“The presidential suite,” their escort announced, “from the high-rollers’ private entrance. Not every high roller wants to be seen. You’d be surprised who’s addicted to gambling.” He winked. “You’ll be safe here for a few hours. If you need anything, knock and ask Tonino here. Don’t use the phone lines. We have to assume they’re tapped by now. Get some rest. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He bowed slightly, shut the door on his way out.
In a bit of a daze, Carlton turned to Erika. The narrow escapes. The fear. The exhaustion. The relief. Whatever the reason, he couldn’t resist any longer. He took her in his arms and brought his lips to hers.
They held each other for what seemed like hours, pent-up emotions released in a flood of joy.
“Pat, I—” she whispered, tears streaming from her eyes.
He wiped them from her soft cheeks. “I know. Me too.”
She began to cry again, brought her lips to his. He tasted the salt from her tears, pulled her body against his. It felt good, right. He felt emotions surge through his heart, his mind, and his body he hadn’t felt—hadn’t allowed himself to feel—for a long time.
No, he thought. It’s more than what I’ve ever felt. More real. More complete.
Finally, they released each other. He took her hand in his and they toured the suite together.
“Just look at this place,” she said, now back in vogue the 1970s kitsch all about them.
“It looks like ABBA’s been staying here,” Carlton said.
The room stretched for what seemed like miles. Shag carpeting, lambswool throw rugs, chrome hanging lamps, orange sofas, and mirrors were surrounded by a 180-degree view of the neon-studded strip of ocean from floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows. A glass fountain, surrounded by a small forest of palms, gurgled at the center of the room.
“It’s got everything you could want,” he said.
She turned to him, smiled. “You’re right. And what I want is a bath.” She moved her mouth to his ear. “And I think you want one too,” she whispered.
The bathroom was larger than most people’s living rooms. It seemed carved from a giant block of green marble. In one corner stood a Swiss shower, surrounded by vertical and horizontal chrome jets. Next to it was a sunken tub large enough for a small navy. Erika inspected a battalion of multicolored bath salt jars, poured some into the tub, and turned on the faucet and whirlpool jets.
An enormous tropical salt water aquarium lined one entire wall. Bright blue, yellow, and red fish swam lazily amid thin streams of bubbles, white and pink corals, undulating sea anemones. Carlton stared at them, mesmerized like a small child. He felt himself relax.
He turned and watched Erika remove her dirty clothes. Her long legs gave way to slightly curved hips and a small pert backside. Her graceful back arched upward and ended in straight shoulders. Her small breasts jutted forward. Red hair cascaded down her back, halfway down to her trim waist.
“I can’t believe how beautiful you are.” He walked to her, took her in his arms and kissed her. Her skin was warm. He continued kissing her while she removed his clothes. His wanting grew. Their kissing became more intense, more primal.
She led him into the foaming tub. “I hope we don’t scare the fish.”
They did.
Several hours later, a series of knocks sounded at the door. Carlton was awake, roused by a low but continuous buzz that rang in his ears.
Their escort appeared in the doorway. “Sorry to wake you, but it’s time to go.” He grinned. “They must have been following you pretty good. They shot the plane down a half hour out of Atlantic City.” Carlton’s eyes widened. “The pilot and steward bailed out, but they probably did not see them. It was pitch dark. By the time they make a search in the morning, you’ll be safe.”
“I don’t know how to thank you. We—”
He raised his hand. “No need. But please hurry. We’ve got a car waiting.”
“Where are we—”
“There’s little time before dawn. I’ll explain on the way. I brought you fresh clothes. I hope they fit.” He placed two canvas bags at the entrance of the suite and left.
Carlton nudged Erika softly. She slept on her stomach, a faint smile on her lips. “Time to wake up.” He moved her shimmering red hair to the side, kissed the back of her neck.
“Mmm.” She purred, getting to her knees and stretching like a cat. “Come back to bed.” She reached over and tugged at Carlton, kissed him softly on the mouth.
“Honeymoon’s over, baby. Need to leave. Better get dressed.”
She smiled mischievously. “Over?”
“For now.”
