by Stephen Frey
In the last week Jesse had won two more primaries. He had the delegates he needed.
“Yes, it does,” Hewitt agreed. “How’s he feeling?”
“Pretty pumped.”
“What about November? How’s he feeling about the general election?”
“He’s confident he’s going to win.”
Hewitt paused for a few moments, then leaned forward and picked up his Stetson. “Confident, huh? Well, ain’t that wonderful.”
ALLISON HAD LEFT the office and walked into Central Park to get away from phones and e-mails, so she could concentrate on the Aero Systems deal. She wanted to figure out how to lock up the purchase, to keep the other bidders at bay, but she couldn’t stay focused at the office because of the constant interruptions. Now that she was running a couple of companies, she was starting to understand what Christian endured. People constantly clamoring for her time, constantly needing major decisions made. And she was running only two companies at this point. He ran twenty.
So she’d found a lonely bench near a reflecting pool where she hoped no one would find her. She leaned back, watching a couple of young boys sail a remote-control boat on the pool for a few minutes, then pulled out a pad from her bag and started to jot down notes.
“Hello, Allison.”
She looked up from the pad, eyes widening. Faith Cassidy stood in front of her. They’d never met, but she recognized Faith from the billboard in Times Square advertising her new album—and the pictures in Christian’s office.
“Oh, how I’ve been looking forward to this.”
Allison stood up slowly. She didn’t like the look in Faith’s eyes. The look of a woman on the brink. “What do you want?”
“Do you know who I am?”
“No, I’ve been living in a cave for the last few years.” Allison saw the boys who’d been playing with the boat stop and point at Faith. She wasn’t the only one who recognized her. “What do you want?”
“To let you know that I understand why you’re going after Christian so hard. Why you want him to think that you’re falling in love with him.”
“Really? Why don’t you let me in on—”
“It’s because you want to run Everest Capital when Christian leaves,” Faith interrupted. “You’re worried he might make Nigel Faraday chairman instead.”
“Oh, please, that’s so ridiculous it’s—”
“You don’t really care about Christian, but you think if you can make him believe you care, then you can manipulate him.” Faith smiled. “But I’m going to tell Christian exactly what you’re doing…and why.”
“Tell me something. Who put all this into your little head?”
Faith’s smile grew wider. “Like I’d really tell you.” She moved close to Allison, until their faces were just inches apart. Her smile faded. “If I were you, I’d start looking over my shoulder. A lot of people want to do me favors.”
KOHLER AND MCDONNELL sat in a polished, dark wood pew in a nave of an old midtown Manhattan church. They’d both walked many blocks to get to the church, coming from separate locations, as always worried that Samuel Hewitt might be watching.
“See anything suspicious on your way over here?” Kohler asked, glancing at the altar. It was covered with lighted candles.
McDonnell shook his head. “No.”
“Were you at least looking?”
“Of course, damn it.” McDonnell’s voice echoed inside the empty church.
McDonnell was getting fed up with the intrigue to the point that he wished he’d never heard of the Order, Samuel Hewitt, Trenton Fleming—any of it. But he had heard of them, joined them, taped himself having sex with women other than his wife for them, and, worst of all, turned those tapes over to them. God, how could he have been so stupid? Okay, so Hewitt was a board member of Jamison & Jamison and had made certain the board voted to elect McDonnell CEO of the corporation four years ago, but he would have won that job even without Hewitt’s support at that board meeting. He grimaced, being honest with himself. Maybe he would have won without Hewitt? He thought about it a moment longer. No, probably not. A moment longer. Definitely not. Even though Hewitt wasn’t chairman of Jamison & Jamison, he basically ran the board. Just like he ran everything else he was a member of. Without Hewitt’s support at that board meeting, he never would have been elected CEO.
“What’s the problem, Blanton?” Kohler demanded.
“I’m busy, Mace,” McDonnell replied irritably. “I don’t have time for all this cloak-and-dagger crap.”
“Well, you can thank Samuel Hewitt for that. He’s the one who’s responsible for it. He’s the one who’s gone off the deep end.”
