by Stephen Frey
But the man behind him continued to gain ground. Strazzi could hear the footsteps pounding on the path. His pursuer was only a few paces back and there was still a long way to go before he’d break out of the woods. He tried to go faster. Tried to keep his legs under him as his lungs seared two baseball-sized holes in his chest. But his legs finally gave way, and he tumbled to the ground.
He felt the man’s hand on his arm and tried to scramble away, but it was no use. “Help!” he yelled. “Help!”
“What’s wrong, pal? Hey, you all right?”
Strazzi brought his hands slowly down from his face and gazed up into the dark glasses beneath the brim of the baseball cap. “Huh?”
“You all right?” the man repeated.
Strazzi bobbed his head, confused, then struggled to his knees as the man helped him up. “Yeah, yeah,” he panted. “I’m fine,” he said, suddenly embarrassed.
“Sit here,” the man instructed, gently helping Strazzi sit on a large rock beside the path. “You need liquids. That’s your problem.” He pulled a small bottle of water from a pack around his waist, twisted the cap off, and handed the bottle to Strazzi. “Here.”
Strazzi grabbed it and guzzled, hand shaking as he brought it to his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. “Thanks,” he gasped, handing the bottle back to the man.
“Sit here for a few minutes and catch your breath,” the man advised. “Then walk out. Don’t try to run anymore.”
“I won’t,” Strazzi agreed. He watched the man jog off. He’d been certain his number was up.
Gillette gazed down at Washington, D.C., from the cabin of the private jet headed toward Reagan National Airport, cruising above the Potomac River through the clear, early morning. The city was off to the northwest. He could see the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House, forming a neat triangle just to the south of downtown.
“A couple of minutes and we’ll be on the ground,” Stiles informed Gillette, slipping into the seat beside him. He’d just checked with the pilots. “We’re cleared to land. No delays.”
“Thanks,” he said, still looking down on the city. “I like D.C.,” he murmured, more to himself than Stiles.
“Not me,” Stiles replied.
“Why not?” Gillette asked, turning away from the window.
“You ever try to get around in this city?”
“What do you mean?”
“The streets are screwed up, man. You think you’re going east and you end up going west. Or you’re almost where you need to be, then suddenly they throw a park in front of you. I mean, the road ends just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s so damn frustrating. You can see the other side of the park where the road starts up again. A hundred yards away through the woods. But you sure as hell can’t get there because the park goes left and right as far as you can see. So you ask somebody how to get over there,” Stiles said, pointing toward the front of the plane as if he was pointing toward the other side of an imaginary park. “They laugh and tell you that you have to go to the other side of Maryland to get there.”
“I’m gonna guess you were late for something once,” Gillette said, grinning. “Probably a woman.”
“Maybe.” Stiles grinned back. “Anyway, that’s why I like New York City. Streets go east and west and avenues go north and south. Except for some issues in Greenwich Village, it’s pretty easy. This place is a nightmare.” Stiles looked out the window past Gillette. “So, why do you like Washington?”
Gillette had come to Washington for an early spring weekend during his junior year at Princeton with several members of Tiger, his Eating Club. They’d gone out to dinner in Georgetown, and he’d met a girl at a bar. A dark-haired girl from American University. He’d spent the rest of the weekend with her. And the next, and the next, and the next. She traveled to Princeton on the train, or he went to D.C. They were inseparable from the beginning, and he hadn’t cared about the crap he’d taken from his friends for being so suddenly devoted. It had been his first real love affair, and he’d been certain they would marry. But in May, two months after they’d met, she’d been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. She’d died in August.
“Christian.” Stiles nudged Gillette’s elbow as they touched down. “Hey, so why do you like Washington?”
Gillette looked over at Stiles. “The architecture,” he said, thinking about Isabelle, then Faith. “You gave the pictures to Stockman’s aide last night?”
Stiles nodded. “Yeah. You should have seen the guy’s face.”
“Good. We’ll call the senator when we’re done here. Go see him in person and drop the bomb.” Gillette unhooked his seat belt as the jet slowed down and eased off the runway. “You know what?”
“What?
“We should go out sometime, to dinner or something. We’ll bring dates.” Gillette picked up several folders from the seat pocket in front of him. “I assume there is someone.”
“Yes, there is. I’d like that. Thanks.” Stiles stood up as the plane neared the general aviation terminal. “Now, listen, we’ve got to be careful getting you off the plane. In fact, we’ve got to be careful the whole time we’re here.”
“Yeah?”
Stiles pulled his shoulder holster down from the overhead compartment and slipped into it. “I’m sure a lot of people know about you coming down here today. It would be logical for someone to try something. They’d have plenty of time to prepare, and they’d be able to pick their spot.” He reached up into the overhead compartment again. “Put this on,” he ordered.
“What is it?”
“A bulletproof vest.”
“Quentin, I—”
“Put it on.”
Gillette shook his head, taking the vest from Stiles. “Why do I feel like I’m not sure who’s working for who at this point?”
“Senator Stockman.”
