Too Damn Rich

by Gould, Judith

  TARGET

  BURGHLEY'S

  COUNTDOWN

  TO TERROR

  Long Island City, January 14

  "How much longer are we to remain here? Or have we exchanged one prison for another?"

  The outburst was uncalled for, the lack of respect shown, unforgivable. The hooded figure, rendered inhuman by the black convex lenses, electronic voice distorter, jumpsuit, and gloves, was tempted to lash out and make an example of the belligerent Libyan.

  But for now, he decided to let him off with a warning. The Arab possessed skills which would prove essential.

  The eerily distorted voice barked: "Would you rather stand trial for that skyjacking? Your return to prison can always be arranged!"

  His words had the desired effect: the swarthy Libyan backed down. Cast desultory eyes upon the concrete-slab floor, studiously avoiding the hatred emanating from his eight teammates.

  So, the hooded man thought to himself. There's no love lost between them. Good.

  They were in the safe house, a former die-cutting factory set amid the industrial wastelands on the Queens side of the East River. All the equipment had long been torn out and hauled off. Vast cold, empty space surrounded them.

  As did darkness.

  He had ordered the fluorescents switched off before his arrival. Now the only sources of light were the haze of Manhattan glittering across the watery divide and the moonlight leaking in from the overhead skylights.

  Even in daylight, it was a grim and forbidding place.

  At night it was downright hostile.

  Thick concrete supporting columns, rising like squat sentinels, stretched into stygian blackness. Gusts of blustery wind shrieked through broken panes. And foraging rats, like evil whispers, scuttled in the unseen perimeters.

  But worst of all was the noise. It came from directly above—the constant, maddening din of traffic buzzing across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge—and sounded like the amplified whirring of angry hordes of bees.

  From between a thin slit in his black lenses, the man studied his hand-picked crew. There were nine—eight men and one woman. Disenfranchised terrorists all:

  The former Israeli commando. Fearless and inventive, he was a veritable one-man army.

  The German. A master electrician, he didn't need a circuit chart to shut down a building, or an entire city.

  The Libyan, whose forte was hijackings. He was an expert at having ransom demands met.

  The ex-navy SEAL. Master of the big bang, he could single-handedly bring down a wall, a bridge, or an entire building.

  The Frenchman. A daredevil who could drive a Formula One, pilot an F-15 or a 747, and sail or steer anything afloat.

  The Colombian brothers. Finesse was neither's strong point, but if it had a trigger, they could shoot it, with deadly results.

  The Japanese. Yoshi Mori was his name and electronics were his game. Specialty: computer hacking. Given time, he could break into most any system, civilian or military.

  The Italian woman. Formerly of the Red Brigades, she was chic, slim, and beautiful—and deadlier than any male.

  With one exception, thought the hooded man. Me. I'm the deadliest of the lot.

  He tossed a long cardboard tube at the nearest of them. "Here."

  The German snatched it neatly from the air.

  "Inside are blueprints. Study them until you can remember every detail in your sleep. That goes for all of you."

  "Then-a this-a is our target?" The harsh, accented voice belonged to the woman.

  "Yes. But all identifying words have been censored. You will know the exact address when the time comes."

  "And-a when-a is that?"

  He thought: When the Irishman is free.

  "Soon," his robotic voice rasped. "In the meantime—" He jabbed a finger in the Libyan's chest. "—you can teach our friend here the art of patience. Remember. All your lives depend on it."

  Then he turned and moved soundlessly on rubber-soled feet, a swift shadow sliding around the structural columns and down two flights of steel steps. In the loading bay below, his van door slammed, the engine caught, and tires screeched.

  Then he was gone.

  He left the stolen van in the Queens Plaza parking lot. Quickly, he got out and carried the gym bag containing his disguise to the far end, where his rental car awaited.

  A panhandler bundled in filthy blankets detached himself from a doorway. "Please, mister? Spare some loose change?"

  He paused, tempted to reach into his pocket. Then he remembered what Benjamin Franklin had once written: "A fool and his money are soon parted."