They were silent for a while.
“Did you see the articles?” Kohler finally asked.
McDonnell looked up from a red prayer book lying on the pew beside him. He’d been staring at it, thinking about how it had been too long since he’d gone to Sunday service. “What articles?”
“About Laird and Massey.”
McDonnell sat up, sensing from Kohler’s tone that this was big news. “No.” He’d been buried at work lately, hadn’t had time to answer all his e-mails let alone read a newspaper or browse the Internet. “What happened?”
“They’re dead.”
“What?”
Kohler nodded. “Both of them. Laird was killed by a hit-and-run driver in northern Virginia, and Massey drowned in a lake in Oklahoma. He was fishing.”
McDonnell leaned forward and put his face in his hands. “That’s awful.”
“Yeah, awful,” Kohler repeated sarcastically.
McDonnell looked up. Kohler didn’t seem very disturbed about the other men’s deaths. It was almost like he was glad they were gone. “Aren’t you sorry?”
“Sorry? Why would I be sorry? Why would anyone be sorry about those men being dead?”
“Jesus Christ. What’s wrong with you?”
“Laird and Massey were insane,” Kohler hissed. “Warped men who shouldn’t have been allowed to pollute the earth, shouldn’t have been allowed to live. Just like Hewitt and the others.”
NIGEL AND QUENTIN sat on either side of Christian, overlooking Fifth Avenue and Central Park from the balcony of Christian’s two-floor, forty-second-story apartment. Early summer humidity had gripped Manhattan that afternoon, and there were only a few stars visible through the high clouds. In the distance thunder rumbled. Quentin was drinking beer, Nigel Scotch, Christian water.
“We’ve all been busy,” Christian began, “so I figured it might be a good idea to have a catch-up session.” He saw Nigel’s quick glance at his watch. “I know you want to get out of here.” Nigel was still seeing the brunette, still head over heels for her. “We’ll be done by ten.”
Nigel took a big gulp of Scotch. “I wasn’t even thinking about her.”
“Sure you weren’t, fat man,” Quentin piped up, smiling. He was constantly giving Nigel a hard time about his weight. Sometimes Nigel took it well, sometimes he didn’t.
Nigel smiled widely, apparently okay with the ribbing tonight. “You just aren’t ever going to leave that alone, are you? I could lose forty pounds and you’d still call me fat man. Oh well, have your fun.”
“What’s gotten into him?” Quentin asked, looking at Christian disappointedly. “Why’s he in such a good mood?”
“The love of a good woman,” Christian answered, chuckling. “Must be.”
“That’s no fun.”
“Let’s get started,” Christian urged. What he was about to say wasn’t going to go over well. “I met with Samuel Hewitt today. We talked about Laurel Energy.” Nigel and Quentin leaned forward in their chairs, suddenly hanging on every word. “Hewitt ran into a problem with his CEO. The guy didn’t like the idea of buying Laurel. Selling it to U.S. Oil isn’t going to be the slam dunk I thought it was going to be—in fact, it might not happen at all.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Quentin spoke up. “My people told me that the CEO never que
stions Hewitt. Never. He’s afraid to.”
Christian shrugged. “I don’t know what say. The deal isn’t dead, but—”
“But we need to hire Black Brothers,” Nigel cut in. Christian had told him about the possibility of bringing in Black Brothers to try to get the deal done. “Immediately.”
“I think that’s right,” Christian agreed grudgingly. “It hurts because Trenton Fleming is going to charge an arm and a leg to represent us, but I don’t know what else to do. I spoke to the guys at Morgan Stanley today after I met with Hewitt, and they’re done. They don’t have anyone else to go to.”
“What will Black Brothers charge us?” Nigel asked.
“Seven percent of the transaction.”
“Damn!”
“I know. It’s ridiculous,” Christian acknowledged. “But I talked to a couple of people who’ve worked with Black Brothers in the past, people who’ve hired the firm to sell companies, and they do get the deal done when other firms can’t. They have a knack for that.”
