In the public-relations office, she walked through the closet to her private room. She spared a moment to wash her face before activating the Mariel glamour. The tepid water was insufficiently refreshing, but it helped her feel better. When she lifted her head, the calm, cool beauty of Mariel faced her in the mirror, with no sign of Laura’s underlying stress. This is my life, she thought, this is what I do. Hide my face to find comfort and hide myself to avoid problems.
She shook off the melancholy and returned to InterSec. She found Terryn monitoring the news on three stations in his office.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He closed his laptop. “You tried. It was worth the effort.”
“Can we protect Sinclair?” she asked.
He turned away from the screens. “I think so. We have inside help with the Capitol police. They’ve been alerted. He’s already making a convincing case to the responders that he has no idea why you were pursued.”
She dropped into the guest chair. “They were on us instantly, Terryn. They forced us away from the safe zone. We have a leak.”
He rubbed his eyes. “I know, but that has to go on the back burner. We have the assassination target.”
He handed her printouts, Homeland Security dispatches summarizing reports from various agencies. She skimmed them. Confirmation was coming in from several fronts.
Dropping the papers on her lap, she laughed in disbelief. “Hornbeck? It’s Hornbeck? I could kill him myself right now.”
CHAPTER 34
THE NATIONAL ARCHIVES sat between Seventh and Ninth Streets like a monolith-because it was a monolith. Big, dramatic, solid, the limestone-and-granite building was constructed to impress and to last. Layers of security protected precious documents inside, second only to that granted to the president. The archivists tended and preserved government records-both grand and mundane-so that researchers and citizens could access their history and understand their country. Except, of course, if their government didn’t want them to, Laura thought.
The Guildhouse monitored the U.S. government’s actions as much as any foreign entity’s. The disappearance of strategic documents from public view did not go unnoticed. U.S. citizens had no idea of the daily minutiae of their government-the signing statements and policy procedures that affected their way of life and over time eroded their rights. The American government gazed with envy as Maeve ran the Seelie Court as only an absolute monarch could-perhaps the only true monarchy left in the world that functioned. Slowly, as the papers and records vanished into the bowels of the National Archives, their access restricted, the rule of law changed, tightening its hold on an unwitting populace.
Laura mingled with dignitaries making their way around the Archives to the entrance. On the Pennsylvania Avenue side, she noted a statue-a seated woman staring into the distance, an open book on her lap. The figure seemed caught in a moment of realization, as if something she’d read had prompted her to wonder about its implications. She didn’t look happy about it. The engraving on the pedestal read WHAT IS PAST IS PROLOGUE.
A chill swept over Laura in the warm night air. The phrase echoed in her mind, a line from Shakespeare. A sense of dread touched her, the truth of the statement burning like a firebrand of warning in her inner vision. The future was a mystery, but its course could be seen. A few fey had the ability to see the future-or at least possible futures, but the final outcome always surprised. Laura shook off the feeling, determined not to let omens tease her fears for the evening.
Sinclair waited for her at the main-entrance security checkpoint on Constitution Avenue. She admired his tailored black suit and expensive tie, which he wore as comfortably as his day-job wardrobe of fatigues. He hid more than one weapon under his jacket. Other security officers working undercover for the event had guns as well. The fey sensed iron content, so the undercover status of anyone in the room carrying a weapon was undercut by sensing abilities. Laura gave Sinclair an advantage by adding a glamour to his medallion that masked the metal presence.
Flashing her badge, she skipped the queue and went through the metal detectors. The guest list for the opening included high-level officials from domestic and foreign governments. Secret Service agents patrolled the perimeter, and a more obvious metropolitan police presence directed traffic to the surrounding streets. Those who kept note of such things recognized that security was higher than usual for such a gathering. Even given the list of senators and House members and the high-level fey from both the Guildhouse and the Teutonic Consortium, security was tight.
“The president still insists on coming?” Laura asked quietly.
Sinclair scanned the crowd. “And Hornbeck. Not bowing down to terrorists and all that.”
“And when someone dies, we get blamed for their ignoring us,” she said.
A small smile flashed across Sinclair’s face. “I love my new job.”
They climbed the stairs to the main level of the building. “Foyle’s on board now?” she asked.
“Completely. If anything, he’s more on top of this than the Secret Service,” Sinclair said.
Laura watched people filing into the Rotunda. “The passion of the converted. I’m worried you told him too much.”
“It was unavoidable. He knew about the threat to Hornbeck. Once Secret Service muscled in on Triad, he had to know what was up,” said Sinclair.
The reports of Alfrey’s former association with Blume’s firm had set off too many alarms for the Secret Service. An immediate review of Triad staff ensued. Whatever his motivations were, Hornbeck retained enough clout to keep the security firm at the event. With Blume’s presumed innocence in the matter and his staunch defense of the integrity of his firm, political considerations came into play, and Triad was allowed to retain a role in security. As an alternative to an outright firing, no Triad staff were allowed inside the building. “Secret Service is confident?” she asked.
Sinclair nodded again. “They booted everyone who had less than five years with the company or a known association with Alfrey off the Triad team. Backgrounds were rechecked. Triad stays outside,” he said.
She made a point of not looking at him. “And you were assigned to me. What a lucky coincidence for you.”
He grinned. “When opportunity knocks, I tend to answer.”
Amused, she glanced at him. “Let’s find my assistant, Saffin. She’s been here all afternoon running the final checklist.”
Sinclair took her arm, but Laura slipped out of it. “You’re security, Jono. Not my date. Two paces behind, please.”
He smirked. “Yes, ma’am.”
A string quartet played in the loge while across the way guests milled around the expansive floor of the Rotunda. The Declaration of Independence and the U.S. Constitution remained on display for the evening, though the Bill of Rights was secured in the vault below. Normally when visiting hours were over, the documents were electronically lowered in their sealed casements to a basement vault. Rumor had it that in addition to being fireproof and bombproof, the vault two stories below was nuclear bombproof. Laura once asked the chief archivist if it were true, but the woman changed the subject.
Waitstaff circulated through the crowd offering appetizers, champagne, and seltzer. Between the volume of people and lack of space, a formal dinner had been nixed early in the planning. No one on the Washington event circuit went hungry, though. On any given night, back-to-back fund-raisers or parties provided enough food to qualify as an evening meal. Not particularly healthy food, but no one starved.