The limousine parked in front of the main house beside the large, round spewing fountain with a giant, naked Greek nymph statue. Lizzie stared up at the nymph and made a little fist pump. You and me, sister.
Lizzie was completely stressed out over the pending arrival of the President of the United States. Did Mr. Smith invite President Garby to vacation at his compound or did President Garby invite himself? The origin was a little muddled, but Mr. Smith's true feelings about President Garby were unambiguous. Mr. Smith was seething. He was fixated on how betrayed he already felt, a little more than a year into Garby's presidency. Now the president was coming to Eagle's Nest with an agenda that was crassly, pathetically transparent—to beg Mr. Smith for more money. Lots more. And with a new level of urgency, apparently driven by reports of Mr. Smith's imminent death. Lizzie would have to be on top of her game…unless Mr. Smith fired her in the next few minutes?
Lizzie hurried up the broad staircase as quickly as her four-inch Jimmy Choo heels would permit. But then she stood at Mr. Smith's bedroom door for two minutes. Paralyzed by strong emotions. Agonizing over what to say. And whether Mr. Smith's legendary temper would take over, shoot the messenger? She took a deep breath. Raked her fingers through her shoulder-length, chestnut brown hair—her nervous tic. Turned the doorknob and entered.
It was dark in Smith's bedroom, as always. Smith couldn't take much light in his condition, it gave him blinding headaches. An overdose of lavender scent permeated the room despite the open balcony doors.
Her boss was sitting in a chair out on the master balcony under a broad awning. He was wearing large, dark sunglasses. He looked…well, he looked like he was dying. Waxy pale, but with darkened patches of skin. And so thin now.
"Good morning, sir. How are you feeling?" she asked tentatively.
"A little better today."
She made the appropriately supportive noises, even though feeling a little bit better wasn't going to help him in the end, right? "Let me get your tea."
Mr. Smith had begun to feel sick quite suddenly four months ago. It started with stomachaches. Some nausea and vomiting. Progressed to liver and kidney damage. A rapid fall from the picture of health to someone who didn't have the physical strength to walk across a room. His mind was still strong sometimes, but often distracted. Only his infamous temper remained intact, exploding when people didn't expect it, showing flashes of the legendary hedge fund leader's fire and intensity.
Lizzie had brought in a parade of men in white coats to Eagle's Nest. They'd examined their patient exhaustively, she'd made sure. They'd drawn his blood multiple times, reported back every result. They all told Mr. Smith the same thing. He had Stage IV pancreatic cancer, caught way, way too late. It had metastasized to distant organs. Surgery was not an option. Realistically, the only focus was to manage his pain and other symptoms. Maybe reduce his jaundice, help his appetite. A steady dose of opioids for the pain. Maybe a few months to live. Maybe only weeks.
After returning with his special tea, she gave him a little space. The balcony faced east and the morning sun was still rising over the choppy Atlantic, casting its orange glow. It contrasted dramatically with the estate's green lawn and towering white flagpole, fifty-four feet high, with its colossal American flag twisting and flapping in the morning wind. Oddly, there was not a person in sight, from the long swimming pool and low property outbuildings to the broad lawn and the beach beyond. She squinted past the harbor's island breakwater to the fishing boats and sailboats coming and going. She saw Mr. Smith's superyacht, Madeline Too, waiting at anchor in deeper water a bit further out.
Lizzie had been Acker Smith's right-hand woman for two-and-a-half years. Her title was Special Assistant, but she was more than his asistente. She had an MBA from Tuck. She had her CFA. She'd survived five years in Washington D.C.'s lobbyist jungle working for the National Mining Association, where she'd learned way too much about the mining industry. But more importantly, she'd learned how power worked and why the weak stayed weak. Everyone in Smith's financial empire knew she was his proxy—especially since he'd grown sick. She knew many of them didn't like to take orders from the new Latina with Smith's ear. And she guessed what gossip they spread. But she couldn't count the many times Mr. Smith told her she was smart, talented and indispensable.
Smart enough to fear this morning she was about to be fired.
