by Thomas Locke
Alessandro reached into the glove box and pulled out a padded envelope, which he handed to Charlie. “Open it, please. Tell me the number on the card again.”
“Thirty-six.”
“Excellent. Here we are. There should be a keypad in that envelope, yes? Hand it to me, please.” He pointed it at the windshield and hit two buttons. In front of them, a steel gate rolled silently away, revealing a long flagstone drive.
Alessandro parked in front of a garage separated from the main house by a tiny Japanese garden and lily pond. They crossed a narrow stone bridge and entered an alpine paradise. The gardens were a profusion of flowers and butterflies. They rounded the corner to find the lake and the mountains on eternal display.
“The front door is operated by the same keypad as the main gate. You must key in the number of the house, thirty-six. Do so once for the main gate, and twice for the front door. All very high-tech, don’t you agree?”
Gabriella did a slow sweep of the grand house, the gardens, the view. She slipped her arms around her middle, making herself smaller in the process. “Whose is this?”
“Did I not say? Yours, if you want it.”
“I can’t afford this.”
Alessandro beamed as he slipped his hand into his pocket. Clearly the man had been waiting for those very words. “As a matter of fact, my dear, you most certainly can. Your ex-husband proved most amenable to my suggestion that he pay you what was promised in your prenup.”
She accepted the papers, read, and grew smaller still.
“The villa belongs to the same gentleman whose rifles proved so useful. At least, I am fairly certain he is the owner. The title is actually held under a group whose name I believe translates as ‘The Institute of Mysteries.’ Which is most interesting, you see, because no such institute exists, not anywhere in the world. My associates have checked this out most carefully. So I have taken the liberty of having the courts issue you a license for that name.”
Gabriella’s hand was very shaky as she cleared her face. “What?”
“That is, if you want it. I personally found the title rather catchy. Especially given the nature of your work.” Alessandro was clearly enjoying himself so much he almost sang the words. “Now then. By the power vested in me as senior bailiff of Como, which Campione officially belongs to, I am offering you the deed to this villa for a period of no less than four years. During that time, my successor will do his best to determine the villa’s legal ownership. If it proves to be the man I suspect, the court has already ruled that all of his assets are the result of illegal operations and are to be auctioned off. But this may take some time. Years, I suspect. Which is why the justice system would be well served to offer you this tenancy. It is open-ended, which means you may continue to rent this place for as long as you wish. As official tenant you hold the right of first refusal if ever the villa comes up for auction. The rent is moderate for a place of this magnitude, but given my confidence that you would be an ideal tenant, I think the price is most adequate.”
Charlie asked, “Your successor?”
“I have submitted my notice for retirement. To my wife’s eternal relief.”
Gabriella gripped Charlie’s arm with the hand not wiping her face. She scanned the front of the villa, but he doubted she was able to see much of anything.
“The new Institute of Mysteries has five formal chambers and sixteen bedrooms. There is a guest house, a swimming pool, and servants’ quarters behind the garage. All in all, I think it will prove a rather adequate location for your research.” Alessandro pushed open the door. “Shall we go inside?”
58
Edgar Ross, former treasury chief and now director of one of America’s largest banks, tried to tell himself that it was just another Hollywood lunch. And he might have succeeded, if everyone around him had not been quite so excited. Not even the jaded Hollywood crowd could hide their anticipation.
He was in Los Angeles to renegotiate his bank’s revolving finance deal with one of the major studios. The line of credit was for six hundred million dollars. The deal was suitably complex. Every project had to be separately okayed. On the bank’s side, Edgar was the only person who could sign off. The bank would finance a maximum of half the film’s production cost. The bank’s principal was paid back from the first generated revenue. Instead of interest on their loan, the bank received points in each film. So far, nine films they had financed had generated a profit. Five others had tanked. Even so, the bank’s overall rate of return was twenty-one percent. The bank’s executives liked to moan over the flops, but they loved this deal. The studio complained about the terms, but they wanted to up the ante to a billion and a half. The bank wanted to give them the money. The negotiations had taken three days and were like a very long and tiring dance between two partners who both lusted after each other yet pretended to be angry.
The studio had pulled out all the stops, parading both stars and clips of ongoing projects for Edgar Ross and his team. Even so, this particular lunch was totally out of the blue.
That morning, as they argued over the remaining two issues, the studio chief had made Edgar an offer. Finish the deal this morning, and they would set up lunch with Glenda Gleeson, who was starring in their next film.
Glenda Gleeson was not only one of Hollywood’s biggest female draws. She never did promo work. It was one of her defining traits.
Edgar had been secretly in love with the woman for seven years, ever since he had watched her play a love-torn hooker in her breakout role.
Their trio of limos pulled up in front of The Ivy. The venue was another puzzler. Since it had been featured in two major films, stars avoided it like they would a lame script. The restaurant was a series of cramped, low-ceilinged rooms with varnished plank flooring. When it was full, the noise was deafening. Yet Glenda had only agreed to meet if the lunch took place in The Ivy’s front room.
