Page 69 of The Night Of
I ran my fingers through his hair. It was loose after the long night. Strands fell over his forehead. “I promised you I’d find the truth of what happened.”
“You did. You kept your promise. I wasn’t ready to hear it.”
There was nothing I could say to make this better. Nothing I could do. I didn’t pretend there was. I kissed his forehead, his temple, his lips. Lifted his hands and kissed his fingers, each one of them. “We have to get ready. It starts soon.”
Jonathan leaned into me, resting his forehead against mine as he squeezed my hands. “I don’t know if I can do this.”
“You can.” He was the only one who could. “I know you can, Jonathan.”
His eyes squeezed closed. His breath painted my face, anguish and agony and heartbreak in each terrible flutter. “For Steven,” he whispered. “For him, and for you.”
* * *
One hour later,I sat in the back of Director Silva’s blacked-out SUV on the flight line at Joint Base Andrews, watching as the plane taxied to a halt outside the reserved hangar. A line of dark SUVs waited for the arrival, six of us in all. Secret Service agents stood posts at the base of the ladder, and Nguyen himself stood at the end of the red carpet, his hands clasped behind his back. He greeted the arrival with a smile and led him straight to our SUV, pulling open the back door and gesturing him inside.
Prime Minister Andrew Rees slid in.
He froze halfway down the bench seat, staring at me and Director Silva. His eyes bounced between us, then darted to the door. Nguyen slammed it shut, and from the front seat, Keith locked Rees in.
“What is the meaning of this?” Rees protested. “Where is my team? Where are my people?”
Silva held up his badge. “Mr. Prime Minister, we’d like to speak with you about the night of President Baker’s murder.”
Rees went ghost-white, his already-pale English complexion blanching further. “I have nothing to say to you. I am covered under diplomatic immunity!”
“Well, actually, we looked that up, Mr. Rees,” Silva replied. “The Foreign Sovereign Immunities Act only applies to official states, not individuals. As it turns out, heads of state donotenjoy immunity from jurisdiction under international law, or from crimes committed that violate international law. Just ask Qaddafi about that. No, Mr. Rees, the legal protections afforded to a head of state in a foreign country are a complicated mixture of functional immunity, common law, and personal immunity. Functional immunity will grant immunity for any crimes committed while exercising the powers of your office, but personal immunity is really a tradition, a formality extended between nations. Now, I’m pretty sure murdering President Steven Baker isn’t covered under the office of the prime minister—”
“I did not murder Steven!”
“But you know who did,” I said, taking over for Silva. “You didn’t protest when we said the president had been murdered.”
He blinked, his eyes bulging as his mouth compressed, his lips disappearing into a thin, white line. His hands gripped his knees. He started to tremble.
“Nice watch.” I lifted the sleeve of his jacket. “Bremont, right? You gave Felicity Baker a Bremont watch, too, didn’t you?”
Rees held on to the tough-guy act for another six seconds before he sagged, slumping forward with a giant exhale. He buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Do I get a lawyer?”
“Let’s chat for a bit,” Silva said. He knocked on the privacy glass, signaling to Keith, and a minute later, the SUV began to roll westward, back to DC.
Seventeen
“Felicity.”Jonathan held open his arms as the First Lady entered the Oval Office. She hugged him, pressed her face against his neck.
“Jonathan.” She stepped back, taking his hands in her own. “How are you?”
Jonathan said nothing. He didn’t have to act to play the part of a broken man. Devastation clung to him, smothering the air of the Oval.
“Please.” He led her to the couches again, taking the same seat he’d been in the day before. A pot of coffee waited for them. He poured her a cup. His hands shook.
“Jonathan.” She laid her hands over his, steadying him. “I’ll get that.”
“You’re more together than I am.” Jonathan huffed out a single, bereft chuckle as he sat back. He scrubbed his trembling palm down his face. A muscle in his jaw clenched and bulged, clenched and bulged.
“It’s the medication.” Felicity sipped her coffee and set the cup down. “Dr. Fernandez prescribed me something. Just enough to get me moving, so I’m not wallowing in the agony. Maybe you could ask for something, too? It’s helped me be able to… distance myself from the immensity of the pain.”
Jonathan nodded.
“Are you ready for the eulogy?”
