by Gayle Lynds
Julia asked, "Does Creighton know about the Holocaust loot?"
Old Lyle looked up. "He's the only one who does. We had to tell him."
Sam abruptly seemed to come alive. He saw in Julia's somber face her realization that Lyle hadn't given them enough evidence to stop Creighton's inexorable path to the presidency. Still—
"Where's the Amber Room now?" he demanded. "What did Dan Austrian do with it?"
"Ah, the fabled Amber Room." Old Lyle seemed to be growing sleepy in the rocker. "It must be in someone's private collection, don't you think, boy?"
"What kind of person would hold on to it?" Julia said. "That's despicable, especially considering what it means to the Russian people. And to the world."
The priest drummed his fingers on the desk. His habit lay in folds around him, the brown cloth a constant reminder to himself and all who saw him of his vows. "There is psychology involved. It has to do with a worldly desire for ownership. All through the ages powerful men have had secrets they refused to reveal. Somehow that made the secret better, more potent. And if it is a treasure that the world wants, how much greater the power of the man who owns it and has to share it with no one."
Sam nodded. "Stolen art's bought with no questions asked and stored in locked vaults for the private pleasure of an affluent few. That's why thieves continue to steal major works. It's highly profitable."
The doorbell rang. The priest stood. "I had better see who is here."
Worried, Sam was on his feet instantly. "I'll go with you."
They headed for the door, Julia right behind. She tried to blank from her mind the danger that the doorbell could signal. She looked back over her shoulder. "Grandpa, we'll just see who it is—"
But old Lyle was asleep in the rocker. His head rested to the side. His lips were parted. His big jaw fell. He snored.
As they hurried into the hall, the priest explained in his lightly accented English, "He falls asleep often. His strength is not huge. And the last day has been very trying. He is strong, but he wants to believe he has no physical limitations."
A nun in a black-and-white habit was just answering the bell as Julia, Sam, and Father Michael sped into the foyer. Julia's heart was pounding. Maya Stern could be waiting on the other side of the door. She could've tracked any of them. Julia slipped her hand inside her pocket to grip the Beretta. She and Sam stood off to the side. His hand was inside his coat where he kept his Browning in a shoulder holster. There was no side window through which they could check the identity of the visitor—
"Yes?" the nun said. "May I help you?"
A man's voice answered. "Someone call for a taxi?"
Julia was relieved. Then she realized it could be one of the Janitors using a ploy.
"We have our own cars," the nun said politely. "You must have the wrong address."
There was a hesitation. "I went to the church first, ma'am, because that's where I thought I was supposed to pick up the fare. Sorry. The dispatcher must've got the wrong information."
"It's no problem." The nun closed the door and turned to them. "Were you expecting a visitor?"
But Julia and Sam didn't answer. Julia said, "He got a call to go to the church!"
"Hurry!" Sam said.
They tore down the corridor to the sitting room. The door was open, and the room was empty. The rocking chair still swayed gently.
Sam said, "That devious old fox."
They looked down the hall and saw an outside door at the end. The foyer was closer. They raced back to the front door and opened it. As they piled onto the stoop, the taxi stopped down the street to the right. The old man yanked open its back door. He was still in his Franciscan habit, the hood up over his head. He looked up just then and saw them. He gave a cheery wave and disappeared inside.
"Dammit!" Julia exploded. "He's going to get himself killed!"
She and Sam sprinted across the lawn and jumped off the stone retaining wall. But the taxi accelerated away, leaving them far behind.
53
2:00 PM, MONDAY
ARBOR KNOLL
The afternoon sun shone cool and bright on the limousines parading to a stop at the massive front doors to Arbor Knoll. Inside the foyer, Creighton Redmond greeted guests. His wife stood beside him in a long Chanel gown, and next to her was vice presidential nominee Arthur Friedman and his wife. To Creighton, the stream of supporters in their formal clothes and sparkling jewels seemed gratifyingly endless—
The influential Senator Mutti from California. Marthann Marcianne, the new hot Hollywood star with her latest boy toy. Governors, senators, and representatives. Impresarios, philanthropists, industrialists, and famous Broadway actors. Baseball, football, and towering basketball stars. The cardinal himself, and a host of bishops, monsignors, priests, and nuns. The political tide had turned, and only those on their deathbeds had refused the once-scorned invitations.