The Ivy, of course, had been fully booked. But what Glenda wanted, Glenda received, even if it meant crowding a table into an already cramped room.
The air was stifling. The waiters were forced to shuffle sideways and press against the seated patrons as they moved about. No one complained. Not after being told by the maître d’ that they could either accept the situation and dine in the same room with the star, or move outdoors to the patio.
The noise inside the restaurant’s front room was like an orchestra pit during a full tune-up.
Glenda was naturally late. Edgar sat with his back against the side wall and his belly jammed into the table. He watched as one of the studio execs shouted into his cell phone, trying to track down the absent star. Edgar watched the faces around his table begin to cloud over, and feared they had been stood up.
Then the world stopped turning.
Glenda did not merely enter the restaurant. She redefined the room.
Conversation halted because no one was listening, not even to themselves. The focus of each person was drawn completely to the woman who crossed the room.
Toward him. Smiling at him.
The studio chief shouldered the maître d’ aside and insisted upon holding the back of Glenda’s chair. Edgar knew he was gaping and did not care. Especially not after the star said to the studio chief, “Thank you, Jack. But if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit next to our guest of honor.”
Places at the table shifted with lightning speed. Glenda slipped into the chair next to Edgar. She pressed his hand with both of hers, looked deep into his eyes, and said, “I have been so looking forward to this.”
“Have you really?”
“Oh yes. There’s so much I want to talk with you about.”
“Me? Really? I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” Edgar knew he was jabbering like a moonstruck teenager. But the woman’s presence was simply too overpowering. He was vaguely conscious of someone ordering something for him to eat. He heard the room resume its cacophonous din. He knew the rest of the table was watching them and only pretending to talk among themselves. He
did not care. He was glad the room was so loud. It meant he had the star all to himself.
Not only that, but in order for Glenda to make herself heard, she had to lean in close. So close, in fact, that her cheek brushed against his own. His chills were so intense he almost missed her saying, “I have a message for you from a friend of mine.”
“What—uh, you do?”
“His name is Charlie Hazard. You don’t know him.” She leaned back and gave him another dose of those incredible eyes. “But he knows you, Edgar. He knows you very, very well.”
“I-I’m sorry, I don’t . . .”
“Let’s try another name I’m sure you know. Weldon Hawkins.”
Her words robbed the day of all color. “W-who?”
“Weldon has been trying to attack Charlie and some friends of his. And you helped them.” She tapped the back of his hand with one fingernail. “You bad, bad boy.”
His heart was hammering so loudly he could no longer hear the restaurant’s din. “That is not—”
“I have a packet of information Charlie and his team have pulled together. Some truly amazing secrets. They’ve detailed several projects backed by you and your bank. Things I seriously doubt you would like the government to hear about. I couldn’t help but have a look. I think you’ll be impressed with Charlie’s discoveries.” Her face crinkled with pleasure. “In fact, I’m sure you will.”
He watched the star pull an envelope from her purse, reach forward, and slip it into his jacket pocket. The entire table saw her pat the place, but only he could hear her say, “Here’s the deal, Edgar. You make all the charges against Charlie Hazard go away. Permanently. You ensure the Combine never comes close to Charlie and his friends again. And don’t bother telling me you don’t know about the Combine, because we both know you’re lying, and it’s not nice to lie to a lady. You’re going to do this, Edgar, because if you don’t, the information in that packet is going straight to the attorney general and the IRS. And once they’ve seen what I’ve seen, I’m sure they’ll be delighted to send you away for a long, long time.”
Glenda turned and smiled for the room as only a star could. “Isn’t this fun?”
Colonel Donovan Field was limping badly by the time he reached the reinforced gates. He knew it looked bad, this sweaty old man hobbling around the curve and climbing the empty drive. The guard behind the closed gates watched his approach from behind mirrored shades. Normally Donovan hated anything that drew attention to his old wounds. He had continued physical therapy for six months after the VA stopped paying, until he could balance himself so well no casual observer would ever have reason to ask about the absent toes. He never wanted to talk about the explosion or his injury. But the rental car’s GPS had told him to park three blocks downhill. And Donovan was too stubborn to walk back and drive up and start over. Besides which, it was a beautiful day. Fantastic view. And the purpose of his visit filled him with an immense sense of anticipation. He was having too good a time to worry about a little pain.
The security guard was dressed in a typical blue jacket and black trousers. He remained as silent and immobile as an MP on parade.
Donovan stopped before the gates and said, “I’m here to see Weldon Hawkins.”
“Sorry, sir. There’s nobody here by that name.”
“He will want to see me.”
“Sir, I suggest you continue with your walk.”
“Ask me my name, soldier.”
“Sir, I’m not a soldier and—”
“I am Colonel Donovan Field. My walk will take me from here to the San Diego Union, where I will bend the ear of an old friend who now is the newspaper’s senior editor. Tell that to Weldon.” He opened his jacket to show he was not armed, then slipped two fingers into his pocket and drew out an unsealed envelope. “Then give him this.”