As Mr. Smith sipped his tea, she quickly recapped her trip. A weekend in Miami, where the work being done to the hull of Madeline—Smith's other superyacht—was going well. Madeline was an identical twin vessel to Madeline Too. Mr. Smith had said she didn't need to check on the work herself, but as she'd gently pointed out, this was the level of attention that'd made her so successful. Mr. Smith's right-hand woman had to be there. That's how she got things done. She'd been right down in the guts of the ship with an independent expert—a very expensive friend of a friend—at her side during the most delicate work, making sure no corners were cut and everything was absolutely perfect. The shipyard idiots resented her intrusion, but she got her way, as always. That was her superpower…
Then she'd flown in the Gulfstream to Stamford, Connecticut. To the headquarters of Smith Capital Management Group LLC, the golden heart of Smith Enterprises.
Acker Smith was one of the original, revolutionary hedge fund specialists. Smith Capital Management reflected his maverick style and aggressive investment strategies. They ran multi-strategy funds. Credit funds. Collateralized loan obligations. Real estate funds. Or any other alternative investment vehicles that could make him a buck.
But Mr. Smith's time at the headquarters had almost completely stopped as his illness progressed. Lizzie had become his proxy. And she'd spent a very busy Monday morning there, which was the delicate topic.
"Mr. Smith, I have some bad news." She tried to deliver it as gently as possible. That two of his traders and his Chief Operating Officer had been meeting with Ben Yang, Principal at the Winn Funds. A top rival for Smith Capital Management. She told him their conversation was exploring two paths: a merger between the two hedge fund families or a lift out of the traders, the COO and some key portfolio people. And a deal was going to be cut very soon—not waiting for Mr. Smith's death. Smith would be hit with an ultimatum: merge with Winn, or else the three ringleaders would take so much of his team that Smith Capital Management would be crippled. She knew this fear had been on Smith's mind for weeks—everyone knew he was dying and so it was open season to try and pick off his top people, his clients, his whole operation.
Smith's waxy face paled even whiter. He was trembling. Lizzie knew the only thing Mr. Smith valued more than money was loyalty.
"Arrange to fly them here," he said in a weak, raspy voice. "I want those people to look me in the eye. Tell me to my face."
But now the really delicate part. "Sir, I hope I didn't do something wrong but I told HR you wanted their positions terminated. And told Security to remove them from headquarters this afternoon. It's all happening right now."
Lizzie's voice cracked, but she pushed forward. "Mr. Smith, I should have talked to you first! But if they found out you knew, they'd have jumped. I made sure HR is terminating for cause. A long list of misbehaviors. They'll be in no position to steal any performance or position data or recruit away anyone. I also instructed Legal to file suit against Winn for interference with employment contracts. That should make Winn back off from hiring those traitors."
Mr. Smith was still too pale, still shaking. But he was drinking his tea. Thinking. Having moved from shock into a low boiling rage. Balancing out Lizzie's independent and bold actions. But also the need for quick vengeance.
Would she be next to be fired?
Mr. Smith's cell phone rang. He slowly found it in his bathrobe pocket and pulled it out, put it on speaker.
It was the heads of Legal, HR and Security, two men and a woman, calling from Stamford. They were about to act and wanted to confirm the plan with Mr. Smith himself. Maybe to make sure his leg
endary temper hadn't cooled. Or that his pushy asistente hadn't overstepped her authority?
Mr. Smith sat studying Lizzie like he was counting up her many mistakes. Lizzie's heart was in her stomach. The wind kicked up, swirling her long dark hair. Over the shoreline she could see a tern riding the wind, quickly flying sideways. Effortlessly. The sight made Lizzie jealous.
"Pull the trigger," Mr. Smith said. "And make it as painful and embarrassing for them as possible. I want you to claw back their last two years' bonuses. Levy against their bank accounts today."
"Ah," said the General Counsel. "We do have the power in the employment agreements to do that, technically. But—"
"Fuck but!" yelled Smith in a broken, half-scratch voice. "Today! And if their bank accounts don't have the money, file liens against their homes. Take their goddamn cars. Scorched earth. And anyone with FINRA licenses, you list plenty of damn cause in their U-5 filings. Make them fucking unemployable."