Stockman looked up from his desk. He’d been drafting a speech. “What is it, Frank?” he snapped. He hadn’t slept well last night, and he was in a foul mood.
Galway grimaced. “I have to talk to you about something, sir.”
“Is it important?”
“Very.”
Stockman let out a heavy sigh. “Sit,” he said, pointing at a chair in front of the desk. “What is it?”
“I was approached on the street last night.”
Stockman put down his pen. “Oh?” He’d heard an ominous tone in Galway’s voice.
“I thought at first this guy was just being nice. Said he’d seen me on TV while you were delivering your announcement about running.”
Stockman spotted an envelope in Galway’s trembling hand. “But he wasn’t.”
A confused look came to Galway’s face. “Sir?”
“He wasn’t being nice.”
Galway swallowed hard. “No, he wasn’t.”
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to give me these,” Galway explained, reaching forward and handing the envelope to Stockman.
Stockman took the envelope, placed it on his desk, and removed the stack of photos. Carefully examining each one before finally looking up at Galway. “We have a problem,” he said calmly.
“I thought you might see it that way, too, sir.”
“Have you shown these to anyone else?”
Galway shook his head.
“Did the person who gave you these say what he wanted?” Stockman asked.
“No, sir.”
“Did he give you a way to contact him?”
“No.”
“Did he say when he would contact you again?”
“Sometime this weekend. Nothing specific.”
Stockman ran his hands through his silver hair and shut his eyes tightly. Christian Gillette. It had to be.
Strazzi had been sitting on the rock for five minutes, letting his heart settle down. “All right,” he muttered to himself, “time to get home.” As soon as he got back to the penthouse, he was going to hire a ful
l-time bodyguard. Like Gillette had done. “Come on, get up,” he urged himself, groaning.
As Strazzi made it to his feet, he noticed the man. He was standing twenty feet away in the middle of the trail. The same man who’d helped him a few minutes ago.
Strazzi smiled and waved. “Thanks again for the water. It hit the spot.”
The man said nothing.
“Hey, did you hear me?”
The man began walking toward Strazzi. When he was ten feet away, he reached behind his back and pulled a pistol from a holster. Aiming it directly at Strazzi’s chest and squeezing the trigger.
Strazzi scrambled off the rock the second he saw the gun, but the bullet still struck him. It caught him in the shoulder and put him down as it tore out his back. Strazzi groaned and grabbed at the wound, but still was able to pull himself to his feet and stumble into the woods, ducking around trees as he ran. He hurled headlong into a sapling when he looked back to try to see if the shooter was there, tumbling to the ground as it snapped under his weight. But he was up again instantly, moving deeper into the thick cover.
The second bullet got him in the back of the thigh, tearing his hamstring. He pitched forward, landing heavily in the thick cover of leaves, grabbed his leg and screamed in pain.
The assassin moved deliberately toward where Strazzi lay. He always enjoyed these last few seconds—when the victim knew it was over. He wondered how it felt to know the number of breaths remaining could be counted on the fingers of one hand. He’d killed a lot of people in his life, but the question always came to him at this moment. Had from the very first time. How did it feel to know death was close and there was nothing that could be done?
He stood over Strazzi for several seconds, gazing into his eyes. Trying to comprehend the terror Strazzi was enduring. Strazzi wasn’t yelling anymore, just whimpering pitifully, overcome by the inevitability of his death.
The assassin leaned down, pressed the barrel to Strazzi’s temple, and pulled the trigger. Blood, bone, and brain blew out the other side of Strazzi’s head, onto the leaves. After a violent tremor, his body went still.
Walter Price was the chief executive officer of Dominion Savings & Loan. Three years ago, Donovan had recruited Price out of Citibank, where he’d headed their huge retail operation. He had given Price ten million a year plus bonus plus stock options to make Dominion a player. To grow it fast. Which Price had done, increasing Dominion’s asset base from three billion to forty. A huge increase that Gillette now feared might have been accomplished mostly by sleight of hand.
“It just isn’t true,” Price said evenly. “We have less than two hundred million in nonperforming loans. That’s about half of 1 percent of our total asset base. That’s nothing. It’s right in line with industry averages. A little better, actually.”
“Then why does Congressman Allen hold up a folder in front of the television cameras and say he has proof that you have billions in nonperforming loans? How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” Price replied simply.
“You gotta do better than that, Walter. I told you to have a report ready for me. You haven’t prepared anything.”
“There’s nothing to prepare. We’re fine.”
“Walter, I—”
“Look, Christian, we have state and federal examiners around all the time. It’s ridiculous how much time they spend in our offices. And we have our own internal people constantly spot-checking. If there was anything to find, someone would have.”
“You’re telling me I have nothing to worry about.”
“I’m telling you to go out and buy as many shares of our stock as you can. By this time next week our share price is going to be back up where it was before all this bullshit. Maybe higher.”