  He almost laughed aloud. A fool. Well, that was the last thing anyone could accuse him of being.

  Why break a perfect record now?

  "Get lost!" he snarled, and continued walking.

  Fifteen minutes later, he was speeding across the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge on his way back into Manhattan, the tires of his car adding yet another buzz to that crazed, constant din which, from below, sounded like swarms of attacking killer bees.

  He glanced down as he passed above the safe house.

  Sleep tight, my friends, he thought sardonically. And added aloud: "If you can."

  He was smiling coldly.

  Book Three

  "LET'S

  MAKE A

  DEAL"

  Special to the New York Times

  NEW YORK, Jan. 19—Robert A. Goldsmith is riding high these days. The slack sale Tuesday of Old Masters at Sotheby's, the auction house, has not dampened his spirits. Shrugging aside worries over tomorrow's Old Masters sale at Burghley's, Inc., the 61-year-old retail and investment billionaire said yesterday that he plans to form a new global company by merging four diverse companies.

  The new company, GoldGlobe International Holdings, Inc., would be formed by combining four companies in which Mr. Goldsmith holds controlling stakes—GoldMart, Inc., Burghley's Holdings, Inc., the Home-on-the-Range restaurant chain, and Mystique Cosmetics.

  "Today's market is definitely global, whether you're selling dungarees, million-dollar art, or fast food," Mr. Goldsmith said in yesterday's news conference in Manhattan, citing planned expansion to new overseas markets, including former Soviet republics and South American and Eastern European countries.

  "This merger will enable us to put four different companies into each new market we enter."

  Shares in GoldMart, Inc., rose nearly 4 percent yesterday to $25.85. Burghley's stock was up 40.5 cents to $18.25, and Home-on-the-Range closed at $12.20.

  Mystique Cosmetics is privately owned. Plans for offering equity in the company were suspended last year because of investor resistance ...

  Chapter 32

  New York City, January 20

  "I'm moving tomorrow," Bambi Parker announced breathily as she repaired her makeup. "No more roommates. I've sublet a studio." She moved her gold compact this way and that to inspect her reflection: up, down, left, right.

  Robert A. Goldsmith, half-sprawled in the backseat of his stretch limo, lifted his massive buttocks a few inches and pulled up his giant trousers. "This mean your phone number's gonna change?" His fly went ziiiiip!, and he tackled his belt.

  "Uh-huh." Bambi finished applying lip gloss, then snapped the compact shut and handed him a folded slip of paper. "My new address and phone number," she said.

  Without glancing at it, he took the paper and pocketed it.

  Bambi had expected him to show at least some interest, and the fact that he didn't made her feel downright peeved. "Robert!" she reproached. "Don't you want to know why I'm moving?"

  He looked at her and blinked. "Why? You're stayin' in town, aren't ya?"

  "Well, I'll tell you why. Because I moved for both of us, dammit! So we don't always have to make it in this ..." She gestured around. "... this damn fuckmobile!"

  Her vehemence took him by surprise. "What've you got against the car? It's big, private, comfortable, an' convenient."

  "Maybe for you it i
s, but every once in a while, I'd like to do it in bed. Besides, my new digs are just as convenient."

  Women, he thought, giving an inward groan. Why is it they're always hell-bent to complicate the simplest thing?

  For his own part, he couldn't imagine anything more convenient than this car. All he had to do was open the door and in she'd hop.

  What the hell do we need a bed for?

  "Anyway, I want you to come and see it," she was saying. "Why don't you drop by tomorrow? And plan on staying an hour or so?"

  She showed the pink triangular tip of her tongue.

  "You won't be sorry, Robert. I guarantee it."

  "Okay," he grumbled, hoping he wouldn't live to regret it. Lately, it seemed that no matter which way he turned, women were putting the screws to him. "But I better not have to go out of my way to get there," he growled.

  "You won't," she assured him quickly. "I already told you that."

  "So where is it?"

  "Right up there." She pointed at the roof of the limo.

