Berman nodded, pulled out a portable phone, and went to confer with the local FBI agents who had accompanied them here.
Masters ran his eyes around Riggs’s office. He was wondering how Riggs fit into all this. He had it nice here, new life, new career, peaceful, lot of good years left to live. But now? Masters had been at the White House meeting with the president, the attorney general, and the director of the FBI. As Masters had outlined his theory, he had watched each of their faces go sickly pale. A scandal of horrific proportions. The government lottery, fixed. The American people would believe that their own government had done it to them. How could they not? The president had publicly announced his support for the lottery, even appeared in a TV commercial touting it. So long as the billions flowed in, and a few lucky people were elevated to millionaire status, who cared?
The concept of the lottery had received attacks claiming that what it spent on furthering the public welfare was largely negated by what it cost in others: breakup of families, gambling addiction, making poor people even poorer, causing people to eschew hard work and industriousness for the unrealistic dream of winning the lottery. One critic had said it was much like inner city kids striving for the NBA instead of an MBA. However, the lottery had remained bulletproof from those attacks.
If it came out, however, that the game was fixed, then the bullets would rapidly shatter that bubble. There would be a tremendous blood-letting and everyone from the president on down was going to take a major hit. As Masters had sat in the Oval Office he saw that clearly in all their features: the FBI director, the nation’s top lawman; the attorney general, the nation’s top lawyer; the president, the number one of all. The responsibility would fall there and it would fall heavily. So Masters had been given explicit instructions: Bring in LuAnn Tyler, at any cost and by any means possible. And he intended to do just that.
“How’s it feel?”
Riggs climbed slowly into the car. His right arm was in a sling. “Well, they gave me enough painkillers to where I’m not sure I can feel anything.”
LuAnn put the car in gear and they sped out onto the highway.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“McDonald’s. I’m starving and I can’t remember the last time I had a Big Mac and fries. Sound good?”
“Sounds good.”
She pulled into the drive-through of a McDonald’s, ordering some burgers, fries, and two coffees.
They ate as they drove. Riggs put down his coffee, wiped his mouth, and nervously fingered the dashboard with his good arm. “So tell me, how badly did I screw things up for you?”
“Matthew, I’m not blaming you.”
“I know,” he said sheepishly. He slapped the seat. “I thought you were walking into a trap.”
She stared over at him. “And why’s that?”
Riggs looked out the window for a long moment before answering. “Right after you left I got a call.”
“Is that right. Who from, and what did it have to do with me?”
He sighed deeply. “Well, for starters, my name’s not Matthew Riggs. I mean it’s been my name for the last five years, but it’s not my real name.”
“Well, at least we’re even on that score.”
He said with a forced grin, “Daniel Buckman.” He held out his hand. “My friends call me Dan.”
LuAnn didn’t take it. “You’re Matthew to me. Do your friends also know that technically you’re dead and that you’re in the Witness Protection Program?”
Riggs slowly withdrew his hand.
She flipped him an impatient look. “I told you that Jackson can do anything. I wish you’d start believing me.”
“I was betting he was the one who tapped into my file. That’s why I followed you. If he knew about me, I didn’t know how he’d react. I thought he might kill you.”
“That’s always a possibility with the man.”
“I got a good look at him.”
LuAnn was exasperated. “That wasn’t his real face. Dammit, it’s never his real face.” She thought of the rubbery flesh she had held. She had seen his real face. His real face. She knew what that meant. Jackson would now do everything in his power to kill her.