Fast Track

by Fern Michaels

  Sullivan rocked back on his heels. He closed his eyes and tried to conjure up what Ted’s column would look like. “Okay.” He turned on his heel and marched back to his office. Ted let out a sigh so loud he startled himself.

  He needed a plan. He definitely needed a plan. Not only did he need a plan, he needed a Plan B, a Plan C, and maybe even a Plan D. Hell, he might have to use up the whole damn alphabet. As he packed up his gear, his thoughts were all over the map. He needed to check out his bank balance. Maybe he could con his pal Espinosa, a sometime writing partner, into joining forces, and then he could tap Espinosa’s bank account as well. Private dicks these days wanted retainers for sitting on their asses and hacking into shit no one else could get near. But first he needed to follow through on Sullivan’s orders and pick up Maggie’s things.

  Ted’s step was buoyant as he made his way to the lobby. Outside, he hailed a cab and directed the driver to the address where the Post kept an apartment for visiting flacks and people who were willing to sell a story for money. It always came down to money. Always.

  Jack Emery stepped out of the shower, threw on a clean pair of sweats, and walked out to the main floor of Harry Wong’s dojo. Harry was bowing low to show his class of police officers they were dismissed. He looked over at Jack and winced. He knew that look.

  Jack sat down on a pile of mats and tied his sneakers. From time to time he looked over at Harry, who was staring at him. “What?”

  “You know something, and you’ve been waiting for the right time to tell me. It’s probably something I’m not going to like because from the expression on your face you don’t like it, either. Tell me, or before your heart beats again, I’ll break both your arms.”

  “Ooh, ooh, I’m scared. What the hell do you think I’ll be doing while you’re breaking my arms?”

  “Howling in agony,” Harry snarled.

  “You excite me when you snarl. I go all atwitter. You know what, Harry, I keep worrying that this place is bugged. I know you said you sweep it every day, but those cruds at the FBI could plant something between sweeps. Soon as the class leaves, let’s take it outside, where we can really talk. Better yet, I haven’t had any dinner. Want to try that new watering hole on H Street?”

  “The one where the World Bank is? The one where all the employees are women duded up in skintight attire? That one? The guy who set that up is making a mint. Give me five minutes to change. Check the doors in front, Jack. Make sure everyone is out. Some of those cop friends of yours are stragglers. I locked some guy in two weeks ago who was diddling around in the shower buffing his toenails or something. He was stuck in here all night. D.C.’s finest!” Harry snorted to show what he thought of his own comment.

  “That’s the one, but I forget what it’s called. Do it, Harry. You buying?”

  “Hell no. You invited me, remember?”

  Ten minutes later the building was clear, and both men were outside. Harry slid onto his Ducati motorcycle, Jack behind him.

  They made it to H Street in seven minutes, windblown but exhilarated.

  Both men elbowed their way through the swarming crowds at the Fast Track. Harry was right, it was a gold mine for whoever owned the joint. The plus was that the food was supposedly wonderful, and everything was reasonably priced. At the moment it was standing room only. Jack left his name at the hostess desk. They walked back outside with a beeper that would buzz when it was their turn to be seated.

  Jack fired up a cigarette, to Harry’s dismay.

  “You told me you were quitting. You lied.”

  “Yeah. I’m under lots of pressure. It’s my pacifier. This is only my third one today, so stop nagging me.”

  “Are you going to tell me now, or do you want to be carted off to the hospital?”

  Jack walked twenty feet to the curb, out of earshot of some of the other people smoking by the entrance. He turned so that his back was to the doorway.

  “Charles called before I got to the dojo. I would have told you then, but you were holding a class. Something’s up. Right here where we’re standing.”

  Harry looked around, his Eastern eyes almost widening. “Here? At the Fast Track?”

  “Not exactly,” Jack said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “Try widening your vision.”

  Harry turned completely around as he viewed the street and the buildings. His gaze went from left to right, then up and down. Jack almost laughed when he saw his friend swivel around to face him, dark questions in his eyes. “Are you saying…?”