The guard kept his hands by his sides. “Sir, I can’t accept anything from you. Especially for a man who isn’t here. Please go.”
“There are two pages in this envelope. One contains a list of all the Combine members. The other describes how its Delta teams kidnapped the president of Kurdistan’s middle son, laid the blame on terrorists, then went back in and rescued him, so that Harbor Petroleum would gain a monopoly on drilling rights to the country’s largest fields.”
“Sir, the drive where you are standing is private property. If you won’t go I will be forced to call the police and have you removed.”
“No problem.” Donovan tossed the envelope through the bars, then turned and limped down the road.
He returned to his car, opened all the windows, and sat while the breeze off the Pacific cooled him down. He wondered if they were going to call his bluff, which he decided was both good and not good. Donovan had a military officer’s distrust of the press. But a somewhat unpleasant lever was certainly better than none at all.
Donovan turned on the car and began the laborious process of coding the newspaper’s address into the GPS. He did not own one himself and had only used the gizmos a couple of times. He was so intent on his work that he jerked when a fist rapped sharply upon his car roof.
He glanced up. “Is there such a thing as a simple route to downtown?”
The stubby man shifted so as to block out the sun. “You know who I am?”
“Weldon Hawkins.”
“Are you wearing a wire?”
“Absolutely not.”
He pointed at the black SUV now parked behind Donovan’s rental. “Turn your car around and follow us.”
The SUV drove past the house, almost to the summit, and halted before a narrow city park. Eucalyptus trees whispered a greeting and spiced the air.
Donovan walked over to the shaded table where Weldon waited and allowed one guard to pat him down, then another to wave a wand around his body. The second guard declared, “He’s clean.”
Weldon waited until the guards had moved away, then said, “I assume you’ve got an offer for me.”
“What were you, CIA? DOD intel?”
Weldon merely checked his watch.
“When Charlie first told me about this project of his, I doubted his sanity. Then I saw your men hit his house and I knew at least part of it was real. But I never thought they’d really be able to observe the future and the past. Our little meeting here today has to do with that second bit, by the way. Moving backward.”
“You’re not making sense,” Weldon snapped. “And I’m still waiting for your offer.”
“You don’t get it, do you. There is no deal. They’ve gone back and observed the Combine’s last gathering, Hawkins. They read each of the files your woman laid out around the pool. They have the details of all your filthy habits. All the details.” Donovan folded his arms. “So now you tell me what the deal is going to be.”
Weldon fumed for a time, then demanded, “What happened to my team? And where is Reese Clawson?”
Donovan checked his own watch. “I’m still waiting.”
59
She came awake in gradual stages. She had to struggle to open her eyes, which felt as though they had been glued shut. She blinked hard. But her vision refused to clear.
She vaguely recalled a series of bad dreams. Worse than bad. Catastrophic.
Her entire body hurt, like she had laid in the same position for so long her every muscle had locked solid. She realized she was curled into a fetal position, her arms wrapped around her legs.
Straightening proved as hard as opening her eyes. Harder. As she tried to raise up, she discovered that she was tied to the bed.
“Ah, signora, finalmente. You are awake. And not screaming. Wonderful.”
She dragged a hand over her face, trying to clear her eyes. Her mouth felt gummed shut. Everything hurt.
She had no idea where she was.
“Can you speak Italian? No, we thought not. All your screams were in English. Wait, signora. You wish to rise? Here, let me help you.”
A figure hovered over her bed. Hands reached over and untied the belt. “The r
estraints are there only because we were so worried, you see. You wanted to run away and you could not see. You cried of attack dogs and so many other awful things. I hope this is over now. You frightened me so much.”
Rising to her feet proved extremely painful. Agony. But there was a good flavor to the pain, as though it meant she had finally returned from wherever she had been. Her feet touched the cold floor and she jerked them back. Where were her shoes?
“Ah, yes, the floor, it is freezing, no? And this is August. You wait until you touch the floor in January. Then you will know cold. Here are slippers. Wait, I will help you.”
Her thirst was a raging force. Her throat and mouth burned with the need for water. She gripped the woman she could not actually see and pushed herself upright. Suddenly it was as important for her to stand as it was to drink.
The woman both supported and guided her. They passed through a door that groaned as it opened. They entered a hall. She saw figures silhouetted against sunlight coming through a window at the hall’s far end.
Then she saw the cart. It was parked against the wall. She recognized the form on its top tray as a water pitcher. She whimpered and reached with a hand that to her fractured vision resembled a claw.
“You are thirsty, yes? Of course, signora. Here. Lean against the wall. Good. All right. Here, take this cup. No, signora. Slowly. Drink slowly. More? Of course. Wait. Here you are.”
She drank three cups, drenching the front of her clothes with the liquid that she could not take in fast enough. Her throat felt swollen and raw. The woman had said she had been screaming.
“Please, signora. The nurses, they do not speak English. This is why I was placed in your room. So that I could ask, who are you?”
She held out the cup. The woman refilled it. She wanted to shape the word nurse. But when she tried to speak, the only sound that emerged was a tight little whine.
