Detective Danny Cavanaugh 01 - The Brink

this backup plan?
    “You all know as well as I do that information is our most valuable asset,” Lars continued. He glanced over at the board of directors. They each gave him an approving stare. “Only when the time is right and if it is needed will our fail-safe be discussed.”

Chapter 79
    Nobody had come out and actually said it; they didn’t have to. Sydney was under some sort of house arrest. Because it was the White House, she knew that any number of reasons could be used as an explanation of why she was being held against her will. Her mind was spinning with questions. Where was Danny? Were they questioning him about killing the FBI agent? Were they trying to blame him for Senator Halsey’s death? Sydney had no answers. Whatever was happening to Danny was out of her control. She had to concentrate on her own situation.
    She had been sequestered in a windowless room for what seemed like two hours now. There were no clocks on the walls, and her watch had been taken from her and scanned for explosives when they first entered the White House. She had yet to get it back.
    Sydney was tired of sitting at the end of the Lucite table that was bolted to the floor. She pushed back the metal chair and walked toward the only other object in the room. She stared into the wall-length mirror, wondering if people were behind it, staring back at her.
    She cupped her hands on the mirror and tried looked through it. It was no use; there was only darkness. She returned to the table and leaned against it. She closed her eyes and prayed to her real father.
    I’m here, Father. I’m inside the White House. But I’m still far away from our goal. I need your help. Help me figure out how to succeed.
    Sydney opened her eyes and began examining her palms, hoping whoever was watching would think that she was checking the fresh bandages the White House nurse used to dress her wounds. Instead, she used the time to try and figure out how to best confront the villain from Knobby’s stories. He was here, inside the White House. It was finally time for Sydney to avenge her parents’ death. Only walls, a locked door, and probably fifty armed guards stood in her way.

Chapter 80
    Except for a handful of riders striding through the turnstiles, the street level of the L’Enfant Plaza Metro station was empty. Danny approached the station manager’s booth still reviewing the Library of Congress security tapes in his mind. Before leaving the White House, he viewed them alone in the Secret Service’s conference room. From the high camera angle, Danny saw the backside of a man huddled over a small table in the corner of the Rare Book Reading Room for fifty-six seconds. The scene screamed as to the thief’s shrewdness. His body barely moved as he removed the documents from Seward’s journal. He was a well-trained thief, an expert lift man. The incident gnawed at Danny.
    There’s something not right about that scene.
    Danny pictured the thief’s fake GWU ID. The only feature that anyone would remember was his olive complexion. Every other detail, his common nose, his normal eyebrows, the unimpressive shade of his brown eyes, was achingly forgetful. The thief had used the name Joel Basher. It was easy to remember but hardly worth remembering. Why did he pick it? In Danny’s experience, people who used aliases chose the names for a reason, either consciously or subconsciously. What was Joel Basher trying to tell him? And, besides stealing lost documents, was it also Joel Basher who had launched the missile that destroyed Prime Minister Fantroy’s plane?
    Danny had received the information about the missile attack from the president himself just before he left the Oval Office. The boat from which the missile was launched was a Sea Ray 300 Sundancer. It had been stolen from a marina in Annapolis, Maryland six months ago and moored at the Georgetown Marina only two weeks ago. The slip had been rented three months ago but was left empty, which wasn’t unusual. Many of the smaller boats in the marina had been dry-docked over the winter. The yearly cost of renting the slip was paid upfront, in cash, something that wasn’t unheard of in a town where privacy concerning such transactions was a necessity. The marina manager remembered that a man, probably in his early forties, had paid the bill, but he couldn’t remember any description beyond that. Slip renters were given a keycard to access the portion of the docks that contained the smaller