Lovely, Dark, and Deep (The Collectors)

by Susannah Sandlin

  Mr. Ricky had relayed this information to them with a straight face, and Gillian knew if anyone found out that Shane had brought The Breton into port last night, they wouldn’t learn it from their friendly harbormaster.

  Shane felt guilty about Tex, but Gillian didn’t. Shane hadn’t heard the man’s cold voice describing Holly’s kitty-cat dress, threatening to hurt a three-year-old to carry out the whims of a rich, power-mad politician.

  No, she didn’t feel guilty about the death of Garland Garrison Jr., and she’d do her best to keep Shane from feeling it. What they’d do with Trey was a subject no one had an answer to. For now, he was on an extended visit with the McKnights, something Chevy, in his own perverse way, seemed to be enjoying.

  Shane stood beside her and took her hand. “You sure you don’t want me to make the call?”

  God, yes, she wanted him to make the call. But she needed to do it. “No, I have to be the Burke man today.”

  He smiled and kissed the tip of her nose. “Turn and face the dragon?”

  Exactly. She took a deep breath, sat in Cleo McKnight’s favorite armchair, and pulled Tex’s cell phone from her jeans pocket. She and Shane had been through Tex’s list of calls sent and received, first eliminating the calls to themselves, then the ones to and from Trey.

  That left one number which appeared on an almost daily basis, to and from a contact listed only as “Irish.”

  Weston Flynn wasn’t any more an Irishman than Gillian was a Scotswoman; their families were too far removed and diluted. But she had no doubt “Irish” referred to their illustrious secretary of state.

  She fixed Holly’s picture in her mind, hit the call button, and put the phone on speaker. A momentary panic—what if no one answered?—disappeared when a voice came on the line. A voice that was deep, polished, and angry. “Gar, where the hell have you been? I’m due in fucking Turkey in forty-eight hours and we need this wrapped up. Might as well tell me that useless bitch and her diver are out of time, and I’m out thirty million dollars.”

  So that was the price of a life. Several lives. Thirty pieces of silver had changed the fate of humankind two millennia ago. Thirty million was today’s going price for the lives of everyone she cared about.

  “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Secretary, but you’re dealing with the useless bitch now.” Gillian could practically hear the wheels spinning in Flynn’s brain as he tried to recover from this little surprise.

  “Don’t even think about hanging up,” she added. “I’ve recorded your little outburst and I’m sure the recording, plus Garland Garrison Jr.’s testimony, would be enough to hang you for good. Just take one wrong step and it’s done.”

  Being a stone-cold bitch was easier than Gillian expected. In fact, turning the screws was downright pleasurable.

  Speaking of stone cold, Flynn’s voice could freeze lava. “Trey would never talk. Where’s Gar?”

  “He’s dead.” Gillian glanced up at Shane, who was listening with his back turned to her, staring out to sea. “He met with an unfortunate accident while swimming. I’ll save you the trouble of asking about Trey. He’s staying with us, working through his grief—you know, talking about things always makes people feel better.”

  Flynn’s voice dropped lower, and Gillian couldn’t help but think how different he sounded from the glib politician giving sound bytes as he came and went at exotic airports and seats of international power. “What do you want?”

  Shane took the seat next to Gillian, and nodded his encouragement. “I want you to cancel your plans for Turkey and make reservations for Quebec,” she said. “Then schedule a puddle jumper to Sydney, Nova Scotia. You see, Mr. Flynn, we’ve found the Templars’ cross and thought you might want to see it.”

  The audible intake of breath on the other end of the call told Gillian that Flynn’s greed hadn’t abated, even after hearing of the death of his childhood friend and chief flunky. Nice.

  “You really found it?”

  “Check your email.” Gillian sent a photo file to the phone number. Shane had taken it with his underwater camera, but the cross attached to its plate was clearly recognizable. A second photo showed it after Shane had rubbed off some of the muck, with their lights shining on it. A glint of red told the story.

