True Fiction (Ian Ludlow Thrillers #1)(51)

“You can do that,” Cross said, “but it’s not necessary. We don’t need to find Ludlow.”

“We don’t?” Victoria said. “Why not?”

Cross pointed to the message on the media wall. “Because he’s coming for us.”

Seth’s phone rang. He picked it up.

“Yes?” Seth listened for a moment, nodded, then turned to Cross. “Senator Holbrook is here to see you.”

The chairman of the Senate Intelligence Committee couldn’t have picked a worse time for an unexpected visit. But Holbrook wouldn’t have come for a face-to-face unless it was a high-priority issue.

“Send him to my office,” Cross said.

Seth relayed the instruction as Cross walked out, slamming the door behind him. He took his time going down the corridor so he could get a grip on his anger and force the color out of his face. He reached his office door at the same moment as the portly senator, who smiled broadly when he saw Cross.

“Good morning, Will.”

“I’m glad to see you in such a good mood, Senator.” They shook hands and Cross opened his office door. “At least now I know you didn’t come down here because of a crisis.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Holbrook said, stepping into the room. “It’s a national crisis, and your decisive handling of it, that brings me here.”

Cross closed the door. “You can speak candidly. This office is totally secure.”

“I would hope so,” Holbrook said. “I just left the Oval Office. The president is very impressed with how you wrapped up this whole ugly business in less than forty-eight hours. It’s phenomenal. You just bought him a second term.”

“We’re glad to be of service.” Cross sat down in one of his guest chairs and Holbrook took the couch. The senator was so large that he needed the entire couch for himself.

“The president is going to show his appreciation by signing a classified executive order tonight giving Blackthorn control of the CIA’s covert operations,” Holbrook said. “Healy and the White House counsel will inform you in person when that happens.”

The day hadn’t gone totally to shit after all. “I’m surprised Healy is willing to do that.”

“We’re throwing him a big, fat carrot. The CIA and Belgian intelligence will share the credit for resolving this mess. Healy will resign in a few months as a national hero and Belgian intelligence won’t be seen as a joke anymore. It’s good politics, Will. You understand.”

Cross didn’t care who got the bragging rights. He got the personal glory of taking over the CIA and, in doing so, pulling off perhaps the greatest covert action in the history of espionage, not that anyone would know about it but him. At least during his lifetime. He could live with that.

“I’m only interested in what’s best for our country,” Cross said.

“I appreciate that, Will. The president will address the nation tomorrow morning, tell them that the skies are safe again and then he’ll start bombing Syria into the Stone Age. That means more Pentagon business for you, too.” Holbrook winked at Cross. “This is your lucky day.”

Perhaps it was but right now what came to his mind were the words fuck you written in rubble in the wilds of Nevada.



Tarzana, California. July 21. 9:00 a.m. Pacific Standard Time.

In 1919, Edgar Rice Burroughs used the money that he’d made writing Tarzan books to buy a big spread in the San Fernando Valley that he named for the Lord of the Jungle. He called it Tarzana. But a few years later he got bored in the country, moved to Beverly Hills, and subdivided Tarzana. But the name stuck, even though there wasn’t anything about the neighborhood that evoked the character or the books.

Ronnie had tried to change that. He bought a house in a Tarzana cul-de-sac, tore it down, and wanted to build in its place a massive tree house with rope vines that he could use for swinging around his jungle property in a loincloth. But his plans were shot down by uptight neighbors and a gutless planning commission. So Ronnie ended up building a typical Spanish Mediterranean McMansion with a lushly landscaped yard behind a high cinder-block wall topped with red ceramic tiles.

Margo pulled up to the gate, her front bumper nearly touching the elaborately curled and entwined wrought iron so Ronnie, sitting in the back seat, could roll down his window and reach out to the security keypad on a driver’s side post. Beyond the gate, the cobblestone driveway curved up through immaculately maintained grounds to the mansion and its six-car garage.

Ronnie typed his code into the keypad. “Welcome to the house that Frankencop bought.”

“Frankencop?” Margo said. “What is that?”

“A TV show,” Ian said. “It ran for two seasons on Fox.”

“The best parts of twelve dead cops resurrected as one legendary hero,” Ronnie intoned dramatically, performing the lines that played over the main titles. “The opening narration still moves me.”

“Me too,” Margo said. “It moves my breakfast right up my throat.”

Ian peered out at the manicured lawns, perfectly trimmed trees, and blooming flower beds as the gate yawned open. “The place looks great. Why do you pay to maintain it if you don’t live here anymore?”

“I have to maintain the property value. I don’t trust banks or currency, because they’re controlled by the New World Order so I keep a large percentage of my wealth in real estate.”