“It might take a while. He's got to out-bully her, and they'll have to eat crow together.” Almost pouting, she questioned aloud if Linda's cooking skills included roasted crow. “In the meantime, we need to get the house ready for them. Oh, and Joe, you need to stay here until they come.”
“Mom, I have a job I have to get to. And find a place to live.”
“You're staying. It's a family emergency. They'll understand.”
“Mom!” He stopped as her laser stare burned a hole in his objection.
“Get to work.”
The three men started to clean the house and Emily sat in the family room, watching whatever news channel displayed the time. At 9:48, a phone rang, muffled and distant.
“That's mine,” she said. “He'll call you next, Fritz. You owe me ten dollars, Ashley.”
Chapter 11
AT FIVE MINUTES to six that evening, a sharp knock on his door interrupted Florian Declercq as he shaved. A few strokes of the blade later, a towel over his shoulder, he answered the door. The man handed him an envelope and stood in the doorway. Declercq asked him to wait and took a bill from his wallet.
“Mr. Declercq, read the note. I'm not a messenger.”
Not amused at receiving orders from a stranger, Declercq opened the envelope and removed the sheet of paper. “So where are we going?”
“Sir, the meeting room has proved inadequate. A car is waiting for you. Please finish dressing. We're on a schedule.” The man stepped into the room and shut the door.
“If you'll excuse me, I need to make a call.”
The man shook his head. “Sorry, sir. That won't be possible. Precautions have been taken for your protection. And the others. You'll be able to call later. Now, please finish dressing.”
As Florian buttoned his shirt, he stepped toward the bathroom, with his tie. The man followed. His brow raised, Declercq started to close the door, but the man stepped to the threshold and blocked the door with his foot. Before he could object, the man said, “Mr. Declercq, I've been assigned as a bodyguard. My instructions are not to let you out of my sight once you opened the door. The people you are meeting with are wealthy and important, as are you. Please sir, this is for your protection.” His jacket opened, flashing a pistol under his left arm. “People are aware of your role in the Middle East. And now, I'm saying too much.”
* * *
FROM ACROSS THE hotel lobby, a man and woman sitting together on a leather couch, observed a parade to the front door, and a procession of limousines filling and driving away. In the middle of the line Florian Declercq waited, looking from side to side and frowning. When he climbed into the waiting limo, the woman rose and viewed their departure, a cell phone to her ear.
“Did we have anyone outside?” asked the president. “Did you get license plates? Is anyone following?” His lowered brow and rippling jaw reflected the answers to his questions. “We'll have to wait until he comes back.” General Beech sat across from him, his lips tight and downturned.
“We promised him we'd have his back,” said the general. “I hope nothing happens.”
* * *
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN,” said Peter Seymour, “please forgive the sudden change in plans.” He stood at the head of a table, set with white linens, as spotless and impeccable as the room around him. The silverware indicated a meal with numerous courses. Surrounded by ceiling-high windows, they had a view of Manhattan to the south and a row of clouds drifting east over New Jersey, in what promised to be a magnificent sunset. “You have been invited to participate in this gathering to meet and mingle. Some of you are already familiar and perhaps have even met. I'm sure you are all wondering why you have been asked here. For now, the bar is in the corner,” he pointed across the room, “and dinner will be served in thirty minutes.” He left the room through a side door.
Florian looked around, recognizing faces but he had never met anyone in the room. As the table emptied to the bar, the last man to leave the table said, “You're Declercq, right?” Florian nodded. “That's your ship in the Israeli harbor, right? My name's Jeff Hammersley. It's my trucks that pick up your cargoes and deliver to the building sites.”
“Nice to meet you,” said Florian, reluctantly holding out his hand. “Florian Declercq.”
“Call me Jeff. Do you have any idea what this is about?”
“I'm sure we'll find out shortly.”
“Drink?” suggested Hammersley. They joined the others. Declercq took out his wallet. “I'm sure they're not charging us.”