  “Yep.”

  “Son of a bitch! So, that’s why you wanted to come here.”

  “Yep.”

  “No. No. I mean no, Jack. My nerves are still twanging over that last mess with the G-String Girls. And that asshole Mitch Riley at the FBI before that. Are you crazy? We’re at the top of the FBI’s watch list. No. When are you going to get it through your head we’re both too old for this shit? No.”

  “Looks like the girls will be here next week,” Jack said as he fired up a second cigarette from the butt of his first one. “I guess you could call Yoko and tell her you don’t want any part of it this time around. I’m going to ask Nikki to marry me. When it’s over.”

  “I really hate you, Jack.”

  “Enough of this male bonding. We have to get things ready. At the moment, I don’t know what those things are, but I have a few clues. I need you on this, Harry. I also have other news. Guess who else called me today?”

  “The president?” Harry asked sourly. “You better not be telling me God called you.”

  “Not even close. Mark Lane, my old buddy from the FBI. As you know, he went private. But he has all these great contacts. He called me just as I was getting out of court. Ted Robinson hired Tick Fields, the private dick who advertises on TV. He plunked down a five-grand retainer at three o’clock this afternoon. A personal check. Mark does work for Tick from time to time. And they’re personal friends as well. Fields wouldn’t disclose what he was hired to do, ethics and all that. All he would say was Robinson hired him.”

  “Don’t tell me he’s downwind of this,” Harry said, jerking his head in the direction of the World Bank’s headquarters. “If you just found out, how the hell could he scoop you? You must be slipping, Jack.”

  Jack blew another smoke ring, not as perfect as the first one. He tried still another, his gaze sweeping the street in front of him. “I don’t think it has anything to do with this. I think he’s trying to figure out where everyone went all of a sudden, including his old girlfriend, Maggie. He knew what went down a while back. He got slapped down at the Post. He’s still smarting over that. Let’s face it, Harry, we did rub the guy’s nose in it. He’s going to be on us like white on rice because he knows we’re the key to it all. So that means we both keep a sharp eye out. Don’t give him anything to feed off.”

  The beeper in Jack’s hand went off just as he crushed out his cigarette on the curb.

  “I knew I should have killed the son of a bitch,” Harry said, trailing behind Jack.

  “Sounds good, but we aren’t in the business of blowing people away. You wouldn’t do well in prison, Harry.”

  A sound that could have been mistaken for laughter escaped Harry’s lips. “Who said anything about me going to prison? I would have framed you to take the rap.”

  “Oh,” was all Jack could think of to say.

  Harry emitted the funny sound again as he shouldered his way past the crowds to follow a leggy blonde hostess leading them to their table. She slapped down two menus, winked at them, and left. Neither man seemed to notice because they were too busy eyeing the three men at the next table: Ted Robinson, Joe Espinosa, and Tick Fields.

  Chapter 4

  The women looked at one another as they trooped into the Big House, where Charles was waiting for them. They chatted among themselves about how different it was here on Big Pine Mountain. In the beginning when they first formed the Sisterhood, meetings were held in the tunnels beneath Myra’s farmhouse in
McLean, Virginia, because it was essential that the meetings be kept secret. Then, when they moved to the old monastery in Barcelona, the meetings were conducted in the same manner, in the catacombs beneath the monastery.

  Here on Big Pine Mountain, the meeting they were about to attend was held in Charles’s computer room. The physical room looked different from the tunnels and the catacombs, but as usual, the equipment was so high-tech it would have been the envy of the CIA or the White House.

  The windows afforded a clear view of the pine forest and the helicopter pad. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the plasma televisions huge, and the temperature on the cool side because of the special computers Charles worked on around the clock.

  The women settled themselves in the chairs, their eyes on the bright red folders in Myra’s hands.

  Time for business.

  The women slid their chairs closer to the table as they steeled themselves for what was to come. The rule was, Myra handed out the folders, but they were never opened until Charles gave the signal. First came an update, then the monster TVs were turned on so that Lady Justice could oversee the meeting.