Gillette sat back in the leather chair and thought for a second. Assume what Price was saying was true. Assume there wasn’t anything wrong. Assume all of this had been neatly choreographed. But if you assumed that, you also had to accept what Price was saying would happen, that when no one could find anything wrong with Dominion, its stock would go shooting back up. There’d be some pissed-off investors who’d dumped at the bottom because they believed they might as well get something before the shares were delisted. But there would also be some extremely happy people who’d speculated and bought when the price was a buck and change because the downside was so small. So what was the point?
Then it hit him. Of course. This was Strazzi’s way of manipulating the widow, of scaring the hell out of her so she’d sell her stake in Everest. Strazzi had tried to get information on the portfolio companies from Mason to cement his case, but he’d been beaten to the punch. However, it hadn’t mattered. All he’d ultimately needed was Dominion’s implosion. And, after Monday, it wouldn’t matter if the stock came roaring back. Strazzi would own the piece of Everest he wanted. The widow might cry foul, but he’d just tell her to go screw herself.
Gillette nodded to himself. There was a way to check it all out.
“I appreciate you meeting with me, Walter,” he said, standing up and shaking the other man’s hand. He needed to get going right away.
Because the answer wasn’t in Washington. It was back in New York.
23
The Showdown. Someone must lose.
“THEY HAVE TO GO,” GILLETTE said firmly, pointing at Galway and another aide as he and Stiles entered Stockman’s office.
“All right,” Stockman muttered, motioning for them to leave.
“But my man stays.” Gillette gestured toward Stiles as the two aides disappeared through the doorway.
Stockman nodded.
Gillette sat in front of Stockman’s desk while Stiles moved to the window, checking on the two men he’d left on the street with Gillette’s driver.
“It’s two o’clock Saturday afternoon,” the senator spoke up. “What in the hell’s so damn important that you had to see me right away?” the senator asked angrily.
“I think you know.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Quentin gave your aide the photographs last night,” Gillette answered. There was no need to be evasive. It was time to hit Stockman between the eyes. “I’m sure you’ve seen them by now.” He watched Stockman clench his teeth, then take a deep breath. Trying to stay in control. The senator had a nasty temper, and Gillette could tell he was close to erupting. “Right?”
“Yes,” Stockman admitted curtly.
“You’ve been seeing the Jones woman for a while, haven’t you? In fact, you’ve brought her to Washington a few times.”
“Well, haven’t we been busy?” Stockman asked.
“All things done in the dark eventually come to light.”
“Your father should have listened to that advice, son,” Stockman said, and sneered. “If he had, he might still be alive. Or maybe you don’t know why your mother drank so much.”
Gillette’s eyes flashed to Stockman’s. It wasn’t the first time someone had implied that his father’s plane might have been sabotaged, and, for a moment, it threw him. Which he knew was exactly what Stockman wanted. To distract him. Maybe tempt him to trade pictures for information about the crash instead of the conspiracy.
“You should be glad I’m a rational man, Senator,” Gillette finally said, his voice devoid of emotion, forcing himself to focus. “Glad this is only about you and me reaching an understanding that benefits me in business. Glad I don’t have time for revenge.”
“If all you wanted was to destroy my chance of being president, these damn things would already be at The New York Times,” Stockman said, reaching into a drawer and dropping the envelope full of photographs on the desktop. “I know that.” He hesitated. “So, what do you want?”
“Answers.”
“Answers to what?”
“Are you and Paul Strazzi working together to force me out of Everest Capital?”
Stockman hesitated.
“If you answer my questions,” Gillette continued forcefully,
“I burn the duplicate set of those photographs. If you don’t, The Times will have them within the hour.”
“Yes,” Stockman answered quietly. “We’ve been working together.”
“Why?”
“I want votes and Strazzi wants Everest. It’s as simple as that. Plus, Paul hated Donovan,” Stockman added. “There was that, too.”
“What about Dominion Savings & Loan?”
“What about it?” Stockman hissed.
“There aren’t really billions of bad loans at Dominion, are there?”
“It’s your investment,” Stockman retorted snidely. “You tell me.”
“Goddamn it, answer me.”
Stockman clenched his teeth again.
“Senator.”
“No, there aren’t. No more than there are at any other savings and loan that size.”
“Why does Congressman Allen think there are?”
“What do you mean?” Stockman asked, grimacing as he glanced at one of the photographs.
“I saw the press conference yesterday afternoon. Allen claimed he had evidence that there were billions.”
“Allen owes me.”
“Still, I don’t think a prominent congressman calls a press conference and accuses the partners at Everest Capital of fraud without documentation—no matter how much he owes you. He could be writing his own ticket out of Washington.”
Stockman mulled over the question. “Okay, we had help.”
“Where?”
“Inside Dominion.”
“What kind of help?”
“Earlier this week, somebody ran a few official-looking reports indicating that the loan portfolio was in terrible shape. Grossly inflating bad loans. I gave Allen that report.”
“Who was the person inside Dominion who ran the false reports?”
“I don’t know,” Stockman snapped. “I wasn’t involved in that. That was Strazzi’s responsibility.”
“Who’s Strazzi using inside Everest?” Gillette demanded.
Stockman’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s.