Declercq took out a business card. “Jeff, perhaps it would be good for us to talk about the consequences for each of us with the harbor closed and the airport shut down.” He studied the barrel-chested man whose eagerness raised a caution flag.
Overhearing the comments, the man in front of them said, “I'd like to join that conversation, too. I'm Malcolm Dewhurst. My company is building some of the wind farms. Doesn't look like I'll be busy for a while.” Declercq handed him a card, as Hammersley removed a few from his wallet.
“Florian Declercq is my name, Mr. Dewhurst. Perhaps we three should sit together.”
The six men and two women introduced themselves, and all were careful to say as little as possible, none sure of the purpose of their presence. At seven o'clock, Peter Seymour returned and asked them to join him. As the courses began to appear, each person surveyed the table. The servers delivered different offerings at each place. Appetizers varied, each salad arrived with a different dressing. Before the entrée, Seymour stood, his glass raised. “I would like to propose a welcoming toast. Thank you all for being here and here's to our mutual business interests being successful.”
“Here, here,” said Hammersley, clinking the glasses of those nearby.
“Mr. Seymour,” said Florian. “I am curious. Why are we here?”
“I'm sure you speak for the others, Mr. Declercq. When we finish dinner, all your questions will be answered.” Seymour nodded to a man in a tuxedo, who looked more like a gangster than a maître d'. The man tapped on the door to the kitchen.
Moments later, a dozen men carrying empty trays cleared the table, one waiter to each guest. The extras carried bread baskets and wine glasses. Following the clearing, each waiter returned with a single wine bottle and poured a small amount in the glass of the person in their charge.
“Taste,” said Seymour. Glasses were swirled, sniffed and sipped. As each person nodded, the glasses were filled, the bottles placed on the table. One woman lifted the bottle and read the label.
“This is my favorite wine. How did you find out?” Declercq took the collected cards from his pocket and noted her name. Grace Bellwood. She headed an international engineering company started by her late father. He glanced at his own wine. A cabernet from Argentina that he had found years before, but ordered only when he ate prime rib. He studied the glasses on the table. One white, a rose, one champagne and other reds. The kitchen door opened again. Placed before him, a trimmed slab of prime rib, bone attached, cooked to not quite medium rare. A side of French fried potatoes, a pitcher of au jus, and steamed broccoli, separately plated, surrounded the entrée.
“I suggest you taste first,” said Seymour, almost reading the minds of those about to reach for salt and pepper.
Curious at the start, Declercq now became suspicious. Who would go to such trouble to gather such trivial information, and then flaunt the fact that each of them had been spied on? When he tasted his own meal, cooked perfectly and pre-seasoned to his taste, he could feel tightness in his shoulders increasing with each bite. Yet he could not deny that he might be eating the best meal he had ever had. Da Vinci rang in his head. Is this my last supper?
Chapter 12
ALTHOUGH HIS MEAL was superb, he ate in small bites. Declercq listened for an indication of what his companions were thinking. He wanted most to remain inconspicuous. But, when discussion turned to the Middle East, all eyes focused on him.
“So Florian, tell us what happened to
your ship,” said Jeff Hammersley, his words slurred.
“Yes, Mr. Declercq, please do,” said Isaac Martin, who had introduced himself unnecessarily. Renowned as a risk-taking investment banker and a financial superstar, Martin had made far more than he had lost investing in new technologies.
Declercq sipped his wine, taking just enough time to form a reply. “We aren't yet sure if sabotage, a mine in the channel, or something unnoticed in the hold caused the explosion.” A man he had not spoken with asked, “How long until the channel will be reopened?”
“And your name?”
“Pardon me. My name is Lucas Weiss.”
“It is too soon to be sure. We are waiting for the divers' reports. My engineers fear we will have to dismantle it and are currently considering our options. The wind turbine blades must be removed. They pose a problem.”
Weiss asked, “Then you could be weeks blocking the channel?” The belligerent tone uncorked Florian's temper, undermining his usually calm demeanor.