38 VENDETTA
Castel MacLean
Beverly Hills, California
10:36 A.M.
It took over a day for Dan Wenzel’s death to hit MacLean completely. When it did, it shook him to the core. He had allowed Wenzel to fly to Washington. He blamed himself for the man’s death.
Wenzel had not only been MacLean’s lawyer, business advisor, and confidant. He had been one of MacLean’s best friends. Billionaires could not trust the friendship of most. MacLean’s friendship with Wenzel was second only to his friendship and love for his wife.
And if they had killed Wenzel, he must be next.
MacLean had not managed to sleep for more than thirty minutes since the plane crash. He was the opposite of his usually well-groomed self. He had neither showered nor shaved. His hair was disheveled. His shirt was wrinkled and stained. His complexion was pale and drawn. Bags tugged at his bloodshot eyes. He sat on the black leather 1920s Corbusier sofa in his third-floor home office, door closed, blinds drawn, staring at the telephone in front of him.
Two bottles of Grey Goose vodka stood side by side on the glass cube MacLean used as a coffee table; one empty, the other half empty. He did not even bother to use one of his office bar’s Baccarat crystal drams. He had started smoking again after finding one of Wenzel’s packs of John Player Special cigarettes in the house. Pinpoint halogen light beams illuminated acrid blue cigarette smoke in the dark room.
One soldier was stationed outside MacLean’s office door. Not one but two others followed Claire MacLean everywhere. Like MacLean, she did not leave the compound. She trusted MacLean implicitly but could not understand the sheer magnitude of the reality that was unfolding. The soldiers were there to protect her, she knew, but they scared her. The other soldiers were stationed at strategic points on the grounds. This was a government vendetta against MacLean, the trusted don had informed his soldiers. Although no place was truly safe, Castel MacLean was safest.
MacLean crushed out his cigarette, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed the number he had located after contacting one of his local family contacts. The international code for Sicily he knew from memory. He knew it was bugged but was beyond caring.
“Pronto.”A faraway voice answered.
“Buon giorno. Don Forza, per favore.”
“Please, who is calling?”
“Maximilliano MacLean.”
“Si signore. Subito, subito. Right away. Hold please.”
MacLean took a deep swallow from the bottle of vodka, the powerful clear liquid no longer ice cold as MacLean would generally have insisted. Today he couldn’t even taste the difference. Yet after drinking steadily for two days, his mind was amazingly clear. The vodka burned going down.
“Don MacLean. I am so happy to hear you. I heard about the accident. I was so relieved to hear that you and Claire weren’t on the plane.”
“Grazie, Don Forza. And thank you for sending your soldati. All my money and still I can trust no one else to protect my family.”
“It is my privilege.”
Before MacLean’s father, Don Innocenti, had wound down his illegal activities, he had selected Tomasino Forza as his godson. Now a don in his own right, Forza had learned well. He had returned to Sicily with the sizable bequest Don Innocenti had devised to him in his will. After thirty years of continuing his mostly white-collar criminal
activities in the Cosa Nostra, Forza had sufficiently enlarged his fortune to heed his mentor’s teachings and similarly wound down his own illegal activities. Although Don Forza’s operations were now entirely legal, they remained shady at best and dangerous at least. To protect himself and his family, he continued his vigilance against enemies within and without the Cosa Nostra and maintained his standing army of soldiers consummately loyal to him through the Sicilian code of omerta. A contingent of these he immediately sent to protect his padrino’s son in America, whom he called ‘Don MacLean’ out of honor and respect.
MacLean was in no mood for formalities, Sicilian or otherwise. And he was one of the few people who could not respect formalities and still remain respectful. He sighed, then paused briefly. “It was not an accident, Don Forza.” He was about to tell Forza that a friend was on the plane, but stopped himself. In the Sicilian hierarchy, among the uomini di rispetto, other people came before friends. “My consiglieri was on the plane. That is why it crashed.” Consiglieri was a Sicilian concept, the trusted family advisor, the counselor, often a lawyer, who advised on all things and who as a result knew of all things. A position of great respect within the famiglia.
