BEWARE OF LIARS

PROLOGUE
In Northern Mexico

THE YOUNG WOMAN'S EYES, brown as the earth, opened wide as her masked jailer drew near. She waited, her back pressed against the cold cement wall, her arms folded across her chest.
She did not look at him but felt his presence. She knew his pungent odor, his rippling muscles, and his husky voice.
He stopped inches from her face. Light reflected from something in his hand.
“Quieres vivir?” he screamed into her face. Stale breath and spittle tumbled from his mouth. “Do you want to live?”
His breath felt hot as he hurled question after question. “Who are you? What do you want? Do you want to live? Answer me!” …
She picked up a stone and scratched a vertical line, half a millimeter in length, next to a similar line. Then she counted the lines. There were nine of them. So far, she had survived nine encounters with the masked man.
How many more times would he question her? Would he strike her again? Would she ever be free?
Feeling nauseous, she bent over the bucket.
Outside the dungeon, the jailer ripped off his mask and traced a sharp gash along his cheek. He winced, recalling a compatriot's blade that slashed before he could respond.
Through eyes squinting against the harsh sun, he surveyed his surroundings. Dry flat land, with scrub brush and dirt. Isolated. No visitors or trouble.
Except for her.
He checked the door. Satisfied that all was secure, he selected a fat cigar, chewed off the tip, and with the flick of a match, lit the tobacco, and drew in deeply.
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CHAPTER 1
The National Convention
Los Angeles, Calif.

A DEAFENING ROAR ERUPTED inside the Los Angeles Civic Center as John Tucker Anderson and Montgomery Morton raised their arms in a V-shaped victory salute. Red, white, and blue helium-filled balloons floated above the throng while millions of pieces of confetti, let loose from the rafters, fluttered down like snowflakes.
On the arena floor, five thousand delegates to the Republican National Convention blew noisemakers, applauded, or embraced one another. Some delegates formed a conga line that snaked up and down the aisles, while others danced in place.
Others waved placards high above their heads, reading: MORTON FOR PRESIDENT/ANDERSON FOR VICE PRESIDENT.
Tucker Anderson smiled to himself as he saw Morton’s name printed larger than his.
“Isn't this the greatest moment of your life?” Morton asked him. “It gets better. You'll see.”
Tucker nodded, his heart racing, and his grin frozen. Words stuck in his throat. On the large monitor hanging from the coliseum ceiling, he could see a televised transmission of the convention.
There he was, standing erect and regal in his pressed navy-blue suit, starched blue shirt and crisply tied necktie. Slender and slightly more than six feet tall, his thick wavy hair blending brown and gray, he exuded self-confidence and virility—he could see it on the monitor—but, inside, he felt turmoil.
Standing next to him, a few inches taller and looking robust with his deeply tanned face topped with blondish mane, was Vice President Morton. Having served as President Robert Bingham's vice president for two terms, he was now the party's nominee for president.
Tucker, a US senator from Rhode Island, could feel the energy emanating from Morton's muscular frame.
He knew Morton would let nothing interfere with his goal of being elected president and that his job was to help Morton achieve that goal.
Just then, Morton looked to their right and nodded. Immediately, Abigail Morton, his wife and the country's second lady, joined them.
Anderson admired her movie star good looks and the effortless way she breezed across the stage. The hem of her blue gown lightly swished at her ankles. Unlike his face, which felt stiff and foreign to him, hers radiated warmth.
When she arrived at center stage, she reached up and kissed her husband's cheek. Immediately, delegates and alternates erupted in a frenzy. Still beaming, she turned and waved to them.
Abigail Morton, statuesque at 5'10'', exuded overwhelming self-confidence, the kind that Anderson associated with inherited wealth. Morton certainly knew what he was doing when he married into her family.
With her financial backing and his political skills, Morton rose rapidly through Colorado's political establishment. He was governor when Bingham selected him for the national ticket.
“Your turn,” Morton said.
Tucker turned to his left and nodded toward Jill Daugherty, who stood off-stage, looking even more nervous than he felt. As she approached, his stomach tightened.
When she reached him, the delegates responded with enthusiastic applause, whistles, and noisemakers. Anderson held her hand, noting how small, soft, and wet it was. He tried to smile, but his face was stiff.
Anderson felt proud as she accepted the tumultuous applause. When Jill looked at him, her hazel eyes flashed. He swallowed and finally smiled. He squeezed her hand and felt her tentative response.
At Morton's subtle command, the four of them raised their arms in a victory salute. The gesture was so traditional in American politics that Tucker thought no campaign for the White House could begin without it.
Wave upon wave of applause washed over them as they basked under the hot lights. Beads of sweat built along Anderson's hairline; perspiration trickled down his shirtfront. Jill, too, seemed to wilt, but the Mortons seemed energized.
What a difference, Tucker thought, as Morton's strong, confident hand squeezed his uncertain palm.
For Tucker Anderson, whose political career led to this moment, Morton was almost right—this should have been the greatest moment of his life.
But it wasn't. Something felt wrong.