“It could be longer, but I remind you, I am not blocking the channel. The explosions may not have been accidental.” He shoved his plate to the center of the table.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Peter Seymour, standing, “perhaps it is time to move to our evening's agenda. You have each been invited for two reasons.” Chairs shifted toward the head of the table. “The first, a social gathering allows you to meet each other. The second is to invite you to become part of an informal group of business leaders who can, together, influence the course of world events. You have been screened and selected by our chairman, who unfortunately, cannot be with us tonight. You represent a variety of industries and by your own hands have become increasingly wealthy through innovation and creative management. Together as a group we can prevent governments from their overreaching tendencies to disrupt business.”
A hand rose. “Mr. Seymour, as you are aware, I am part of a government. My finances are generations old, and I believe that holding office is a public service.”
“Of course, Mr. Travers. But you are just one voice in Parliament. I would hope you can appreciate the significance our collective influence might be on bad government decisions. And how we might find cooperative ways to help governments in crisis. For instance, would it not be to our advantage to assist Mr. Declercq and the Israeli government with clearing the port, and perhaps speed up the port construction that has been proposed in the president's Middle East development plan?”
“I see what you mean,” said Travers. “Perhaps I can speak with our new Prime Minister.”
Seymour said, “And perhaps, Mr. Declercq, you can speak with the president. I believe you and he are acquainted.”
Startled at Seymour's information, he had to decide whether to deny his relationship or admit it. “When we met, I offered to help with the project. My ships on the East Coast expedited the initial deliveries.”
“Perhaps the U.S. can also assist in clearing the channel.”
“Mr. Seymour, you must remember I am not an American. My contact is limited. But I will suggest it.”
“Good, good. See what I mean. Mr. Richemartel, who you will meet soon,” he hesitated glancing at the hanging lights, “believes that you are as yet unaware of your collective power to shape events. By sharing our efforts, we can benefit personally, be beneficial to the world and help each other as well.”
“Sounds like a good idea to me, Florian,” said Hammersley. “Doesn't hurt anybody and gives us a few extra bucks to play with. I'm in.”
“Would that be considered legal?” asked Grace Bellwood.
“Ms. Bellwood, we are discussing business among friends. No different than if you overheard a conversation in an elevator,” said Seymour.
“And what other projects might our host be interested in pursuing?” asked Weiss, again in a combative tone.
“I'm glad you ask, Mr. Weiss. One of the commodity groups you deal in is grain. Food to feed the world. Our host is passionate about stability that can only come from populations that are well-fed, so as to be productive. You can see the benefit.” Weiss nodded, but said nothing.
Seymour continued. “Each of you has a sphere of influence. Only two things I ask of you. The first is simple—say nothing about us to friends, colleagues or even family. We are anonymous. Second, in other than direct contact away from our get-togethers, you will not use names. Your initials, first and last, are enough. Anonymity discourages unwanted inquiry. Together you will be called Caballeros. Now, coffee and dessert? The bar is open again.”
The kitchen door opened and a cart transported desserts of choice, a favorite for each member, along with individual coffee pots. In keeping with his frequent London visits, Florian received a clear crystal goblet filled with layered fruit, cake, custard and whipped cream.
“What is that?” asked Hammersley. “Looks good.”
“Trifle, it's called,” said Florian. He turned to his waiter and asked for a small plate. Scooping a small section, he handed the plate to Hammersley. “Try some. I'm sure it's excellent.” Declercq stood and then went to the bar alone. In addition to the earlier choices, the bar top now included a selection of after-dinner liqueurs, cordials and wines. He selected a port and returned to his seat, all eyes following his movements. He set down his drink and said, “Excuse me. Can I get anyone a drink?” The moment of quiet ended as the chairs scraped and the others went themselves.
“You're the man of the hour,” said Dewhurst. “Everyone else seems reluctant, maybe a little intimidated.”