  It was always a sobering moment when Lady Justice appeared because the women knew what they were doing was illegal. When the legal system failed those in need, when there was nowhere else to turn, the Sisterhood stepped in and served up their own brand of justice.

  They were about to break the law. Again. This time for money. It was a first for them. They’d carried out nine missions with funding from Myra and Annie’s vast store of wealth. While they were accepting money to do this particular mission, they weren’t keeping it. Or as Kathryn had said, “We’re playing the role of modern-day Robin Hoodettes.”

  It was Annie who’d said that simply taking the money meant they had crossed the line and become guns for hire. Then she went on to say, “And why not? We’re the best at what we do, and if we can rectify a wrong with our expertise, why not take payment? Then, by giving the money away it makes it a win-win situation for the Sisterhood.” Before she finally stepped off her soap-box, she’d said, “And screw anyone who doesn’t understand.”

  The women offered up a standing ovation. Even Charles clapped his hands in approval.

  The women now waited expectantly for Charles to end the call he’d just taken. They eyed the red folders now resting on the table in front of Myra. All of them noticed that they were thick folders.

  Murphy and Grady got up and paced the room. The women frowned. The dogs were picking up on something. Possibly the tension in Charles’s shoulders. The dogs had been fine before Charles’s special phone buzzed to life.

  As one they knew it was a glitch. A problem of some kind. And the mission hadn’t even started.

  The moment Charles snapped the phone shut, the women sat up straighter. Myra picked up the folders. Nikki looked around, expecting a starter gun to pop announcing the beginning of a race. All she could think of was seeing Jack again. Within days. Just days. She closed her eyes, imagining how it would feel to be wrapped in Jack’s arms and to kiss him with all her pent-up hunger. She almost swooned at the thought.

  “Ladies!”

  Nikki and the others snapped to attention as Myra slid the folders across the table. Charles pressed the remote control in his hand. Front and center on the plasma screen was a life-size picture of Maxwell Zenowicz, the president of the World Bank. He was tall, with a swarthy complexion and an impressive comb-over. He wore sunglasses that were too small for his hawklike face. Whoever had taken the picture had captured him in midstride. He was nattily dressed, his shoes buffed to a high shine. The Halliburton briefcase held tightly in his hand. It looked like he was about to enter the World Bank.

  The next picture appeared to be of Zenowicz exiting the building. The sun had moved off to the west, so it was later in the day but still daylight. He still looked just as nattily dressed, but he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He had small, hooded eyes.

  The third picture was of Zenowicz entering the Fast Track watering hole.

  Charles cleared his throat. “Mr. Zenowicz likes to socialize after work with the little people. Complete with his security force. He enjoys…uh…bellying up to the bar and buying rounds for all the lovely ladies who are gathered there. Prior to the opening of the Fast Track, Mr. Zenowicz walked several blocks to an establishment called the Capitol Grill. He orders a scotch on the rocks. Sips a little, never finishes his drink. He smokes but not in public.

  “Mr. Zenowicz does not like to be called Max. His wrath is quick to be displayed if some friend or underling refers to him by any abbreviation of his name. It’s a well-known fact that he likes to be called Mr. President. As you can see by the pictures, he dresses impeccably. He wears an impressive watch and his college ring. Married once. Ugly divorce. Wife will be more than cooperative if you feel the need to speak with her. Children, grown, lead their own lives. He is not included in their lives. He likes to socialize as long as he’s the center of attention. He particularly likes young ladies. Early twenties. He showers them with gifts, flowers, trinkets. He drives a Bentley. He bought it brand-new last year for $300,000. He doesn’t drive to work. He takes public transportation. The Bentley is kept in a heated garage, and he takes it out on the weekends. On occasion, if there is a VIP in town, he will pick them up personally at the airport in his Bentley. Any questions, ladies?”

  “How old is he?” Alexis asked.