“Are they giving you a number?” Nigel asked. “What they think they can get for Laurel?”
“Four and a half billion.”
Quentin pushed out his lower lip and nodded. “Well, it isn’t five, but it isn’t bad, either.”
“Especially considering the fact that we only invested three hundred million in the thing a few years ago,” Nigel pointed out. “That would still be a grand slam for us. I think we should definitely hire them. Did you give Morgan Stanley any hint today that you were going to go with someone else?”
“Yeah, and they didn’t argue. They figured it was coming.”
“So do it,” Quentin encouraged.
Christian nodded slowly. “I will.”
“Did you tell Hewitt you were going to hire Black Brothers when he didn’t come through with an offer today?” Nigel wanted to know.
“Yes.” Christian smiled. “It didn’t faze him a bit.”
“Of course not,” Quentin grumbled. “It’s no biggie for him. He’s just on to the next deal.”
“Exactly.” Christian watched the lights of a commercial jetliner head north up the Hudson River on its way to LaGuardia airport. “One good piece of news. We got the casino license.” For a moment he thought about that rainy night in the New Jersey forest handing the guy he and Quentin had met in Las Vegas a million dollars in cash. “Construction’s on schedule again, it’ll be ready for opening day. By the way, the game’s a sellout. And I spoke to Landry.”
Kurt Landry was commissioner of the National Football League.
“We’re going to be the lead late game on FOX on opening day.”
“That’s great,” Quentin said, patting Christian on the back.
“Yeah, it’s all coming together.”
“How’s the new quarterback from Buffalo doing?” Nigel asked.
“Really well,” Christian replied. “Ray Lancaster e-mailed me this afternoon to tell me the guy’s really fitting in, really becoming a leader. The rest of the team has responded well, too, even Poe. I guess Poe realized he wasn’t the guy.”
“Still irritates the hell out of me that we had to pay that guy off to get the license,” Nigel said, turning the discussion back to the casino.
“We” wasn’t exactly accurate, Christian thought to himself. The million bucks had come directly from his bank account, not Nigel’s. Quentin had offered to share the payment—an offer Christian had declined—but Nigel hadn’t.
“We ought to go after that Carmine Torino guy. That was supposed to be his job, to keep the Mob happy. We paid him a lot of money.”
“You wouldn’t get much out of him,” Quentin said, glancing at Christian.
“Why not?”
“He’s dead,” Christian explained.
Nigel gazed at Christian for a few moments. “Dead?”
“Yup.”
“Jesus. Do you think there’s any connection—”
“What about CST?” Christian interrupted, not wanting to go there. “Any news, Nigel?”
Nigel took a few seconds, his eyes flickering back and forth between Christian and Quentin. “The woman I’m working with at CST is still tracking down information for me. Trying to figure out how high up the fraud goes. But these things take time. She’s got to work on this at night and on the weekends, so people don’t know she’s doing it.”
“So, it’s real?” Quentin asked. “Was there fraud?”
Nigel nodded. “Apparently.”
“What’s the woman’s name? The one you’re working with?”
Nigel hesitated. “Michelle Wan.”
“Have you heard anything from Vivian Davis?” Christian asked.
“Nope. All quiet on the SEC front.”
The SEC’s silence worried Christian, but he didn’t want to call over there, either. That made you look like you were worried. “I’m going to get another bottled water,” he said, standing up. “Anybody want anything?”
Quentin and Nigel shook their heads.
As Christian moved into the apartment and headed for the kitchen, he pulled out his BlackBerry to check e-mails, leaning against the kitchen counter for a moment while he scrolled south. He took a deep breath when he saw it—another e-mail from Faith. Marked urgent. But he’d kept his promise to her—and himself. Hadn’t responded to any of her calls or read any of her e-mails since the day they’d broken up at the bar. It had been a few days since she’d tried to contact him, and she hadn’t marked any of her messages urgent before this.
