Vice President Callan Sloane was in a large modern kitchen overlooking the gardens, sitting at a Carrera marble countertop, a large cup of tea in front of her, The Washington Post in her hands. She looked completely relaxed, at ease, as if she was used to a bunch of FBI agents interrupting her breakfast every day.
“Thank you, Tony. Hello, come in.” Introductions, handshakes, then, “May I get you coffee? Tea? Tony, could you ask Maisie to bring the trays into the dining room? And I’m sure you can smell the cinnamon buns, they’ll be out of the oven in a couple of minutes. Follow me, we’ll talk in there.”
The few times Nicholas had seen the vice president on TV, he’d thought her impressive, an in-charge type, probably scary competent. In person, though, he realized not only did she look like the ruler of her world, she was also a stunner—pale skin, blond hair without a single strand of gray, and a stubborn chin. Nicholas knew she was fifty-seven, but she didn’t look it. Unlike them, she was wearing black silk slacks and a cream blouse with small mother-of-pearl buttons down the front, and a choker of graduated pearls around her neck.
She looked expensive and completely in charge, ready to greet the leader of a country or three FBI agents. For a moment, she reminded Nicholas of his ex-wife, Pamela Carruthers, always together, always ready to stride out on the stage, ready for any situation. He remembered the card Pam had sent him upon his graduating from the FBI Academy. Showed a dog with a wagging tail, enthusiastically digging a deep hole. She’d signed it “Your Pam,” whatever that meant—well, he knew what it meant, particularly after the dinner they’d shared in New York. He shook his head, paid attention.
They followed Vice President Sloane into the dining room, wallpapered in the same creams and grays, with draperies that nearly touched the ceiling above the windows, making the room seem taller than it was. Nicholas knew his mom would really like the rosewood table, large enough to seat twelve people, without extra leaves.
Mike sat down, wondered who else had sat in this exact chair, looked over at Nicholas. He looked like he belonged, like he assumed a servant would quietly appear at his elbow and pour him a glass of wine. And Savich, his face showing nothing but polite interest, taking in his surroundings with a professional’s eye.
Once they were served, the vice president got right to it.
“Thank you for coming on such short notice. I decided last night to let the media know Vanessa Grace is alive. I did not use her real name, but obviously Matthew Spenser will know it’s her.
“It’s imperative we draw him out as quickly as possible. I’m counting on his seeing the media’s announcement, and believing that the woman he believed he’d murdered had miraculously escaped. I am personally amazed she survived.”
She turned to Mike. “Agent Caine? Agent Savich tells me you wanted to be bait, but the CIA will be using one of their own agents. Do you believe as I do that Matthew Spenser will come to the hospital to try to kill her again?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Mike said. “Given what we heard Vanessa saying on the videotapes, Matthew Spenser felt something for her, at the very least he believed to his soul she was there for him, sharing his goals, sharing his missions. Her betrayal hit him very hard, sent him over the edge enough to kill his best friend, Ian McGuire, and believe he’d killed her. So yes, I believe he’ll come and he’ll see killing her as righteous.
“Also, Vanessa told us Spenser is a news junkie, so if he’s anywhere near a screen, he will see the announcement, and then he will make plans.”
“Her uncle Carl Grace agrees,” Callan said. “Anything else?”
Mike said, “Ma’am, we also believe you need to talk the president into canceling the Yorktown event.”