Another nod. “If something goes down, how do we play it?”
Escobedo wasn’t privy to Dominga Koenig’s plan for Frederick, but a team member was. Faust would have to individually brief that man, make sure he knew what to do if they found the kid. He’d let Escobedo think Bryson was to be the only casualty. “Sedate the girl,” he said, lowering his voice even though they were seated with no other diners nearby. “Take her and the kid back to Lima along with the pilot. But not Bryson. I want that double-crossing SOB’s heart cut out while it’s still beating.”
* * *
The next morning, Faust escorted Koenig to Denver International Airport. After his boss departed, he checked into a Denver hotel. Dominga interrupted his registration with a call on his cell phone, summoning him to her suite at the Ritz-Carlton. He hurried through the registration and rushed to her hotel to call her from the lobby. She told him to wait. Thirty minutes later, he called once more.
“Didn’t we just speak?” Anger, real or feigned, made her normally soft voice hard.
“We talked half an hour ago. You said to wait a few minutes.”
“If I told you to wait, that’s what you should do.” She broke the connection.
Fuming, Faust toyed with alternatives. Calling her again would just emphasize his powerlessness against her petty games. He could leave and tell her to wait when she called him, but that wouldn’t be smart. He nursed a drink in the bar, paced the lobby, walked around the block to cool off in frigid outside air, and returned to the bar.
After another fifteen minutes, his phone chimed. “Come up, Theo.” She opened the door the moment he pressed the bell, and he looked her over. As much as he had come to detest the woman, she was a physical knockout. Her shoulder-length, dark blond hair, usually pulled back, hung in loose waves. A sheer dressing gown displayed a body that was as nearly perfect as dietitians, personal trainers, and top-notch cosmetic surgeons could craft.
She turned away, leaving him to close the door. “White Russian,” she said, and pointed toward a wet bar on the far side of the room.
Until he entered Maximillian Koenig’s employ, Faust had never heard of a White Russian. Then Dominga took him in hand. She replaced his entire wardrobe, corrected his careless speech and his table manners, and arranged introductions to politicians and businessmen. She also taught him to make her favorite drinks. The wet bar was fully stocked, he noted as he concocted her version of a White Russian, using equal parts Tia Maria, vodka, and Bailey’s Irish Cream. He eyed the vodka hungrily. Gray Goose, always his first choice. Later, she would invite him to make himself a vodka martini. He preferred his vodka straight, chilled and with a lime twist, but she insisted that he go through an elaborate ritual to craft her idea of a perfect dry martini.
Standing before a pair of glass-paneled French doors that led to a spacious patio, she kept her back to him while he mixed her drink. As he approached, drink in hand, she turned to take it from him and set it aside.
Then she slapped him. The heel of her hand slammed into his jaw.
She was not a large woman, but she was solid, well-conditioned, and coordinated. The roundhouse blow, starting at knee level and gaining momentum during a wide arc, driven by the propulsive force of her body, rocked him. He shook his head to clear it, worked his jaw to assess the damage.
Cradling the hand that delivered the blow, she flexed her fingers. “Why is my husband’s bastard child still breathing?”
Faust took another moment to regain self-control. “I don’t know that he is.”
“You had a simple assignment: eliminate a year-old boy whose only protection was a hundred-pound breeding cow.”
“It was set to go down during that trip to the ski lodge. The wind storm, that white-out, screwed things up. I don’t control the weather.”
“How likely is it that they’re still alive?”
“Minimal. To be certain, I’ve arranged for a man to wrap things up if they’re found. The kid will get caught in crossfire during the rescue attempt.”
“My husband thinks he can start over, inseminate another breeder. You’re sure the left-over sperm is no longer viable?”
“Absolutely. Twenty-fours hours without power to the storage freezer, and with the door open. I had a sample analyzed to make sure.”
Dominga sipped her drink. “When is your meeting with the vendors?”
“It’s set for tomorrow.”
She sipped again and rolled the alcoholic mixture around on her tongue as if testing a rare wine. “Go shower. You smell like the street.”
It’s all coming to a head, Faust reminded himself as he entered the most lavishly outfitted bathroom he had seen outside of the Koenig mansion. When her husband croaks without a male heir, she’ll have total authority over Variant Corporation. As her operations VP, I’ll be able to funnel even more resources to my Shining Path sidekicks.
Dominga planned to use the rebels to help her family regain their old political dominance, but Faust had a more ambitious agenda. With his guidance, the vicious little backcountry brawlers would control the northern part of the country, the area rich in rare-earth minerals, and the Chinese would deal with him to limit how much got dumped on the market. He might even end up running the whole country. At a minimum, he would administer economic affairs in the northern sector on behalf of the rebels, with all that implied about power and wealth.
He toweled himself dry and checked to see whether Dominga had set aside one of her husband’s robes for him. Should have known better, he thought as he pulled a fresh bath towel off the rack and wrapped it around his hips. He found her in the bedroom, lounging on a mound of plush pillows. The duvet was turned back, exposing silk, royal-blue sheets that were color-coordinated with the room’s carpet and drapes. He paused midway between the door and the bed and stood at a modified parade rest, feeling awkward and embarrassed with only a towel for cover.
