So there would be no more questions about her lying, Natalie thought, no more hints she was making anything up. After Friday night, she would be treated as a brave victim, a heroine. She remembered Hooley’s blood on her pajamas, the gut-wrenching fear and anger. She looked at Edward Rose’s carefully made-up handsome face with the touch of gray at his temples, and into his sincere blue eyes. She smiled. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the details of an ongoing investigation, but I will say, though, that the president and I both have confidence the FBI will find the person or people behind these attacks.”
“Attacks, Ambassador Black. You were also attacked in England, were you not?”
“Yes, that’s right. There was a hit-and-run attack on me there that Scotland Yard is investigating. I have been assured they are cooperating closely with the FBI.”
“And we all hope they succeed. Ambassador Black, I understand you will be speaking tomorrow morning at the United Nations. Will you be discussing your thoughts about these events on that world stage?”
Natalie smiled. “No, that will not be part of my address. I will not be asking the UN to take up my personal troubles. Tomorrow I will be doing my job, as always. The State Department has asked me to address the General Assembly about the status of bilateral tariff reductions we’ve been exploring”—she spoke fluently and quickly, expecting Rose to interrupt her if she gave him the chance. It was “dead air” time for Fox, the concession to her the network had to make before Edward Rose could continue asking her questions the viewers really wanted to hear.
When she closed, he said, “I imagine many of the UN representatives will want to know about all your personal difficulties, Ambassador Black, as do many of our viewers.”
She shook her head. “I tend to doubt that, Mr. Rose.”
“How will you deal with those questions if asked?”
“I’ll tell them what I’m telling you, that all the weight of the United States government and the FBI are behind me.”
“Ambassador Black, Viscount George McCallum, your fiancé, his death marked the beginning of these attacks on you, did it not?”
She let a punch of grief pass, then answered, “George McCallum was a wonderful man. His death was a great loss to me. Scotland Yard is investigating how and why that accident occurred. There is speculation his death and the attacks on my life may be connected, but I don’t know how or why.” She hadn’t meant to say that; it gave away too much. To her surprise and relief, Rose let it go.
Instead, Rose brought up the press release of William’s photo, identifying him as an insurgent fighting in Syria. “Two weeks before the viscount’s tragic death, is that correct? And the rumors of your own culpability began?”
Natalie said, “That’s correct. William Charles McCallum is now Viscount Lockenby himself after his father’s death. We understand he was seen fighting in Syria against the Assad regime. That is a conflict with many factions, and, of course, a great tragedy.
“Since I have not been in touch with William—indeed, I’ve never met him—I have no personal information to offer as to his current whereabouts or his intentions.” She looked directly into the camera. “I do know William loved his father and he grieves as deeply as I do. I hope he will contact me so that we may grieve together. I hope he stays safe.”
“And you stay safe as well, Ambassador Black.”
“I’ll certainly do my best. You know, Mr. Rose, some of the English people still like to refer to us as Yanks. And one of the things they know about us is that we don’t run from threats.”
Edward Rose wanted more, but he had run out of time. He thanked her. It was over.
Perry turned off the TV and went online to read some of the early buzz the interview had already started on YouTube and Twitter. “She’s got one more interview tonight. Then it’s on to New York and the UN, with Aunt Arliss paving her way.”
Davis was sitting back on the sofa, his arms loose at his sides, his eyes closed, his head leaned against the cushions. He said, “I love your mother.”
“I do, too,” Perry said. The front window exploded inward. A bullet smashed the vase on the side table next to Davis.
Before they could move, bullets crashed through the front window, another hitting the coffee table, a third hitting the wall above his head. Davis jumped on Perry, knocked her to the floor, covered her.
A semiautomatic, probably a rifle, Davis thought, as more bullets hit the wall over their heads. He said against her forehead, “Don’t move, you hear me?” He got to his feet, his Glock in his hand, raced crouched over across the room, and flipped off the lights. He pressed against the side of the front door, listening, and waited. Perry stayed where she was. He could hear her breathing.