Another voice cut in. The woman, the head of HR. "We hear you Mr. Smith, but can I suggest—"
"Today! Show everyone else how I treat traitors. I'm not dead yet, goddamn it!" The last sentence was intense but quieter. He sat back in his chair. He was sweating and his face was contorted. "And make sure Brandon Blacklock knows exactly what happened to them."
Blacklock was Smith's star portfolio manager, especially in his own mind. Lizzie'd told Mr. Smith that Blacklock had been exceeding his authority at the Stamford headquarters in recent months, acting almost proprietary. Throwing around his considerable weight (the slob had to weight over 300 pounds). Lizzie was actually surprised Blacklock hadn't been part of this coup. She jotted Blacklock's name and direct office number on a yellow sticky note, beneath an unrelated to-do she'd already recorded. She was so darn busy she could barely keep track. But she needed to make sure Blacklock had gotten Mr. Smith's message: know your place. Blacklock had been paid tens of millions in recent years, but he was one of those singular assholes whose appetite for money—and power—had no earthly limit. She'd unfortunately learned all too well about that type during her D.C. years…
"Ah, screw 'em all," whispered Mr. Smith. Maybe too faintly for the phone people to hear. But it was done. Mr. Smith reached for her hand, squeezed it to reassure her. Or himself? Then his hand slid loose and shifted to her knee, rested there.
But Lizzie still had her job.
"Sorry sir, but I have one other piece of news," she said. "The body they found on the beach? It was a secret service agent doing advance work for the president's visit here."
"What?"
She told him the basics of the story she'd heard from locals with inside access. "I wanted to make sure you're still comfortable with your plan."
"Screw Garby too," said Smith, more weakly now. "No changes…I still want our fucking president to have as miserable a vacation as you can arrange without breaking the law or getting caught. If someone's distracted the Secret Service, well, that'll only make it easier for you, right?"
Lizzie said nothing more. She would bury herself in preparations for the president's arrival at Eagle's Nest. She would keep her head down, focus on execution. Leave worrying and sleep to those with spare time.
"Daddy? Am I interrupting something?" Madeline Smith stood in the balcony doorway. Her manicured hands hooded her eyes against the sunlight, a look of concern (or suspicion?) spoiling the undeniable charm of her face.
Lizzie's own face burned. She reflexively stood and stepped a bit away from Mr. Smith, his hand falling off her knee. Lizzie immediately wished she hadn't. Who did Madeline think she was, the spoiled little brat? The daughter's recent arrival at Eagle's Nest, her first time in Lizzie's years with Mr. Smith, had been nothing but another headache for Lizzie, another problem to juggle. And she suspected the girl was only home for more money—a fat reward to host the notorious First Daughters, or maybe even bigger? To confirm her precious inheritance was safely intact?
But Lizzie choked back indignance and pride. She forced herself to smile at the girl. This was not the time to make new enemies, unless provoked…
Focus on execution.
Pepper was finishing a couple of slices at Broken Dreams Antiques and Pizzeria when Special Agent Dan Alfson entered. Broken Dreams was a big, uncluttered antique store, with a pizzeria in the back. You could sit anywhere among the antiques with your food and everything in the place was for sale except the brick oven. Alfson wove through the aisles of old furniture and curios to Pepper's place at an iron French bistro table with three chairs, sat down. Cast judgment over Pepper's pizza with a short glance and a sniff. Maybe not the ham-and-pineapple type, so another strike against him.
"I've got a bone to pick with you, Ryan," Alfson began. "Don't you answer your phone? It's almost five o'clock and we need to touch base. Hanley's been all over my ass." He flicked an invisible bit of lint off his suit jacket sleeve.
"AT&T's a little spotty in parts of New Albion."
"Well, no surprise. But you heard our bosses. We're supposed to be working together and I can barely track you down. Maybe too busy talking to the press?"