But Creighton fumed inside. Against all odds, Julia and Keeline remained free, and his goddamn father was loose. Without Julia, Keeline never would've been activated, and he was sure she'd somehow helped the old bastard. It was all Julia's fault, and Creighton hated her more each time he thought about her. She was no Redmond, no matter who her mother had been. Or maybe because of who her mother had been. He was regretting Marguerite's death less and less.
"Her hair's beastly," his wife Alexis commented sotto voce about the Washington gossip columnist she'd just passed off to Friedman. Alexis's smile was wavering. Even for her, who adored society with the savage possession of one who gauged life by the quality of invitations in the Tiffany tray on her desk, the charm of the campaign and the heightened sense of entrée were growing thin.
Creighton whispered back, "That frizz tops a treasure trove of political scandal. Think what she knows and can tell. Keep smiling, dear."
As the line thinned, he realized his nerves were raw, too. He needed to talk to Vince. Surely by now Vince had found Julia and Keeline and put them out of the picture for good. Most certainly the old man was safely back in the nursing home.
"I think we've had enough, don't you?" he said to Friedman. He summoned his social secretary and her husband to take over the receiving line, and he, Alexis, Friedman, and his wife, Janet, spread into the festive throng. Creighton shook hands, laughed, talked, accepted a champagne flute, and wove his way toward Vince.
When he was close enough, he quietly told Vince, "We need to talk. Let's go to the wine cellar."
Vince wore a Gucci tuxedo, and his SigSauer was safely in his shoulder holster. As they strode downstairs, he told Creighton, "Mario says the polls after Staffeld's death went ballistic. Sixty percent! That's five points more than you needed. It's as close to a guarantee you'll be elected as anyone could hope for. Doug Powers must be apoplectic."
Creighton studied his son as they walked. In many ways Vince was a puzzle. He'd risen quickly in the Company on his own merit. Yet he seemed to lack a visceral ability to close in for the kill. Creighton knew without asking that Julia, Keeline, and the old man were still at large, because if they'd been caught, Vince would've alerted him instantly.
"I take it you still don't have your grandfather or Julia or Keeline?"
Vince was in agony because he hadn't delivered. He'd always thought of himself as his father's heir apparent, waiting to take over as head of the Redmonds once Creighton and his uncles died. He had secret dreams of succeeding Creighton to the White House. Not right away, of course, but sometime in the next two decades after he'd put in a few years as CIA director and gone into other public service. Maybe the senate. He knew his father would be a popular president, easy to follow. Creighton did everything well. And Vince expected to stand in his place eventually, no longer in his shadow. But now?
"They seem to have slipped into oblivion." His normally arrogant voice was tense. "We have no traces from any of the expected sources—financial, friends, or the NYPD. It's almost as if they don't exist anymore." He pulled open the heavy door to the wine cellar, an
d they strode inside.
As the door closed and the two men stood alone among the long racks of bottles, Creighton had to decide what to do. The air smelled of the rich odors of grape and alcohol. Creighton couldn't change ships now. He strode to a barrel where a row of bottles stood on top, the sediment settled safely to the glass bottoms. He chose the best bottle—an 1854 Lafite-Rothschild he'd planned to drink alone tomorrow night in the retreat, the new president of the United States and leader of the world.
He handed the precious bottle to Vince. "Open it."
"The 1854?" Awe filled Vince's voice. "It's a ten-thousand-dollar bottle!"
"That's how important what you're doing is to me, son. Open it."
Vince's hands trembled as he uncorked the old bottle and carefully poured two glasses. The honor and the challenge both impressed and frightened him. The honor . . . and the implied threat: Do it right, or I'm finished with you.
Seeing his message had hit home, Creighton closed his eyes and filled his mouth with the wonderful wine. He tasted cherries, dark chocolate, a hint of old, wet leaves, and a complexity impossible to most wines. Then he slammed his fist down hard on the barrel head. Vince jumped.
