A door opened. Martin Dant stepped from a room filled with computers, monitors, printers, and a variety of other electronic equipment. Men were occupied in front of screens that provided financial statements and stock-market information. One of several security-camera displays showed Cavanaugh, Jamie, and Novak.
Dant wore designer loafers, khaki pants, a blue linen shirt with its sleeves rolled twice, a gold bracelet on one wrist and a Patek Philippe watch on the other. He wasn’t tall, but he exuded a power that gave him presence. His silver hair, healthily thick, contrasted with the golden tan that enhanced his television good looks. He had a square face, distinctive features, and penetrating eyes. Even the half-dozen scabs from the flying glass that had cut his face reinforced the masculinity he projected.
His gaze rested on Jamie, then focused on Cavanaugh.
“If this is a question of ego,” Dant told Cavanaugh, “remember you haven’t actually been fired. After all, you never really had the opportunity to start the job. Nothing personal. I merely changed my mind.”
“But we did start the job,” Cavanaugh responded, “and you might as well receive some value for that check you want to give us. We found some interesting items.”
“We? If you mean Ms. Travers, I wish you’d brought her to yesterday’s meeting.”
“I was preparing your threat assessment,” Jamie told him.
“The thing is, I already know there’s a threat,” Dant emphasized. “I confess I was nervous, but then I reminded myself that risk is a fact of life. It’s just a question of keeping it away from me. So the answer is to increase my protection. Isn’t that right, Mr. Novak?”
“Well, yes, sir, I think there’s—”
“It’s the control issue,” Cavanaugh interrupted.
“Excuse me?” Dant asked.
“Yesterday, I wondered if you were willing to take orders from someone who worked for you. Now I have your answer.”
“None of this concerns you any longer.”
“Please look at the threat assessment,” Jamie requested. “If it doesn’t convince you, we’ll gladly leave. After we tear up the check.”
Dant paused. He glanced at the folder. He looked at Jamie. He considered Cavanaugh.
Absently, he scratched one of the scabs on his face. When he lowered his hand from his cheek, blood was on his finger.
“Maybe I was wrong. Maybe we should begin again.”
* * *
Cavanaugh took a page from the folder and showed it to Dant. “In the past five years, you had a seventy percent turnover on your protective detail. Mr. Novak is your fifth security chief in that same period.”
Dant looked surprised.
“Surely you knew this,” Cavanaugh said.
“Of course. But that information is confidential.”
“Apparently not, or else we wouldn’t be discussing it with you.”
“How did you learn this?”
“I hacked into your computer system,” Jamie answered matter-of-factly.
Dant looked more surprised. “My system is state of the art.”
“So is ours,” Jamie assured him.
“The district attorney will want to know all about them.”
Cavanaugh pointed at the file. “Here’s the agreement you signed, authorizing us to use any means necessary to prepare a threat assessment.”
“It’s better this way,” Jamie continued. “I’ll plug the holes. Then I’ll hire a friend who’s smarter than me to try to hack in. Meanwhile, the flaws in your computer security might have been how the person who’s trying to kill you learned your schedule. Teterboro airport. Cape Cod. The Grand Caymans. You can’t be followed easily, so that means somebody’s ahead of you.”
“Another thing that stands out,” Cavanaugh said, pointing at the file, “is the absence of any female personnel on your security team. There hasn’t been any in the past three years.”
“I don’t know why you think that’s significant.” Dant sounded annoyed. “Men are obviously more suited for dangerous work. Besides, it’s difficult to find properly trained female bodyguards, given that almost everyone in that business is a former member of a special-operations military unit. Isn’t that right, Mr. Novak?”
“Not exactly, Mr. Dant. There’s a female special-ops unit that—”
Dant cut him off, asking Cavanaugh, “Why do you think women should be on my security team?”
“The men in the lobby and outside your door showed more interest in Jamie than they did in me. So did Mr. Novak. So did you. In your case, that’s a function of your fondness for female companionship.”
“Which is none of your business.”
“It is if your protectors need to accommodate that fondness. The team might be more objective if some of them are female. It’s not that Mr. Novak or the men outside stopped being professional. On the contrary, I got the impression they worried that a woman could be a greater threat than a man and that they weren’t sure how to deal with that. A female protector would know how to handle the situation.”
“I won’t give up my social life.”