  “My God.” Flynn’s voice sounded muffled as he muttered to himself, probably while looking at the pictures. “My God. You found it. You have no idea…Ms. Campbell, I offered you a million dollars originally. If you turn over the cross without causing a ripple and release Trey, I’ll triple it. For you and Mr. Burke as well.”

  She looked at Shane and smiled. If it had been only about money, they’d want a lot more than that. If it could be preserved outside cold storage, the cross was likely worth billions. But it had never been about money, not even for Shane. “We’ll work out the details when you get here, Mr. Flynn, because I’ll only turn the cross over to you personally.”

  “Well, that might not be possib—”

  Oh yes, it would be possible, all right. “That’s not negotiable. Expect another call soon, Mr. Secretary.”

  CHAPTER 32

  Weston Flynn gripped the armrests of his perch in the front of the fifty-two-seat plane as it made a noisy, bumpy descent over water toward the runway at McCurdy Airport in Sydney. In the hours between the takeoff in Quebec and the captain’s “Welcome to Beautiful Cape Breton, Nova Scotia,” he’d endured a whining toddler kicking his seat back, an octogenarian snoring across the aisle, and a tide of people jostling back and forth to the restroom located directly in front of his seat. And the plane didn’t carry food, not even a fucking bag of peanuts.

  West looked out the window, unsure what awaited him below. He regularly met with heads of state, observing complex protocols and hammering out sensitive negotiations of global importance. None in recent memory made him as nervous as this meeting with Gillian Campbell.

  He had to give the woman credit. She and her motley crew of underachievers had turned the tables on him—the first time since he and his fellow collectors had started C7. She could ruin him, as she’d once again reminded him when she’d called late the night before with his travel instructions.

  But she’d have to ruin him without the help of Trey Garrison, who should be joining his father in the heavenly realms by the end of the day. Gar’s replacement, Eldon Maddox, had worked for West off and on the past decade, most recently shadowing the Campbell woman’s young niece. He sat in the back of the plane, ready to carry out three assignments: first, to watch West’s back while he was in Nova Scotia; second, once West was on his way back to the States, to take out Trey Garrison; and third, if West gave him the signal, to kill Gillian Campbell and Shane Burke. The others had simply been collateral and he had no interest in them.

  With those two, it had become personal because of Gar. But only if the risk to himself was minimal. He truly mourned for Gar, who’d been a trusted confidante since they’d suffered through Boy Scouts together in Texas. Trey, on the other hand, had screwed up everything he’d done in his miserable life, from getting two girls pregnant before high school graduation to flunking out of the only college that had low-enough standards to admit him. The world wouldn’t miss him.

  So far, he’d let Gillian Campbell have her way, with one exception. He’d postponed his trip to Ankara, scheduled this flight with only Maddox for protection, and agreed to meet with her and Shane Burke in person. But only here at the Sydney airport. He’d drawn the line at driving to bumfuck rural Canada; that would be Maddox’s job once West was finished with his business and it was time to tie up the loose end that was Trey Garrison.

  But the ruby cross of the Knights Templars would be his. It was worth the cost, even the thirty million he’d be coughing up to be split among his fellow C7 members as a penalty for using the full month to procure his prize. Thirty million was nothing compared to such a treasure. He’d even taken the teasing phone call from that dot-com upstart Brent Sullivan with grace.

  The pl
ane bounced twice on the runway and taxied to a stop beside the small, well-kept terminal. To his surprise, Campbell and Burke had agreed to meet him here, offering to set up a room where they could speak privately. West unfolded the navy suit coat he’d taken off when he boarded, unwedged himself from his seat, and walked off the plane. He stepped to the side in the jetport, allowing other passengers to move ahead of him while he slipped into his coat.

  He nodded at Maddox when he appeared in the doorway. His new private assistant was armed, although West didn’t know how he’d managed security. Probably a bribe. Whether it was a gun or a grenade or a Taser, West felt confident he’d be protected if things went south.

