“You might want to ask the girl to leave the room,” he said, the words residing somewhere between an order and a suggestion.
It probably said something about Adam’s mental state that he chose to interpret it as a suggestion. He didn’t tell me I could stay, but he didn’t tell me to leave, either.
It probably said something about my mental state that I chose to interpret that as an invitation to come closer.
The folder the president had handed Adam didn’t have much in it: a single photograph. Ivy was holding a newspaper—today’s newspaper. There was a single strip of duct tape over her mouth.
And strapped to her chest was a bomb.
“When?” Adam said. That was all he got out, one word.
“It arrived via e-mail this morning,” the president replied. “We have our top analysts working on it. We’ll find her.”
“And if you don’t?” I asked, taking a step forward.
A photograph like that would have been accompanied by a ransom demand. A deadline. A threat.
“Kostas told you what he wants,” I said, trying not to think about how I had felt, strapped to a chair, watching the time I had left slip away. “He wants you to pardon his son.”
President Nolan neither confirmed nor denied my statement. He kept his gaze trained on Adam. “What Ivy’s captor does or does not want is immaterial, Captain Keyes. We’re taking care of this.”
The use of Adam’s military title was a reminder that we weren’t on even footing in this room. This was the president, and when it came to how he dealt with threats, this wasn’t a democracy.
We didn’t get a vote.
“We’ll find Kostas,” the president said. “We’ll find Ivy. The important thing, in the meantime, is for you to back off. Whoever Bodie has working on this, I want them out. Now. This has become a matter of national security.”
“If anything happens to Ivy,” Adam began.
“It won’t,” the president said, in that voice that said Trust me, believe me, follow me.
I didn’t trust him. I didn’t believe him. I wasn’t following, not if it meant sitting back and waiting for that bomb to go off.
“If anything does happen to Ivy,” Adam said, “it won’t be good for this administration.” He paused. His tone was respectful. It was the pause that made it seem like a threat. “If Ivy doesn’t get to a computer in the next twenty-four hours, it won’t be good for anyone.”
The president stood. “We’re working on that, too.”
Meaning what? I thought. That he’s working on finding a way to dismantle Ivy’s fail-safe? To make sure that whatever secrets her program is set to release don’t get released?
“Have you even looked at the case?” I asked the president. I could hear the strain in my own voice. “Kostas’s son,” I said, forcing myself to continue. “Have you looked at his appeal? Adam said he had a brain injury—”
“Miss Kendrick,” the president said. “Tess.” His expression was grave. “I care for your sister. So does my wife. You have this administration’s sympathy, our regrets, and our promise that we are doing everything we can to get Ivy home.”
Not everything.
His next words proved that. “But the United States does not negotiate with terrorists—and neither do I.”
CHAPTER 61
If push came to shove, if the president couldn’t find Ivy before time ran out—he wasn’t going to negotiate. He was going to let Kostas blow her up.
It should have been me. I should have been the one Kostas was holding captive. Ivy should have been the one standing here with Adam, trying to find a way around the president’s hard line. It should have been me. It was supposed to be me.
“Go,” I told Adam, swallowing back the urge to say all of that out loud. “I can’t do anything, but maybe you can.”
What Adam was—or wasn’t—to me could wait.
Ivy’s the one who should be having this conversation with you, he’d said. We’ll tell you everything, I promise—
“Go,” I told Adam again, my voice sharper this time, louder.
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” he said.
“So don’t leave me alone,” I said, trying not to replay the president’s words over and over again in my mind. “I hear Vivvie has a bodyguard now.”
? ? ?
Vivvie’s suite at the Roosevelt Hotel was impressive. There were massive bedrooms, a sitting room, a living room, a state-of-the-art kitchen.
“What does your aunt do?” I asked Vivvie, ignoring the elephant in the room. Or maybe the elephants, plural.
“I’m not really sure,” Vivvie replied. “She works overseas. Or worked. Or . . .” Vivvie punctuated that sentence with a shrug.
I wondered if Vivvie was thinking, like I was, of my first day at Hardwicke, when I’d had to ask her what Ivy did for a living.