“Your consiglieri. I did not know. I am sorry.” Forza paused. The line crackled. “You say it was not an accident?”
“No.”
“Who?”
“I know who, but they are untouchable,” he said, referring to Piet Slythe and Waterboer rather than the White House Chief of Staff.
“No one is untouchable.”
Despite the vodka, the words chilled MacLean. But that is why he had called. Still, he was afraid. He said nothing, let the Sicilian telephone line crackle.
“Maximilliano. Don Innocenti was my padrino. You are his son. You are in danger. Comanda me.” Command me. “But the telephone...I do not hear it so good.” Don’t implicate yourself over the telephone. Get me the information. You know how.
“Grazie, Don Forza. Grazie.”
39 YACHT
Atlantic Star
U.S. Registry Yacht
Atlantic City, New Jersey
4:50 A.M.
The Lincoln limousine drove onto docks that were dark and ominously still. The car slowed and stopped inside a warehouse filled with crates labeled ‘MacLean Foods International, Inc.’ in large stenciled letters. Carlton and Erika’s escort opened the door, signaled for them to get out.
He led them across the giant warehouse, illuminated in pale yellow light from sodium light bulbs trapped in metal grilles far overhead. Their footsteps echoed on the concrete floor, made the cavernous warehouse seem even larger, more forbidding. Soon the echoes from their footsteps were joined by another sound. A low-pitched, steady, powerful rumble. So low Erika felt it in her shivering body. The feeling also made her realize how hungry she was.
Trailing clouds of frozen breath, they emerged on the other side of the warehouse onto a wooden jetty. Moored to what seemed to be large steel mushrooms was the source of the rumbling sound, an enormous white boat. No activity was evident on or around the craft, but it blazed with light. The three emerged from the warehouse onto the jetty and were enveloped in a misty drizzle from the black sky. Erika wrapped herself tightly in the warm cashmere topcoat their escort had provided, huddled against Carlton.
“Mr. Carlton. Ms. Wassenaar. If you’ll please board.”
A tall man dressed in full uniform whites emblazoned with commander’s bars met the two at the top of the gangplank. “Welcome aboard the Atlantic Star.” He saluted them. “I’m Commander Ramey. This is my executive officer, Mr. Krebski.”
Krebski saluted. ”Sir. Ma’am.”
“It’s a pleasure to have you aboard, Mr. Carlton, Ms. Wassenaar.”
“Thank you, Commander.” Carlton gave the man’s hand a heavy tug and eyeballed the two men around them.
“There is a gentleman here to see you.”
“Who’s that?”
“If you’ll follow me, please.” Commander Ramey turned to his XO. “Mr. Krebski, take us out.”
He led them down a long hallway to a sitting room nearly as palatial as the Star’s presidential suite, though far more tastefully decorated. A man stood in the far corner of the room, his back toward them. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, a thick leather jacket, and sneakers, he gazed out to sea, apparently deep in thought.
“They’re here, sir,” Ramey announced, then turned to Carlton and Erika. “I’ll see you later. Please make yourselves at home.”
The man in the corner turned toward them. Carlton got the distinct impression they had just walked into a well-laid trap. But that didn’t make sense. Maybe sleep deprivation and paranoia were getting the best of him. The African-American proceeded toward them without a word and extended his hand. “Tom Pink.”
“Tom Pink?” It took a great deal of self-control for Carlton to refrain from launching himself at him. This was the man from Langley who refused to believe him, despite his repeated telephone calls and evidence.
“Glad to meet you, Pat. I’m glad you got my message.”
Carlton squinted. “Your message? What message?”
“The message I left you last night. On your voicemails at home and in the office. Telling you to get out of D.C. Isn’t that why you’re—”
“The only thing in my apartment last night was a psychotic on steroids.”
“That’s what I called to warn you about.”
“Yeah. Well you were a day late, Thomas. The name definitely fits. Doubting Thomas. So, now that you’ve researched for yourself, you finally believe what I told you in the first place a week ago?”
“As I said, that’s why I called you.”
“Well, better late than never.” He pointed toward Erika. “This is Erika Wassenaar.” They shook hands.