“We need to talk about tomorrow’s meeting,” she said. “About what you will offer the vendors. But first, lay the towel aside and fetch me another drink.”
Fetch. Not mix, fetch. She could have been telling a dog to fetch a ball. But Faust had learned his Special Forces lessons well. You don’t waste resources going head-to-head with a stronger enemy, you don’t let the enemy box you in, and you pick a fight only when you’re reasonably certain you can win. He draped the towel over a nearby chair, strolled to the bar, and re-entered the bedroom to offer her the fresh drink, hyper-conscious of her gaze on his swaying cock.
She took the glass and pointed to the carpet. “There.” Sipping her White Russian, she waited while he dropped to his knees by the bed, then twisted around to sit on the edge, a leg on either side of him, her gown bunched up around her hips. She let her knees sag apart. “Use your mouth. You know how I like it.”
Yes, he knew. She liked it slow, thorough, endless. No hands. Just his lips and tongue, his face.
Minutes later, with her legs draped over his shoulders, she set her drank aside and grasped his ears. She used them to direct his attention to first one spot and then another. “Tomorrow, when you meet with those American businessmen,” she said as he labored, “agree to pay half of the additional money they demand. But offer it only if they produce the first set of chips on schedule.” Pulling on his ears, she tilted his head so their gazes met. “Do you think that’s wise?” she asked. “Rewarding men for performance, and only if they perform?”
“It won’t hurt.” He hated the smirk on her face, wanted to wipe it off with his fist. “They need the cash.”
“Cash, yes.” She twisted his ears, directing him back to work. “As you Americans are fond of saying, it is king. They will try to negotiate a higher price, but you will be adamant.”
After an interval that seemed to him interminable, she tugged on his ears, pulling him up on the bed. “It’s time, darling.”
Determined to gain a small victory by outlasting the woman as she moved on top of him, he treated their coupling as an athletic
contest. To recharge his flagging erection, he shut his eyes and imagined the thighs straddling him were Pia’s, that the pelvis slamming against his and the voice mouthing a steady stream of obscenities, were hers. The mental picture became more focused, and his excitement grew. To keep from ejaculating, he opened his eyes. The reminder that the woman hovering over him wasn’t Pia, that he was at this bitch’s beck and call, drained away his urgency.
When it was over, she invited him to fix himself a vodka martini. “And bring me a fresh White Russian.” Sitting in bed with him, their backs cushioned by pillows and resting against the headboard, she returned the conversation to the projected transaction. “I’m concerned about getting the merchandise out of the country.”
“It won’t be a problem. They’re small enough to fit in a briefcase.”
“But American customs goes through briefcases.”
“At commercial airports, sure.” Pausing for a moment, he worked his jaw sideways. It ached from her blow and the extended workout. “My guys will have the Citation standing by at the Silver Hill landing strip.”
“Won’t customs inspect the plane before allowing it to leave the country?”
“They’ll go through the motions. But they’re more concerned with what comes in on private aircraft than what goes out. The way the aircrew will have it stashed, customs would have to tear the plane apart to find anything.”
“Even so, isn’t it possible they will stumble over it?”
“Anything’s possible. That’s why we won’t be on the plane. I have us booked on a commercial flight two days before the merchandise is to be delivered.”
“All right, darling.” She drained her glass and shifted to lie flat. “Do me again, and let’s call it a night.” He reached for her, but she pushed on his shoulders, urging him toward the foot of the bed. “Just your talented tongue. Then you can run along.”
Chapter 22
Alex awoke before dawn in his little group’s mountain refuge and took a moment to orient himself to his surroundings. As quietly as possible so as not to disturb the others, he fed wood shavings into the fireplace and blew on smoldering coals to coax a flame. Sitting cross-legged by the hearth, he waited until night and morning blended into soupy grayness. Then he began exploring.
Except for its windows and roof, the cabin appeared to be constructed of native materials: stone floors and walls, with rafters, beams, and interior finish hewn from Douglas fir. The wall that faced the lake was entirely windows. Intended only for summer occupancy, the cabin had no heat source other than the fireplaces, but removing the plywood cover would convert the south-facing window wall into a solar furnace. The stone floor would absorb heat all day and radiate it back during the night.
The roof, sheathed in corrugated metal, supported solar cells and solar water-heating panels. A large fiberglass tank sat a few yards away on a rocky knoll that placed it above the cabin’s elevation. Having spent a chunk of his childhood in Rocky Mountain backcountry, Alex understood the setup. During daylight hours, the solar-powered pump would draw water from the lake to fill the storage tank, allowing gravity to force a steady flow on demand. The roof-mounted solar heaters would provide hot water during sunlit days in spite of bitter cold. The system would have been drained for the winter, but if the intake was below the sheet of ice covering the lake, he figured he could get it working.
