Page 56 of The Night Of
Aspen sat at the top of a gentle hill, surrounded by thick woods with fingers of gravel and asphalt roads meandering into the trees. The First Lady had followed the main road west, looped behind Witch Hazel, and then been picked up, after Baker’s murder, on the path that led from Aspen past Dogwood and all the way to Hickory. On that loop, she would have passed right across the pool deck.
It could have been her that I’d seen on the deck.
But who was with her? Who would have met Felicity Baker at midnight at Camp David? Who had taken her into his arms and held her? Pressed his lips to the top of her head?
Who was in Witch Hazel at the time? There were twenty-five Secret Service agents who could fit the profile of the large man I’d spotted, but who among them was fucking dumb enough to involve themselves with a protectee? Other than me, of course.
I flipped through the pages of the movement logs on my phone, scanning for Nguyen’s name, for the names of any of my fellow agents, any agent who had been out of place—
23:40: Russian President Vladimir Poletov and aide Georgi Morozov leave Dogwood to smoke cigarettes.
Twenty minutes before Baker was murdered, the Russian president and his top aide were out of their cabin. My fingers curled against the table’s wood surface.
At the same time, the First Lady was stepping out of Aspen, heading west. She hadn’t yet made the turn toward the first tee.
23:55: UK Prime Minister Andrew Rees leaves Birch alone. Informs guard he is taking a walk. Proceeds southeast across presidential drive in the direction of tee #1.
Andrew Rees. The First Lady’s brother-in-law.
Damn it, the times lined up for all three of them. Andrew Rees and Felicity Baker would have arrived at the pool deck within minutes of each other, just after midnight. Just in time for me to spy their rendezvous—if it was their rendezvous—and how the First Lady had fallen into his hold, how his arms had gone around her. How his lips had landed on her hair and he’d stroked her back.
But Vladimir Poletov could also have made it to the pool in that same window. The First Lady and the Russian president?
The First Lady had been picked up by the Secret Service a hundred feet from Dogwood, the Russians’ cabin. Where were Poletov and Morozov? Everything got chaotic six minutes after midnight, when the logs recorded the gunshot. Nothing was clear. I showed up a lot in the three minutes that followed. Entering Aspen. Taking command. Calling for the medevac. Ignoring the director.
There was nothing at all about where Andrew Rees and Vladimir Poletov were.
Andrew Rees. Felicity Baker. Vladimir Poletov and his body man, Georgi Morozov, all outside their cabins and on the move when Baker was murdered.
There was no such thing as coincidence.
* * *
I didn’t wantto take the big chair, but Jonathan had insisted. “Sit, Sean,” he’d said. “If you’re going to make the call, you need to be on camera.”
So I had, grumbling about it. I wasn’t made for the presidential chair. I wasn’t the kind of man that could ever sit behind the Resolute desk, and I wasn’t going to pretend I thought I belonged there.
The gleam in Jonathan’s eyes, though, made me pause. His gaze raked over me, drinking me in from head to toe. In another situation, I might have pulled him into my lap, made him straddle me as I opened his shirt and bit down on his tight pec.
But Mrs. Reilly was connecting a secure video call from the Oval Office to Number 10 Downing Street, and we didn’t have that kind of time.
I straightened my tie, tugged at my cuffs. Jonathan stepped out of the frame. It was just us in the Oval. Jonathan only closed the doors when I was in there with him.
Were tongues wagging about that? Probably. I didn’t give a fuck.
The video screen in front of me winked on, and the presidential seal was replaced by live video of Andrew Rees. He looked expectant, and exhausted. Dark circles drooped beneath his mahogany eyes. He was a tall man, like Steven and Jonathan, but Rees was broader, larger in the shoulders. He was built like a rugby player, and he had the curly hair and the askew nose to pull off the look. He’d been called ruggedly handsome in the British press, a salt-and-pepper hunk. Unlike many British men, he’d aged well, seeming to become more refined with every decade.
Now, he just looked haggard. Used up. As if he’d been ridden hard and left out to dry.
He had lost his brother-in-law only two days earlier.
Rees scowled when he saw me. “Who are you? I thought Jonathan wanted to talk to me about Steven’s funeral.”
“President Sharp had to step away for a moment, Mr. Prime Minister,” I lied. “I didn’t want to keep you on hold.”
Rees frowned. “And you are?”
“Special Agent Sean Avery, United States Secret Service.”
