Chapter 29
Chapter 29
W e left the two idiots hobbled, gagged, and tied back-to-back, which they did not appreciate—and they were quite adept at expressing their dis-appreciation. As I boarded the plane, my phone rang. I did not recognize the number. I sat, answered the call, and pressed Speaker, allowing Camp and Clay to listen in.
“Murph?”
I recognized the voice. “Speaking.”
“It’s Waylon Maynard. Is this a bad time?”
It did not escape me that I was receiving a phone call from maybe the most powerful man in DC. A man with no enemies. “Hello, sir. How’s the vice president?”
“Not good.” Maynard cleared his throat. “He’s a good man. Maybe the best. But this might be more than he can handle. And Esther...” A pause. “Aaron filled me in on your and his conversation. What can I do to help? Any resource you need.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. To be honest, something in me did not trust it. “Sir?”
I heard a chair squeak. “When we spoke, I knew he had shared with you what he would not share with either his team or certainly the press. So I pressed him. Told him I would exhaust myself to help. We need him. The country needs him.”
I looked at Camp. Then Clay. Clay shook his head. Prison had hard-wired into Clay an ability to read people. And Clay’s face told me he did not like what he was reading in Maynard’s voice. He kept shaking his head slowly side to side. I’d never had any reason to suspect Maynard, but staring at that phone, I discovered that my distrust-meter was dinging loudly. I just didn’t want Maynard to know that. I wanted to keep him on the line and make him feel invited into my confidence. Make him feel that he was a needed part of the team. The solution. I needed to make him feel like I had no reason not to tell him everything. I also knew I had to be careful. If he was in any way not what or who he pretended to be, then we were about to play a game of chess—and he’d been playing it a lot longer. He could detect a fraud a mile away. I also didn’t need him to feel baited. I needed him to feel brought into the fold. I decided I had to give him something small but realistic. Something that might trigger a reaction. “Sir, the thermals in the hallway only gave us facial recognition on three of the men. One led us to Maui. The second, here to Jerusalem. We’re tracking the third down now, but no leads.”
“Did you learn anything in Maui?”
“Only that they’re well financed, professional, and arm’s length. Totally clean. They were hired for a job, did it, and now they’re probably on to the next.” Then I threw this in there and I can’t really tell you why. More of a hunch. “Sir, I know the media pushed the ‘bow out now and we let them go’ demand letter, but I think that’s disingenuous. I think it’s a head fake to spend resources. Aaron has no competitor. No one to fill the void. This isn’t about the presidency.”
“I follow, and the team here tends to agree. But what are you suggesting?”
“Ultimately, this comes down to money. Whoever hired them wants more. A lot more. And, given his position and favorable ratings, they know they can put the screws to Aaron and get it. He’ll have donors flocking, falling all over themselves to fund the ransom, get the girls back, and make him look like a loving dad caught in an impossible crossfire—which will only make him look more human. More likable. I’m anticipating a second demand letter soon, which will also stipulate that if he makes it or the dollar amount of the demand public, he’ll never see the girls again. He’ll need you to help rally the donors. Dial for dollars.”
“I agree. How much are you anticipating?”
“Sir, even his critics believe he’ll win in a landslide, which means he’ll have people coming out of the woodwork to support him. You would know far better than I, but if a presidential race today costs near a billion, I think we could be looking at half that.”
“Murph, you’re spot-on. I’m on it. I’ll do what I can.”
“Thank you, sir.” While I knew the answer to the next question, I asked it because if Maynard was in any way untrue, or not who we all believed him to be, I didn’t want him to think Ashley and I were in as close communication as we were. I wanted him to think I was an officer following orders, not a friend helping a close friend at any cost. To help with this, I referred to Ashley by his position, not his name, giving the impression that Ashley kept me at arm’s length. “Sir, where’s the vice president now?”
“Georgia.”
“He’s with Esther?”
“Yes, and his team is scouring the ground.”
“Sir, I want to be careful not to unduly burden the vice president. I would feel better if I could communicate details with you and your team.”
“This is my personal cell. Use it anytime.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I hung up, and Camp shook his head. “What was all that about?”
“I don’t know, but—”
Clay cut me off. “Something stinks.”
I nodded.
Camp closed the airplane door. “Where to?”
“Georgia. We need a face-to-face with Aaron.”
Camp picked up on the meaning behind my assertion. “You concerned?”
“I’m concerned Aaron’s compromised.”
He agreed. “If they can circumvent the Secret Service detail and his security system and disappear without a trace, then you can pretty much bet the farm they’re in his phone.”