  Gillian Campbell looked prettier in person than she had on the TV show or in the photos Gar had sent him via phone. Could be the clothes. She wore a black tailored skirt and jacket with a deep blue blouse. Behind her, looking as comfortable as a monkey in a penguin suit, stood an equally well-dressed Shane Burke.

  West was thankful no one had recognized him. Maybe he could get in and out of Sydney without anyone knowing he was here. His flight back to Quebec left in two hours. He’d spend the night there, celebrating the acquisition of the Templars’ cross with a bottle of champagne, and fly directly to Ankara tomorrow.

  Let’s get this over with.

  “Ms. Campbell, Mr. Burke.” Flynn stopped in front of them, wondering why he’d been nervous at meeting with them. They might as well have ordinary stamped on their foreheads. “Shall we get this business done?”

  Gillian smiled and pointed down the concourse. “We have a room set up about halfway down, on the left.”

  He looked at her purse, a leather messenger bag worn cross-body style. “Do you have it?”

  Her smile grew wider. “It’s ready to meet its new owner—as long as we agree to terms, of course.”

  Damn mercenary. “Of course.”

  She started to walk away but stopped when Shane stepped between them. “Your goon can stand outside.” He jerked his head at Maddox, who was pretending to read the overhead monitors filled with lists of departures and arrivals. “But he can’t come in the room with us.”

  West gave Shane his most intimidating glare, the ones his White House staff probably had nightmares about, but the man didn’t flinch or look away. “Fine.” They weren’t going to try anything in the middle of an airport.

  Shane nodded, and they walked past four Air Canada gates before Gillian stopped outside a door with a nameplate that read “Authorized Personnel Only.”

  “Ladies first.” West wouldn’t be the first one through the door into a space that had no doubt been rented with his money.

  Gillian nodded and opened the door, which led into a large conference room set up with rows of chairs and a podium in front. “We’re off to the side here,” she said. A second door led to a small room with a table and four chairs in the center and a couple of upholstered chairs and conversation tables at the side. Some type of lounge, maybe.

  “Let’s start talking. I have a flight out in two hours. Unlike Mr. Burke here, I actually have a job.”

  He’d hoped to stir the pot a bit to gauge the emotional temperature of Gillian’s companion since she had proven herself an ice queen. Burke didn’t take the bait. He simply gave West an arrogant smirk, pulled out a chair, and sat at the table. “Gillian, let’s not keep Mr. Secretary waiting; he has a plane to catch.”

  “Certainly.” Gillian put the messenger bag on the table, opened it, and pulled out some papers. West looked for a glimpse of the cross while the bag was open, but she closed it before he saw more than a wallet and cell phone.

  He might as well sit down and let them say their piece, trusting Maddox would be outside the door if he called.

  As soon as he pulled the industrial gray office chair up to the table, Gillian slid a paper in front of him. “Here is a copy of the records pulled off Garland Garrison’s cell phone, as well as those of his son Trey.” She picked up a second sheet, placing it atop the first. “Here is a transcript not only of our conversations last night, but also of two recorded messages retrieved from Trey Garrison’s phone, wherein his father mentions you by name, in association with the kidnapping of Harley Dugan and the shooting of Calvin Mackie Jr.”

  A cold, alien feeling slid up West’s spine. It was fear, something he hadn’t felt often in his fifty-plus years. He’d underestimated Gillian Campbell. Badly.

  She pulled out a small digital recorder and slid that toward him as well. “Here’s the recording itself—one of several copies, I should add. You might be particularly interested in the part where Tex—Gar, as you call him—mentions that his old friend Weston Flynn would like him to make sure Harley Dugan was dead by the time day thirty had arrived. Let’s see, I think that would be today. Too bad Harley escaped.”

  They paused at the sound of voices outside the door. “Is someone else meeting in the big room next door?” West felt an absurd desire to crawl under the table.

  “Nothing for you to worry about.” Gillian reached in her bag and pulled out one final sheet of paper. “Here’s my favorite thing. This came from Gar’s wallet.”