"We're both finished if they get to anyone who'll listen to them." He studied his son's dark eyes. "Where are they, Vince? Think!"
Vince was miserable. "Maya Stern lost Julia and Keeline in the city. The old man hasn't surfaced since he sneaked out of the nursing home. I've checked every damn Franciscan church in Westchester, New York, Nassau, and Suffolk counties. No one ever heard of this Father Michael. I've got Stern and the Janitors combing the city, and Company agents after Grandfather. Of course, the agents don't know why they're looking. Maybe if I knew what Julia, Keeline, and the old man were planning, then—"
Creighton looked up sharply from the wine. "What are they planning to do?"
The two men stared at each other.
Vince said slowly, thinking, "When Julia killed the Janitor in Baltimore and ran, where did she go? To the nursing home! She's trying to make contact with the old man. If we knew what the old man wanted to do, why he busted out—"
"Dad?" Creighton set down his glass so quickly he splashed the priceless wine across the barrel head. "But we do know! He's Lyle Redmond. He didn't break out to run away or hide in some two-bit motel. He wants to confront us. His disloyal sons. His ungrateful grandson. He wants to beat us. And where would the old man know he could do it?"
"Here." Vince held up a fist. "Arbor Knoll."
Creighton's eyes burned with an eager fire. "Let's assume Julia and Keeline have figured that out. That they've decided he'll come here, too. But the old man escaped last night. He'd need a place to hide. Somewhere safe. . . but close."
Vince's mind worked rapidly. He was his father's son, and he was the DDI. He was highly intelligent and hardworking, and he knew intimately the ins and outs of power. He told himself he could do this. "Well, he's with that priest. But I've checked all the Franciscan churches . . . " It came to him in one of those flashes of insight that had moved him up so rapidly in the Company. "Our church! The family church! Saint Dominic's in Oyster Bay. It's not Franciscan, but it's possible—"
"Of course. Last year when he began to go crazy, he was attending church off and on. What if he met this Father Michael there. I'll bet the priest's behind the old man's trying to give everything away. That sounds like a damned priest. And didn't Reilly say the priest had a German accent?" An uneasy shiver ran through Creighton, an apprehension, a German priest, but he pushed it aside. "That's it, son. Get him! Send—"
Creighton stopped abruptly. He'd been about to say, "Send Maya Stern," but he realized what could happen if he assigned the assassin. She could kill his father. Then in the same instant, he knew, understood, and accepted: That was what had to happen. David had been right. Lyle Redmond had to die.
The revelation was like walking through fire: A searing agony of pain, and then on the other side the truth. He'd never been able to do it before. He was as viscerally connected to his father as if his father were an extension of himself. An arm, a leg, an aorta. Always there, as firmly a part of his life as the air. Creighton had never been very religious, but he knew somewhere deep inside that religion played a role in his aversion: For him, it was the worst sin of all to kill your own father.
But now the old man had changed the rules. No matter what it cost, the brothers would never be free until Lyle Redmond was gone.
Vince would understand. Brice wouldn't. Not at once. But there was no other way. As if he were still on the bench, Creighton calmly handed down the verdict:
"Find him, Vince. Find them all. Then send Stern in and kill them."
Vince stared. "The old man?"
"All of them. And tell your uncles to meet me at the retreat at four o'clock."
54
2:30 PM, MONDAY
OYSTER BAY, NEW YORK
Father Michael stood morosely on the rectory's sidewalk as if he'd just missed the last train from a besieged city. Old Lyle had fooled him. This task he'd set for himself was far more dangerous than he'd ever imagined. Then a thought came to him: He hath filled the hungry with good things; and the rich he hath sent empty away. Luke 1, verse 53. He felt better. One of the reasons he'd been attracted as a boy to the Franciscan order was its evangelical mission. In his prayers for Lyle Redmond's soul, he'd asked for strength and courage. Now he needed both more than ever.
As Sam and Julia returned from their futile pursuit of the taxi, she demanded, "Where's Grandpa going?"