  "Huh?"

  "Auction Towers," she said, casually dropping the bombshell.

  "Where?" he exploded, going purple with rage. "Are you fuckin' nuts? You think I'd be caught dead visitin' you in that building? We might as well take an ad out in the Times!"

  "Calm down," Bambi said, unperturbed. "Don't you see, Robert? You own that building, or at least the unsold apartments. Plus, one of your companies manages it. If anyone has a right to be seen coming and going from there, it's you."

  "The missus ever found out, my goose'd be cooked." He made up his mind. "No way am I gonna set foot up there. And that's that!"

  Bambi sighed to herself. She'd had an inkling that he might take it badly at first. But this badly? She hadn't counted on that, and wondered if she mightn't have seriously miscalculated.

  Not that it mattered. She was determined to put her foot down.

  He punched the button in the door panel to signal his chauffeur to pull over.

  Within moments, the limo had coasted to a halt in the no-standing zone of a bus stop. Without another word, Robert chucked open his door.

  Bambi hesitated, then climbed over his splayed legs. Once outside, she ducked down and stuck her head back inside. "The apartment number's on the note," she said, striving to sound firm. "We'll meet there, or not at all."

  "You're really tryin' my patience," he warned in a dangerously quiet voice. "You might as well get it into your head. I'm not settin' foot up there. Ever."

  "And I'm not setting foot in this car until you do!"

  They glared stubbornly at one another, each refusing to back down. Bad vibes ricocheted like bullets.

  "In that case," he said quietly, "it's over." He started to close the door, but she grabbed hold of the handle.

  "I'll pretend I didn't hear that, Robert," she said stiffly. "If you change your mind, call me."

  "Better not hold your breath," he advised.

  "I won't. But at least there's one silver lining to this cloud! The carpeting in this car's been hell on my pantyhose!"

  And with that, she slammed the door, tossed her head, and marched off to work.

  "If madame will permit a suggestion?" murmured Sergei, Becky V's hairdresser, to whom Dina had recently defected.

  "By all means, sweetie," Dina said magnanimously. "Suggest away!"

  They were in Dina's in-home beauty parlor, a mirror-sheathed room replete with adjustable chair and chock full of professional equipment. Dina, submitting to her daily coif and manicure, was, at this very moment, receiving a silk wrap from May, the pretty Asian manicurist.

  "I was thinking, madame would perhaps like to update her look?"

  Dina frowned at her multiple reflections. "Update? In what way?"

  Sergei gathered her hair in both hands, pulled it up, and held it in place atop her head. "Very Claudia Schiffer," he raved.

  Dina studied herself critically. It made her look, she thought, as if she was sprouting a fountain of blond hair. "I don't think so, Sergei. It's ... too Ivana."

  "But youthful, no?"

  "Perhaps, but it's not me. The usual will do just fine."

  "As madame wishes," he murmured, acknowledging her superior taste.

  Dina settled back in the chair. Being a slave to couture was one thing, but following the latest trends? No way. Let ordinary women copy Claudia Schiffer and Ivana and Princess Di; she, Dina Goldsmith, had her own signature look down pat, a look from which she never deviated, and which was instantly recognizable, not to mention highly photogenic.

  Brisk knocks presaged Dina's secretary, who came charging in. "You've got a long-distance call," Gaby announced, in that James Earl Jones voice of hers. "From It'ly." She lifted her eyeglasses, which dangled from around her neck, and used them to consult her spiral notepad. "Mon ... gar ... dini? Some name like that. You in or not?"

  "Of course I'm in," Dina snapped. "You know very well I was waiting for this call. Gaby, quick! Hand me the phone!"

  "Who do I look like?" her secretary groused. "Step n' Fetchit?"

  Sergei diplomatically intervened. Reaching for the phone, he handed it to Dina with a flourish.

  "Why, thank you, sweetie!" she purred.

  And, flashing Gaby an acid look, she added: "At least someone around here's versed in the social graces!"