“I don’t blame you for being sore. But you have to see it in context. I’m an analyst. I’m not used to getting - much less believing - such shocking information from people outside the Agency.”
“Even from a lawyer at DOJ and a Navy Reservist to boot?”
“You’ve got no idea how many fruitcakes call us with conspiracy theories. But once I confirmed your info, I acted as fast as I could.”
Erika felt the tension, jumped in to defuse it. “How did you find us?”
“You forget who I work for, Ms. Wassenaar. It wasn’t very difficult. I went through Mr. Carlton’s computer files and the numbers he dialed. Got to MacLean quickly. A couple more calls later, here I am.” He spread his arms wide. “But I’m not the only one looking out for you.”
“Obviously.”
“Thank God for Colonel Saunders, right?”
“Colonel Saunders? How did—”
“Company man. Like me. Don’t worry. He doesn’t know more than need-to-know. It also helps that he and MacLean go way back.”
“I’m getting the feeling MacLean goes way back with just about everyone.”
Carlton remained silent for a moment, still not entirely certain he could trust this man. The voicemails he referred to - which he still had not heard - could have been intentionally placed as a way to establish trust. The assassin could have been a decoy. But the decoy was dead.
No. Pink had to be for real. Besides, it’s not like he had many options right now. He’d just remain alert and watch Doubting Thomas carefully. Carlton’s gaze drifted to the black marble bar at the far end of the room. ”I don’t know about you two, but I could sure use a belt. What’s your pleasure?” He walked to the bar, scanned the forest of bottles lined against a mirror, poured himself a tall gin and tonic, with plenty of ice and lots of lime, and poured the others their chosen libations.
Following Carlton’s cue, they hoisted their glasses. “To the invisible Max MacLean. For getting us out of this mess. For now, anyway.”
They sat in a grouping of baby blue leather sofas and drank in silence, listening to the increased rumble of the engines, watching the docks getting smaller through the large bar window.
&nb
sp; Carlton looked back at Pink. “So now that we’re safe and cozy, what’s the plan? How are we going to arrest Fress?”
Pink winced. “I’m...afraid it’s not that simple.”
Carlton felt his heart sink into his gut. “Not that simple? But it is what you’re here for, right?” Silence. “Why do I have a feeling I don’t want to hear this?” Carlton walked back to the bar, made fresh drinks.
“You’d better sit down. A lot has happened.”
Carlton and Erika sat, and during the next half hour, Pink outlined the Russian situation. Leonid Pyashinev, Molotok and Russkost, the Russian mafiya Volki, and the Russian diamond stockpile. They listened intently without interruption.
When Pink was finished, Carlton drained his second G&T, stood, frowned. “Let me see if I’ve got this straight. One, CIA won’t let us arrest Fress because it can’t risk this Molotok freak or Waterboer getting wind of what we know. Two, you want us—us—to help you find the location of the Russian diamond stockpile. Three, you want us to help you steal the stockpile from God-knows-what psychotic armed force is guarding it. All before Molotok and his wolves or whatever they’re called get to it. Four, you have no idea where the stockpile is, except for some clues obviously so piss poor the CIA can’t send an experienced team in to grab it. Five—we are already at five, right?—we won’t have any government support because we can’t let the information leak to Molotok and Waterboer through Congressional, White House, or Agency moles who work for Fress and Waterboer. No SEALs, no Delta Force, not even a group of angry interns with staplers. Six, both Molotok and Waterboer are also looking for the diamonds and are willing to do whatever it takes to get them. Oh, and I almost forgot—seven, we can’t punt this over to the Russian government and let them deal with their own mess because we have no way of making sure that the person on that end won’t be involved with Waterboer and transfer the diamonds just like Molotok. Is that about it, or am I missing anything here?”
Pink avoided Carlton’s glowering stare, but couldn’t blame the man. Pink himself hated the plan, Forbes’ plan. Bad when Forbes first disclosed it, it sounded worse every time Pink heard it. Particularly from someone else. He nodded his head. “That’s about the size of it.” He didn’t have a choice, either.
Patrick Carlton 01 - The Diamond Conspiracy Page 28