  Willing his hands to stop the infernal shaking that had begun at the appearance of the recorder, West reached for the paper and held it up in front of him. It was a photocopy of a receipt with a handwritten note beside it, in Gar’s writing. The original receipt looked like it had been folded many times; all the creases showed up as black lines in the copy.

  It detailed the rental of a workboat called The Breton for the month of September in Main-à-Dieu, Nova Scotia, for a sum of ten thousand dollars. The attached note read: Charge to WF private account, #4624047972, SuisseBnc.

  “It proves nothing.” West slapped the paper back on the table and shoved the pile back toward Gillian. “Absolutely nothing.”

  Shane, who’d been silently watching the proceedings, leaned forward. “It might not be enough to convict you in a courtroom, Mr. Secretary.” He laced that title with sarcasm. If West had a gun with him right now, he’d shoot the bastard just to wipe the little smile off his face. “But it’s enough to cast reasonable doubt about a man’s suitability for public office. It’s way more than enough to sink a presidential bid.”

  “Oh,” Gillian said. “And just so you know? It might sound like a bad movie cliché but clichés become that for a reason. There are copies of the papers and recordings, along with a full written account of the past thirty days from myself and Shane, left with everyone we know. If anything happens to us, our friends and family go public. As long as we’re left alone, the documents stay sealed.”

  “We have a little extra insurance,” Shane added. “Anything happens to us—or our families—we have extras in a safe deposit box that get sent to the Washington Post, New York Times…where else?” He looked at Gillian.

  “Everywhere,” she said.

  West closed his eyes. They could be bluffing. Probably were bluffing. But he couldn’t risk it. Everything he’d worked for would be gone. “What do you want?”

  * * *

  An hour later, West pushed his chair back from the table. His mood through the negotiations had spun from relief to anger to self-pity and back again, round and round and round.

  He only had their word they wouldn’t expose him; they had only his word he wouldn’t have them killed. It was a draw.

  In the past sixty minutes, he’d authorized sizable money transfers to both Gillian and Shane, transferred the remaining balance due on Shane’s boat to a small bank in Florida, even set up a fucking trust fund for Gillian Campbell’s niece.

  One piece of business remained.

  “I’ve done everything you demanded. Now, what about the Templars’ cross?”

  Gillian smiled, and patted her messenger bag. “Well, we considered leaving it alone and realized that wouldn’t work—you’d just wait a while and ruin some other poor peoples’ lives trying to get it. So we came up with a win-win situation for everybody.” She stood up. “You a
sked about the people we’ve been hearing next door? It’s time to see what they’re up to.”

  West’s emotions swerved back into the red zone, red for anger. “What the fuck are you playing at? You got what you wanted.”

  “And in return, I’m about to make you a hero, Mr. Flynn.” She picked up her bag and nodded at Shane, who opened the door.

  The murmur of voices reached them, and leaning back, West saw people filling all the seats visible from his vantage point. Maddox stuck his head in the door with an exasperated expression, moving back to let Gillian and Shane pass. “What do you want me to do?” he whispered when West finally got up and approached the door, fearful of what he’d see.

  “Get down the coast and take care of Trey.” He spoke softly. “Wait until the old guy in the lighthouse lets him go—it’ll happen eventually. Make sure there’s nothing left of him to find. Then get the hell back to Texas until you hear from me again. This job is over.”

  He didn’t like it, but the game now had switched to Salvage the Career.

  West stepped out of the doorway and froze as applause rang out. The people filling the seats craned their necks to look at him, then gave him a standing ovation. Cameras flashed in his face. What the hell?

  At the front of the room, Gillian and Shane stood next to a small herd of men and women in business suits.

  Shane stepped up to the podium and raised his hands for quiet. West stood there, frozen. His heart pounded, and he stuck his hands in his pockets to keep the goddamned cameras from catching him in the act of wiping clammy sweat off his palms.

  “Thank you everyone.” Shane spoke into the microphone. “I have to admit we’ve staged a surprise for US Secretary of State Weston Flynn today, which is why he’s looking so confused. Come on up here, West.”