He turned toward the refrigerator to get the bottled water, then stopped. He knew he shouldn’t read the message, knew it was a mistake, but the curiosity was killing him. He snatched the BlackBerry off the counter, opened the message, and started to read.
Chris, it’s me. You haven’t answered anything I’ve sent you since we broke up so I don’t know if you’ve read or listened to all those other messages, but this one is important. REALLY IMPORTANT. I know this sounds like sour grapes, but Allison’s just using you. She wants to run Everest Capital. She isn’t interested in a real relationship with you. And this isn’t just me spouting off like some madwoman, not me doing anything I can to get you back. I do want you back, but I know what Allison’s doing for a FACT, and I’m worried about you. I can’t tell you how I know what she’s doing, I just know. Please call me. I love you. Faith.
Christian grabbed a bottled water from the fridge, then headed back through the living room toward the balcony. It had to be Faith just trying to do anything she could to come between Allison and him. Had to be.
As Christian passed the couch, he noticed a manila folder poking out of a pocket of Nigel’s briefcase. He stopped and peered at it. The tab was marked “Project CES.” SEC backward, he realized. He moved closer, then glanced toward the balcony. Nigel and Quentin were talking. He pulled the folder out of Nigel’s briefcase and opened it. On top was a copy of an e-mail from a woman named Sylvia Brawn at a CST address. The message was short.
Nigel, I’ve finished Project CES. What now? Syl.
Below the message were several telephone numbers for Sylvia. Christian checked the date of the e-mail. Two days ago. A different name than Nigel had given him—Michelle Wan, Nigel had said—and this e-mail indicated that the project was complete—again, not ongoing as Nigel had said. Maybe it was a different project, but that possibility seemed remote.
He glanced back at the BlackBerry still lying on the counter, tempted to call Faith. Who to trust? It was a question he’d asked himself over and over today. But there wasn’t any answer.
DAHL HAD BEEN working late tonight on an urgent project, classified, top secret: the invasion of another Arab country.
A month ago the National Security Administration had started picking up an immense amount of chatter indicating that there was going to be another massive terrorist attack in the United States—on the scale of 9/11—planned for late summer. The coded messages had ultimately led directly back to the Arab country in question, implicatin
g the country’s senior officials of complying with the terrorists, and the president of the United States had made a quick decision—U.S. forces would make a preemptive strike.
But there had to be a rock-solid justification for invading a country that prior to this had been perceived by the American public—wrongly, though—as an ally of the United States. The president couldn’t just tell everyone he thought there was going to be a terrorist attack and that he was “pretty sure” the army would find evidence of terrorism and complicity by the Arab government when they invaded, then not find it. They had to find it this time. Genuine or planted, it had to be there for the news cameras. That was what Dahl and his team had been working so hard on for the last month. Making certain that the evidence would be found when the troops rolled in.
“Driver,” Dahl called.
“Yes, General?”
It was almost midnight and they were headed from the Pentagon to Dahl’s house in Chevy Chase, Maryland. His wife had some family money, otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to afford a home in such an upscale area near Washington, D.C. Even the Joint Chiefs weren’t paid that well.
“I want to stop at the Peking Duck.” Dahl’s favorite Chinese restaurant. He was starving and his wife had told him over the phone before she went to bed that there wasn’t anything to eat in the house. So he’d called ahead and placed an order for shrimp fried rice, his favorite. “We’ve got to hurry,” he said loudly, checking his watch. “The place closes at midnight. That only gives us ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dahl flicked on a small light in the backseat, donned his reading glasses, and pulled out a report from his briefcase.
When they reached the restaurant, the parking lot was almost empty.
“Hurry,” Dahl urged to the driver as the man wheeled the car up to the front door. “The order is under my name.”
The car skidded to a stop, then the driver hopped out and hurried into the restaurant.
Dahl relaxed into the seat, glad the restaurant door hadn’t been locked. The man who owned the place was a stickler about closing exactly at midnight. He didn’t make exceptions for anyone, not even a five-star general. Dahl smacked his lips. He could already taste the fried rice.