"What?" asked Pepper, mouth full.
"It's all over the news the clambake body's a Secret Service agent. Do we have you to thank?"
What? "Alf, I haven't said jack to any reporters. Not a word. So maybe check your own team?"
Alfson snorted. "You're my only wild card. And it's Dan. Only my friends use Alf."
Ouch. But Pepper let the pain go. "Has your team found where the seafood came from?"
"The seafood? Ryan, just a guess—the ocean?"
"But did the unsubs harvest it themselves? I bet they probably bought it. Did your lab say how fresh it all was? How many types of clams? Maybe they purchased it from somewhere nearby on the Cape…"
The agent pulled out his phone hastily, then more casually got up and wandered away. Came back.
"Probably a long shot, but my folks'll chase that down for you."
Pepper tried a little Zula-mindfulness breathing, so he wouldn't strangle the guy. "Okay, so have you confirmed Keser's last hours yet? What advance work he'd handled? I was wondering, did he have run-ins with people on your watch lists or with any terror groups in the area?"
Alfson shook his head. "Nothing like that. Keser had been at Eagle's Nest for six days with nine other agents. He'd been verifying the compound's vulnerable points. Handling interviews and background checks on Smith's staff, the usual. Inspecting the bulletproof windows installed in the Guest House. Lots of moving parts. We had other agents working off property, following up some security threats and logistical problems for emergency evacuations. They contacted people in the area on our Class Lists, people who'd posed a past threat. But Keser wasn't in those interviews. Why?"
Well," said Pepper through the last mouthful of his slice. "If I told you a militia group visiting town had more than a few sandy shovels on their front porch, what would you say?"
Alfson blinked, as if in disbelief. Stood up again. "I'd say you've been holding out on me."
Chapter Nine
Pepper gave Special Agent Alfson a lift out to Murray Road in his squad car.
Pepper really hadn't been holding out on Alfson very long. Not on that particular news. Maybe fifteen minutes before Alfson had interrupted Pepper's meal, Zula Eisenhower had called Pepper. She hadn't worked her way through much of the list yet, but she'd recognized one rental property address at first glance since it was on the overnight blotter for a noise complaint. A patrol officer named Dooley had stopped in briefly, asked the occupants to lower the volume, and had gotten out of there.
Zula said she'd called the officer to get more details. He said he'd gotten a pretty hostile reception—maybe they hated redheads? One man had reluctantly produced ID and although it looked like a driver's license it wasn't issued by any of the fifty states. "Do militias take vacations?" Dooley had asked her. "Because if yes, that's what we've got." And the officer recalled there was a sizable cluster of shovels c
overed in sand leaning on the porch railing. More than might be normal.
Alfson was rubbing his cheeks and his left knee was unconsciously bouncing up and down. Trying to come up with alternate, innocent explanations of the shovels? But Alfson phoned someone on his team to let them know where they were going.
As they drove, Alfson riffed on a topic he clearly loved: himself. He was a former detail guy, now back in the field. He'd been assigned by Hanley as a backup of the intelligence squad. He didn't necessarily agree with Hanley that anything too unusual was going on, because trouble was routine for them.
"Our license plate scanners have picked up at least nine groups in town so far," said Alfson with a yawn. "Several militia, anti-government or anarchist organizations. Let's see, so far your little town's got the Green Mountain Free Militia, the Black Stand, the New River Front, the KKK, the list goes on. All the usual shit disturbers and media mosquitoes. They usually do more damage to each other than create a security risk for the POTUS, but we'll be watching. And I suggest you locals get your ducks in a row."
What would Pepper do without him?
At the rental house, a heavyset man answered Pepper's knock. He was wearing only a pair of gray boxer shorts whose elastic waist had surrendered the fight. They drooped low on one fat hip, somehow not slipping to the man's ankles. But shockingly, he was not in charge. Droopy-drawers went to get someone else.
Pepper craned his neck to peek in. He could see all the way to the kitchen. The hallway had a small table that was empty except for a sleek blue cell phone, some model Pepper didn't recognize.
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