“Mr. Dewhurst, I'm a bit distracted, not paying attention. Port goes well with trifle. And I assure you, trifle is not a bit troublesome.” He withheld a stronger response, still curious about his companions.
“Florian, this is some fine dessert. Here, Mal, you have some.” Hammersley passed the plate. Florian watched Dewhurst spoon samples from each layer.
“Subtle mix of flavors, something alcoholic. Nice taste,” said Dewhurst. “I've never had this before.”
“It's not always available, but I order it when I can,” said Florian. Dewhurst thanked him and headed to the bar. Eating slowly, Florian tried to remember all the names, faces and particulars, still unsure where the evening would lead. He turned to the head of the table. Peter Seymour sat alone, a cup held with both hands, only his eyes showing, focused on Declercq. To reduce the tension he felt, Florian said, “A fine meal, Mr. Seymour. My compliments to the chef. And our host.” He lifted his glass in a salute of thanks. Seymour responded with a graceful head nod, almost a bow.
Florian rose to join the others and to sever the laser look. Uneasy, he used the ship sinking to disguise his discomfort. As he moved back to his seat, Lucas Weiss grabbed his arm. “We must talk,” Weiss whispered. “But not here. I am in room 1215.”
“I enjoyed meeting you also, Mr. Weiss,” Florian responded, glancing at Seymour still watching him. Florian wheeled so his back faced Seymour. “We are being watched. Say no more. Later.”
Peter Seymour clinked his glass and quiet returned as if a theater curtain had risen. “If you will all take your seats, please.” One by one, the table filled and each waiter poured coffee into fresh cups. “Your evening is almost complete. I hope you found your meal satisfactory, and that you have had a chance to share your common experiences. Please note that we will meet again on October 7. The location will be communicated to you. Arrange your schedules to be available.” Florian wrote the date on a business card. Others saw and did the same. Florian noticed their bemused faces. In a room of executives without cell phones, writing notes an activity foreign to most. “You will be returned to your hotel as you came. I look forward to seeing you again.” He left the room.
The stunned group looked at the door, waiting for something to happen. “Well, what now?” said Hammersley, struggling to stand.
The waiters had also left. “Now we leave,” Declercq said and he strode toward the door.
Chapter 13
GENERAL BEECH AND Ashl
ey paced in opposite directions around the room. For more than the three hours since Declercq had left, they had waited in Fritz's classroom. The president had dismissed Colonel Mitchell and his men when the meeting location no longer mattered. Fritz had invited Joe so the president could meet him and reiterate the importance of secrecy. Tony and Natalie sat together in the hall, reading. Finally, General Beech's phone rang. The caller informed him that the beacon had moved. Moments later, the phone rang again.
“Florian, are you okay?”
“I'm unharmed, Jim. Are you coming here? I have a strange evening to report to you.”
“Give us a second to set up. Where are you?”
“Hotel lobby.”
“Go back to your room. We'll come for you.” To the president, he said, “He sounds upset.”
The president and General Beech escorted Declercq into Fritz's classroom, asking Nat to take notes. Ashley muttered that he had reached his maximum level of boredom and would meet Fritz later. Fritz asked him to stick around. He agreed, but bristled at having nothing to do. The discussion lasted for ten minutes. When they left the classroom, the president told Fritz to get Florian home and then they would talk. When the portal closed behind Declercq, the president said, “Fritz, we can all go home. We have people in the hotel who will monitor Florian. If we need to do anything, I'll ask you to come back, but for now, we're done here.” He looked to General Beech.
“Did the meeting give us any clues?” asked Ashley.
The president's rippling jaw preceded his head shake. “No. But they're meeting again in October. I have the names of the others. Looks like a dead end tonight. Sorry.”
* * *
“FRITZ, THAT'S PRETTY amazing,” said Joe. Everyone took seats around the table. “How long has this been going on?”
“Year and a half,” said Fritz. “I need a copy of those names too, Nat. We need to check on these new Caballeros.”
Storm Surge (Quantum Touch Book 5) Page 5