  Gaby smirked. "Yeah, and he even looks every inch the gentleman, too," she said snidely, referring to his curly, waist-length mane, yellow- tinted glasses, and white snakeskin cowboy boots.

  Dina had better things to do than listen to petty squabbles. Pressing the talk button, she crooned, "Hel ... lo ... oh?... Signor Mongiar- dino? ... Mrs. Goldsmith here ... You spoke to Becky V? ... Yes, she did mention something about your not working overseas anymore ... I was positively heartbroken ... You'll what! ... Make an exception? ... I can't thank you enough! ... This coming Monday's purrrrrfect... Naturally, there are no budgetary constraints ... Cost is no object ... I'm looking forward to meeting you also ... Thank you, Signor!"

  Sighing with pleasure, Dina handed Sergei the phone, leaned her head back against the padded headrest, and let her eyelids flutter shut.

  Ah! she thought dreamily, as May got busy silk-wrapping her right hand. How simply marvelous!

  She could see it already! A Mongiardino interior to rival Becky V's!

  No wonder I'm feeling so heavenly!

  In that case, it's over ... Robert's words left Bambi badly shaken. So much so, that she deviated from her morning ritual and foresook popping into The Club. The last thing she needed on this, of all days, was powder room gossip, especially since she herself might soon be the subject of it.

  All Robert has to do, she thought, is pick up his cellular phone and call personnel. That's all that stands between my job and a pink slip.

  She couldn't imagine the humiliation. Just thinking about it was enough to give her chills.

  I'd rather die.

  Instructing her secretary to deflect all calls, Bambi holed up in her office, where she sniffed sachets of apple-spice herb tea (to reduce stress), while agonizing over her spat with Robert.

  How could I have been so stupid as to give him an ultimatum? That's the province of wives, not mistresses!

  Nor was it like her to lose her cool. What in hell could have possessed her?

  When she finally began to calm down, she wracked her brains over how to go about exercising damage control.

  Should I swallow my pride, call Robert, and apologize? she wondered. Should I wait for him to call me? Or should I let sleeping dogs lie—and see what develops?

  Trouble was, she had no idea. This was unexplored territory. In the past, she had always been the center of attention, and it had been the boys—and then the men—who'd danced attendance, and who'd had to kiss her and make up.

  Yes, but would Robert?

  She really didn't know. He was in a different league from most men, and aside from sex, remained an enigma. She had yet to discover what made him tick.
>
  Several times, she found herself reaching for the phone and punching his number—only to realize what she was doing—and quickly slamming the receiver back down.

  If only she could confide in someone, ask their advice! But who?

  Certainly not any of the girls from The Club. Divulging a secret to one was like telling them all, and speculation about the man in her life would spread like wildfire. Sooner or later, they'd put two and two together.

  After much soul-searching, Bambi finally made up her mind. It's up to Robert to call me, she decided.

  And if he didn't?

  Then screw him, too.

  Robert's motto was this. If you can't fuck it or eat it, then piss on it.

  Which, figuratively speaking, was what he'd done to Bambi. He had no intention of ever seeing her again. That was in the morning.

  By the time noon rolled around, he found it difficult to concentrate on work. Visions of Bambi doing what she did best kept intruding.

  Before long, he was wondering if maybe, just this once, he hadn't been ... well, perhaps a little too hasty in severing relations ...

  At one-thirty, he was so horny smoke was practically pouring from his ears. And before two, he caved in and called her at Burghley's.

  Bambi picked up on the very first ring, hesitantly saying, "Robert?" Sounding real nice and sexy.

  Every shred of common sense told Robert to slam down the receiver—now. Before it was too late.

  Instead, he found himself saying: "How'd you know it was me?" "Because you're the only one who has this number." He grunted approval. "Good. You know, I been thinkin'. Maybe I will come over an' see your new place. But it's gotta be today."

  "Robert! The movers aren't coming till tomorrow. The apartment's totally bare and—"

  "So? Who needs furniture? You got a key, don'tcha?"

  There was a pause. "When do you want to drop by?" she asked softly.