On the cabin’s south side, where the window wall looked out on the lake, a deck doubled as a roof for a storage area accessible through a door at the bottom of a short flight of stone steps. The storage area had no windows, so light flooding through the opened door provided the only illumination.
The frozen lake extended at least half a mile beyond the deck. When thawed, its length would accommodate a light airplane equipped with pontoons. That would be how construction materials and workmen had been brought to the site and how the owner got in and out. When the plane returned in the spring, it would be their ticket to civilization.
Back in the cabin, Alex found Pia awake and nursing Frederick. The pilot still slept. When Frederick finished his breakfast, Alex hoisted the youngster into his arms. With Pia in the lead, they investigated the cabin’s interior.
Beyond the living room they found a cramped kitchen, a shower-equipped bathroom, and two bedrooms. The window wall on the south side of the cabin continued across the larger of the two bedrooms. The room had a queen-sized bed and its own fireplace. A colorful, hooked rug covered the stone floor between the bed and the door. A corner desk held a two-way radio. The second bedroom was less than half as large. A chest of drawers, bunk beds, and a dresser filled it to capacity. The tiny kitchen had a compact range, oven, and refrigerator, all fueled with butane. The butane tanks, however, had been removed. A kitchen sink and the indoor toilet told Alex the owner had rigged a septic system.
Like the water pump, the two-way radio in the master bedroom depended on power from the rooftop solar cells. The radio had a backup battery that the solar cells recharged. Its receiver was wide-band, so they could pick up commercial radio stations and hear national news.
The owner had left bath towels and dishcloths but no bed linens. A shelf in the master bedroom held a row of matched books called Harvard Classics and several time-yellowed paperbacks that were part of a detective series featuring Ace Conner, Private Eye. In the kitchen they found dishes and cooking utensils but scant edibles: condiments, cooking oil, an unopened five-pound bag of cornmeal, a bag of flour that was perhaps a quarter used, some dried beans and peas, and several cans of condensed soup. The cabin was a godsend, but they faced a grim struggle to ride out what remained of the high-altitude winter.
“Until its owner reclaims it,” Pia said, “we have a home of our own.” Leaning against a kitchen counter, she touched her pursed lips with a stiffened index finger, a homemaker contemplating the arrangement of her new quarters. “The pilot can have the small bedroom. Let us move the top bunk from there into the living room, so Frederick can nap by the fire. Since there are no sheets or blankets, he will have to sleep with us at night. That way, we can give the pilot one of the sleeping bags. We have the bed sheets that we used for camouflage. One for our bed and one for his.”
“He won’t need a bed.”
Pia’s eyes got big. “What are you going to do?”
“There’s a storage room under the deck. Its walls are stone, and it has a strong door. We’ll keep him there.”
Exhaling deeply, she frowned. “It will be cold.”
“He has a parka.”
Pia argued that the pilot should be allowed to remain in the cabin. “Just because our enemy is inhumane doesn’t mean we must be.”
Alex capitulated. The pilot would stay inside with his ankles tethered so that he could shuffle about and his wrists bound loosely so that he could use his hands but could raise them only slightly above waist level. At night, and whenever Alex left the cabin, the man would be more securely bound.
A shout from the other room; the pilot had awakened. Alex loosened the ankle tether enough to permit small steps and escorted him into the living room.
Grinning, the pilot extended a hand as far toward Pia as his bound wrists permitted. “I’m Jake.”
Pia hesitated, shifting her gaze between the pilot and Alex. After a moment, she shook the hand. “Pia Ulmer.” She hoisted Frederick off the floor. “This is my son. His name is Frederick.”
“Howdy, Frederick.” Jake turned to Alex and flashed his smile. “And of course I know who you are. You’ve cut a hellacious swath through Theo Faust’s peace of mind.”
Alex grunted and kept his distance. If he were a prisoner, he would try to ingratiate himself and attack when he got close. After a breakfast of condensed soup and the last of his freeze-dried coffee, he dug a flashlight out of the helicopter’s survival kit. “Let’s check the cellar for supplies.” Walking slowly to accommodate Jake’s tethered ankles, he led his small band there. They found a stone-sided, waist-high bin about four feet square. Alex l
ifted its heavy wooden cover and directed the flashlight beam inside. The bin was empty, its wood-plank flooring loose. Hoping to find something useful, he reached inside and lifted a board. Just a stone-lined drainage sump.
“It is big enough for me to fit inside,” Pia said. With Frederick balanced on her hip, she leaned forward and stared into the cavity. “If this were your Old West and hostile Indians were attacking, I would hide in there and wait for you to rescue me.”
He was her anointed rescuer; Alex flushed with warmth. But he had hoped the cellar held something that would help them survive.
Back upstairs, an hour of experimentation got the solar-powered water pump working. Pia’s expression when a thin trickle of water streamed from the kitchen faucet, her beaming smile when Alex told her he also had the solar water heater operating, that she could soon have a warm bath, made him feel like a nuclear physicist. “We’ll have to drain the system at night to avoid freezing,” he said, “but it’ll only take a few minutes each morning to get it going again.”
The Descent From Truth Page 18
