asks just as I’m clicking the link to the man’s biography on what I’m sure is one of the many company websites he’s featured on.
I scroll past another picture of him, scanning the paragraphs underneath that lay out what I’m sure Gambit believes is a pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps origin story but in reality is nothing more than a tale of a boy who grew up rich and got a loan from his daddy that he used to become even more rich by starting a slew of businesses that are all linked below the last paragraph.
“Gambit Construction,” Cal says the company name just as I click the link, opening the web page in a new tab.
I guide the mouse across the screen, scanning for any pertinent information.
What jumps out at me is the section near the center of the page.
I highlight the section, making sure Cal sees where I am when I start reading.
“Gambit’s Federal Division has worked on many government contracts for projects such as dams, wind farms, transit systems. We also provide military construction services… ”
Cal grins. “We got him.”
Disbelief bubbles in my chest, and I shake my head, wondering how such a complex web of events could come down to something as simple as a fucking government contract.
Granted, due to the scope of the proposed project, we’re talking about a multi-billion dollar contract, but still.
It feels ridiculous to know that a woman has lost her life all because Phineas Gambit wanted a job he probably could have gotten anyway if he had just thrown his hat in the ring.
That probably hadn’t even occurred to him though, to earn something based on merit alone. I’m sure in his warped mind it was faster and easier to put a man you owned in the most powerful office in the land and force your lackey to look after him and make sure that he did your bidding.
It’s certainly more lucrative.
Whatever he spent getting Aubrey into the Oval and keeping his hold on him, he’ll make back tenfold over the course of his term or terms. Because of course it won’t stop at the Qatari military base.
There will always be something else. A waste treatment plant to build in Idaho.
An oil field to restore in Kuwait. A reactor that needs to be enclosed in the Ukraine.
An endless stream of money all flowing in Gambit’s direction.
Disgusted, I close the computer. “We need to tell Selene.”
Cal follows me up the stairs to the room we’ve been sharing.
The curtains are drawn, and the TV is on, the volume low but not inaudible.
My intention is to head straight for the bed and scoop her up in my arms, but I stop short when I see Jordan’s face.
She’s behind the podium I’ve seen her stand at so many times before.
The Presidential seal hovering above her head and a slew of reporters and cameras at her feet.
She should look at home up there, but she seems nervous.
She has a white-knuckled grip on the edges of the stand that matches the pale skin of her face and shadows underneath her sunken eyes.
I glance at Cal, who’s closest to the nightstand where the remote is. “Turn it up.”
He ups the volume just a bit, so as not to wake Selene, and I inch closer to the TV to make sure I’m hearing everything.
The press corps is relentless today, hounding her with question after question about Leland Marsh and the approval of Qatar’s military plans, and despite looking ready to go home and crawl into bed, Jordan fields each one with ease.
She doesn’t stumble until they start to ask about Selene.
“It’s been days since First Lady Taylor has been seen in public,” one reporter says. “Is she sick?”
“No, Mrs. Taylor is not sick. Next ques—”
“Then has she gone into hiding, perhaps been placed on lockdown due to fear of Leland Marsh targeting her?”
Jordan’s eye twitches. “As I’ve stated before, we have no reason to believe Mr. Marsh is a threat to Mrs. Taylor, and we have every faith in the U.S. Marshall’s ability to capture him before he can harm anyone. Next question.” Hands fly up, and she points to someone on her left. “You.”
“It’s been reported several times that Mrs. Taylor has moved out of the White House and her marriage to President Taylor is once again on shaky ground. Can you speak to the validity of that?”
“There is no validity to those reports,” Jordan replies, forcing a brittle smile as she selects another reporter from the center, clearly hoping someone will throw her a bone and ask a question she won’t have to lie to answer.
A spark illuminates her eye when she makes her next choice. “How can I help you, Mr. Landry?”
“Fucking Landry,” I mutter under my breath, remembering the one time I met the man speaking on the television in person.
He’d crashed the last real date Aubrey had taken Selene on and been bribed by Jordan to kill a story about Sutton still working for the campaign after she was reportedly fired.
I guess his reward is the occasional spot in the White House press corps.
“Is President Taylor looking forward to his golfing trip this weekend?” Landry asks, a smile evident in his voice even though I can’t see his face. He must be proud of himself for offering Jordan a reprieve in the midst of the frenzy.
Her appreciation is evident in the sinking of her shoulders. “Yes, he is ready for a much needed break. I hear the weather in Florida is going to be lovely as well.”
Unfortunately for Jordan and Landry, the reporter who asked about Selene going into hiding is starved, and she came here ready to make anything, including Landry’s marshmallow of a question, into a meal.
“Will the First Lady be joining President Taylor on his trip?”
Annoyance dances across Jordan’s features as she faces the woman again. “No, Mrs. Taylor will not be in attendance. She is not a fan of golf.”
“But it’s their anniversary,” the reporter says. “Why are they spending their wedding anniversary apart? I thought you said there was no validity to the claims that their marriage was on the rocks.”
Jordan’s lips part, but no sound comes out for several long seconds.
“Is she short circuiting?”
Cal has been so quiet, I forgot he was even in the room.
“That’s what it looks like.”
Finally, she finds her voice again, but when she starts to speak, I think it might have been better for her to have stayed quiet. “Oh my God, Freda. Will you get off it? The President and First Lady are fine. Everything is fine! Everything is fine. Everything. Is. Fine.”
The rest of the room is stunned into silence, and the same shocked quietness sweeps over me and Cal.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen Jordan this way.
It’s like she’s a rock and the reporter, who’s name I still don’t know, is a hammer, cracking her over the head until she breaks apart and reveals whatever is at her center.
“Why aren’t the Taylors spending their anniversary together?
” the reporter asks, voice raised to ensure she’s heard over Jordan’s continued screeching.
“Is Selene Taylor in hiding because Leland Marsh is a threat to her safety? The people in this country have a right to know the answer these questions. The well-being of the First couple is a matter of national security,” she reminds everyone in the room.
Most of the other reporters can be seen nodding, but none of them speak, letting her continue hounding Jordan.
“Has Mr. Marsh made any attempts to contact Mrs. Taylor?”
“I don’t know,” Jordan whispers, sagging against the podium.
Flashes from several cameras light up the room, documenting the unraveling of a once formidable woman. Still, the reporter keeps going.
“Where will Mrs. Taylor be this weekend if not in Florida with her husband?”
Jordan raises a hand to her face, fingers shaking as she wipes sweat from her brow.
“I don’t know,” she says again. The reporter stands, allowing the camera to capture her side profile.
I’m impressed and proud to find that it’s a young Black woman with a short, puffy afro and earrings shaped like Africa swinging from her ears.
“Will she be in DC? At their home in McLean? Will she be out of the country or back home in Georgia visiting her family?”
“I don’t—”
“Where is Mrs. Taylor right now, Jordan?” She shakes her head, but the reporter isn’t having it.
“She hasn’t been seen in days. All her public appearances have been canceled with no explanation.
It is your job to explain to the American people what is happening with the leader of this country and his family, so you need to tell us right now, Ms. St. James, where is the First Lady? ”
Jordan stands up suddenly, mustering all of her strength to run away from the podium just after she shouts, “I DON’T KNOW!” a final time.