Father Michael walked quickly up the steps to the rectory. "We should not talk where we can be seen."
They returned to the small sitting room. Julia felt as if she'd explode. Instead, she collected herself and said, "Tell us now. It's obvious he's been planning something, and you've got to know what it is."
Father Michael kept his voice low. "I believe Mr. Redmond is going to Arbor Knoll for the celebration his son is holding—"
It was exactly what she'd feared. Lyle was walking old, unarmed, and arrogant into Creighton's den.
"—After that I do not know what he has in mind, except that he does not think his son should be president."
Sam said grimly, "You realize there's no way Creighton can allow Lyle to tell his story. Creighton's running as the spotless candidate. When the press hears the Redmond fortune and power—everything—was built on Nazi plunder, they'll go after him no-holds-barred. Especially if Lyle tells them Creighton's known about it for years and done nothing. No, Creighton will have Lyle drugged and back in that home before you can blink."
Julia forced herself to stay calm. "The Secret Service controls all entrances to Arbor Knoll. The party's certainly by invitation only. How's Grandpa going to get inside?"
The priest opened his hands in an embarrassed gesture. "He once mentioned a secret entrance he used years ago when he would leave to meet his women."
Julia was surprised. "He told you that?"
"We spoke of many things. Mr. Redmond is on a path toward salvation." The priest felt a catch in his throat. "But, alas, he did not tell me where the entrance was."
"Then we find another way," Sam snapped. "It's a big estate with woods. There's got to be someplace we can climb over the fence without being spotted. Or we can get in as reporters, caterers, servants, delivery people. There must be—"
Julia objected, "Those are all too dangerous, or they'll take too long. I think I have a more workable idea."
The Redmonds were a big, Irish-Catholic family several generations removed from the first Redmonds who'd escaped the poverty of County Cork for America, but they still honored many of the traditions. They were similar to the Morans and Tracys, often called the tugboat aristocracy because they'd run all the tugs in New York not long ago. Both the Morans and the Tracys had their very own private priests, as did other wealthy, powerful Irish-Catholic dynasties. Social priests were everywhere in Catholic circles, especially in rich ones where members had bad con
sciences. For as long as Julia could remember, most of the Redmond men went to mass infrequently, relying on their women to pray for their souls. But at every important social or family gathering, the local parish monsignor and a priest or nun or two were invited.
She turned to Father Michael. "Didn't the Redmond campaign send invitations to the monsignor and his staff?"
"Of course. That is customary. This is their parish church."
"Then let us use two. We'll go in disguised as a priest and nun."
Father Michael's face seemed to smooth over. The jowls tightened, but the bags beneath his eyes suddenly seemed larger. All his sixty-five years showed on his creviced, unhappy face. He folded his square hands in front of him. He said nothing.
Julia saw his reluctance. "You made it possible for Grandpa to escape the nursing home. You've come this far with him. You've got to help us."
Father Michael felt stinging misgivings. He'd not expected anything this dramatic to happen—certainly not the peril. He was in America not just as a priest in retirement who'd wanted a change of scene, he'd come for a holy purpose: To save Lyle Redmond's soul. Now he was beginning to accept that his assignment included a more worldly task: To save the old sinner's life.
Oddly he felt a moment of elation. He quoted: " 'If anyone wants to come after me, he must forget himself, carry his cross, and follow me.' " It was a beautiful excerpt he'd loved in childhood—Matthew 16, verse 24. It was even more true today. Now.
He said, "I will do what I can."
2:40 PM
Father Michael was a resourceful man, but he wouldn't lie. So he went into the monsignor's office and asked to make confession.
The monsignor could see the pain on his old friend's face, and he agreed.
"Bless me, Father, for I have sinned." Father Michael emptied his heart.
The monsignor's face changed from interest to surprise to horror. What Father Michael had told him was beyond belief. But in all their years he'd never known Father Michael to lie, and Lyle Redmond was the head of the family and did not appear senile or incapacitated in any way. The monsignor could barely contemplate such greed and ambition. He wanted to go instantly to the authorities, but this was a confessional, and he could tell no one. He must bear the secret.