  “Fifty-nine. He had a birthday two weeks ago. He threw himself a huge birthday party. The guest list was long and distinguished. Cost $50,000. It’s a known fact that people in Washington don’t like the man but they attended the soiree to get their names and pictures in the paper. I’m quoting now from the Post.”

  “Does he have any other residences aside from the Watergate?” Isabelle asked.

  “Actually, he does. He has a condo in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He also has an apartment in the Dakota in Manhattan, and there’s a chalet-type getaway he visits from time to time in Hilton Head, South Carolina. His wife got the house in the Hamptons and the boat. Excuse me, the yacht. She also received an impressive settlement that ran into the high eight figures. Mr. Zenowicz did a bit of snapping and snarling, I’m told, when the judge awarded Mrs. Zenowicz a handsome alimony. He pays it on time but grudgingly. Mrs. Zenowicz is what we in England used to refer to as ‘top drawer.’”

  “Where did the money come from?” Myra asked. “I’m assuming all this happened before he took the office of president of the World Bank? If the man has that kind of money, why does he have to pilfer the money earmarked for poor, starving countries?”

  Charles shrugged. “To some people a hundred dollars is a lot of money. To other people a million dollars is the end of the rainbow. Still others think a hundred million isn’t enough. But to answer your question, he inherited a small fortune, which he turned into a very large fortune in the stock market. He was heavy into the dot-com area and got out in time but that’s basically where he became a multimillionaire. He also had the good fortune to be an only child.

  “If there are no more questions concerning Mr. Zenowicz, then we’ll move along to our next series of pictures. Open your folders and turn to page five.”

  The women opened their folders and flipped the pages.

  “Whoa!” seemed to be the consensus when they looked down at the glossy photo staring up at them.

  Annie pursed her mouth like she’d just bit into a lemon. Then she sniffed. “Obviously, the woman has been surgically enhanced. None of what I’m seeing could possibly be real.”

  “From top to bottom,” Yoko said.

  “An easy seventy grand,” Nikki said.

  Myra gasped. “That much, dear?”

  Nikki grinned. “Yes. She’s too chiseled, too sculpted, too perfect. The boob job alone is about seven grand, maybe more, depending on the reputation of the plastic surgeon. Maybe some liposuction. Full face-lift. Eye job. The teeth are a dentist’s dream. All caps. At least forty grand for that smile.
Collagen in the lips. Nose job. Take a good look at the picture in the folder. This woman is not young. I put her in her mid-forties.”

  “Why would someone pay that much money to be sliced and diced?” Myra fretted.

  “Earth to Myra,” Annie said, waving her hand up and down in front of Myra’s face. “To look like that is the reason. You’re missing the point, she didn’t look like that before she went under the knife. I think you’re wrong, Nikki, I think she’s closer to fifty, perhaps a little older.”

  “Is she Zenowicz’s main squeeze? If so, I guess he paid for the…enhancements,” Kathryn said.

  Charles tried to hide his smile. “She’s one of several…main squeezes, as you put it, Kathryn. But she’s the only one he pays the bills for. This particular woman used to be a dancer in Las Vegas. She…uh…migrated to Washington after a meeting with Mr. Zenowicz last year. She now works as a liaison at the World Bank. The European Commission in Belgium, to be precise. She travels back and forth. She’s well paid. Her hobby is shopping.”

  “What does that mean, ‘well paid’?” Yoko asked.

  Charles riffled his papers. “Her salary is $240,000 a year. She has a limousine at her disposal when she is in town. It’s a perk she insisted upon. It’s my understanding the lady has a very pleasing personality. She could very well be a nice person caught up in something she didn’t anticipate. Be kind in your thoughts until you can prove otherwise.”

  “And what does she do to earn that astronomical salary?” Isabelle queried.

  Kathryn uttered a very unladylike snort. “Well, it’s obvious what she does. Kinky stuff. I’d like to see her résumé.”

  Charles had a hard time keeping a straight face. “Turn to page twelve.”