CHAPTER 67
Rowan Anderson’s apartment
Washington, DC
Agent Rowan Anderson had been forced to surrender her passport and was confined to her apartment overlooking the Georgetown campus. Technically, she wasn’t under arrest—yet—but “pending investigation.”
But Special Agent in Charge Rowan Anderson of the United States Secret Service was far from the typical professional. She was a traitor.
Though the idea of spending a good bit of the rest of her life in a concrete box in Colorado made her shudder, she had more pressing concerns.
She was less afraid of life in the United States Penitentiary Administrative Maximum (ADX) Florence facility—the same supermax facility where Robert Hanssen served a life sentence for espionage and conspiracy and Ted Kaczynski for fatal bombings—than she was of dying at the hands of Haracat al Marrak or one of his followers.
Would they stab her, shoot her, lop off her head with a rusty scimitar?
Her fear-fueled misery was making her physically sick.
Once again she ran to the bathroom and vomited.
Rowan Anderson felt no guilt and no remorse over Coleman Harrison. But had she bitten off too much? Wiping her face with a damp towel, she looked in the mirror and felt fresh tears building. She just wanted to survive another day.
The man in Paris had fucked her over. He’d ended communications.
That could mean only one thing: She was expendable—especially now that she was the subject of a “pending investigation.” It was entirely possible that she’d already been replaced by others within her own agency, ready on his command to pull the trigger on the president.
And since she couldn’t move it anywhere, the five million tax-free dollars parked in her Swiss bank account might as well be sitting in a box on the moon. The Feds were surely tracking all her assets, looking for the smoking gun.
She willed her mind to a brighter place, to the glimmers of hope she’d felt when she first met Nat Phillips.
She liked Nat. He was a good guy. The kiss they’d shared that night at his house in Nantucket had stirred more passion and desire than she’d felt in years, maybe ever. She had been so close to the happily-ever-after chapter of her life when the entire plan went to shit.
Rowan’s phone buzzed and she glanced at the screen. Nat again—for about the tenth time. He always left sweet, positive messages filled with both concern and earnest enthusiasm. She just couldn’t bring herself to answer his calls.
In a parallel universe, she’d tell him everything that had happened. She could make up some fantastic story of blackmail, or a spectacularly botched deep-cover black op, and he would not only understand, but fix it.
Nat was definitely a fixer. In that distant galaxy far, far away, he would do his thing and work his magic, and then she could start again.
She stared out the window at the Georgetown campus. She’d always loved running through the main quadrangle. The energy of the students and the beauty of the Georgian-style architecture was invigorating. Happier times.
Though Rowan hadn’t been to Mass in years, she still stopped by the Dahlgren Chapel of the Sacred Heart whenever she could.
Even a few minutes inside the university’s spiritual heart made her feel good.
The brick masonry structure was quiet and welcoming—a place where she always felt safe, grounded, secure.
Standing in her apartment and looking at the campus, her thoughts raced with the beginnings of a plan.
The chapel was safe. The church was safe.
She could go there and be protected—just as Noriega had with US troops closing in on him in Panama: He had rushed to the Papal Nuncio, Archbishop Laboa, for protection.
In fact, Noriega had been preparing to request political asylum in some other country when the Delta Force guys broke him by blasting AC/DC anthems for seventy-two hours nonstop.
The Apostolic Nunciature in DC was the diplomatic mission to the Holy See. It was a total Hail Mary, but if she could get there, maybe she could buy herself some time. Rowan Anderson was not about to be broken by some thugs.
She began to feel a little better. She glanced at the Glock 17 on the kitchen counter.
That made her feel safe too. She picked it up and sat in her overstuffed chair facing the window.
Looking out at the campus lights, she made a pledge to her future: I will escape to some place where Haracat al Marrak dares not follow me.
She felt herself getting sleepy. Her gaze was locked, trancelike, on Healy Hall’s 200-foot-high clock tower. When she could no longer fight the urge to close her eyes, she let herself drift off into the darkness.
* * *
At three in the morning, Rowan woke up, still facing the clock tower. It was all the sign she needed to get herself back on the offensive. Rowan Anderson was not going to Colorado for the rest of her life; she was going to kill the president and collect her reward.
She grabbed her phone and sent a text message: URGENT. COME SEE ME ASAP.