“No one’s asking for that,” Jamie emphasized. “But you can have patience enough to wait until background checks are made. Three years ago, you had female protectors. What happened? The unusually high turnover in your security staff. What do you suppose is the problem?”
Dant shrugged. “Maybe they find better money somewhere else. How would I know?”
“You pay higher than the standard rate. No, the problem is you treat them like bodyguards instead of protectors.”
“Back to that again. Whatever you want to call them, I won’t allow anyone to tell me how to run my life.”
“Even if that’s what’s necessary to save it?” Jamie pointed at his face. “By the way, one of your scabs is bleeding again.”
This time, Dant didn’t touch it. “Whoever’s trying to kill me won’t have the satisfaction of making me cower. To prove it, tonight I’m going to Lincoln Center.”
“What?”
“A charity benefit.”
“Tonight? But that doesn’t give us enough time to plan the security arrangements,” Cavanaugh objected.
“It’s not a problem. Mr. Novak has already taken care of everything.”
* * *
At night, Lincoln Center was one of Cavanaugh’s favorite places in Manhattan. Its brilliantly lit buildings, spacious plaza, and spectacular fountain represented what the city could be at its best, never failing to impress him.
Except when Cavanaugh was working. Then all he saw were unlimited vantage points and uncontrollable crowds.
Dant’s limousine arrived by an indirect route that might have fooled someone into thinking he’d changed his mind about going to the benefit. It was one of four that had left the basement parking area of Dant’s Fifth Avenue building, their tinted windows making it impossible for an observer to see inside and detect which limousine Dant had chosen to use. Near Lincoln Center, the vehicles had separated and approached all four entrances: Columbus Avenue, West Sixty-Fifth Street, West Sixty-Second Street, and Amsterdam.
Dant rode in the second limousine, sipping Armand de Brignac champagne. Cavanaugh sat in back with him while Novak sat in the front, using a scrambler-equipped two-way radio to communicate with the rest of the security team and coordinate Dant’s arrival. Jamie had gone ahead.
The black of Dant’s Brioni tuxedo made his thick silver hair seem more lustrous and emphasized his photogenic features. Expertly applied makeup disguised the scabs on his face.
“Have you ever been shot at when you protected someone?” he asked Cavanaugh.
“A couple of times.”
“Were you hit?”
“Once.”
“Let me ask you something. It’s obvious you don’t like me, and yet you’re willing to risk your life for me. Is the money that important to you?”
“I barely know you, so how can I have an opinion about whether you’re likeable or not? If it matter
s, I admire how hard you worked to build your empire. Not many people have your determination.”
“I got that from my father.” Dant didn’t say it happily. He glanced toward the glow of traffic. “Would you risk your life for someone you detested?”
“Drug dealers have tried to hire me. Mob bosses. Corporate CEOs who aren’t any better than con men, looting pension accounts. Financial advisors cheating the investors who trusted them. Sometimes evil is obvious. Otherwise, it’s not my place to judge. Most people muddle through their lives. All I can do is hope that if I keep them from dying a while longer, maybe they’ll find a way to justify remaining alive. The truth is, I’m less interested in the people I protect than the bullies I protect them from.”
“Bullies? Do I detect anger?”
“My father beat my mother.”
“Ah, yes, fathers.” Dant pointed through the window toward Lincoln Center. “Did you ever see the movie, The Producers?”
“Sure.”
“You remember the plot? Zero Mostel and Gene Wilder embezzle money from widows by getting them to invest in a Broadway play that they do everything to make sure is a flop. The widows invest more than the play cost to produce, so Mostel and Wilder are guaranteed a profit.”
“Yes, Wilder’s an accountant, as I recall.”
“They dream up that plan at Lincoln Center. At night at the fountain. When the idea comes to them, the fountain gushes. I couldn’t stop laughing when I was a kid and I saw that fountain gush. The first time I came to Manhattan, the only place I wanted to see was Lincoln Center and that fountain.” Dant looked amused. “I donated five million dollars for tonight’s fundraiser. It underwrites cultural events at the Center.”
“Nice to have culture.”
“I don’t mind having that publicized. It isn’t self-serving. What I don’t publicize are the considerably greater amounts I donate to after-school programs, homeless shelters, food banks, day-care centers, inner-city health clinics, and so on.”
“You just gave me a lot of reasons to risk my life for you.”
* * *
They used the garage entrance on West Sixty-Second Street, proceeding past harsh underground lights to a guarded area that provided access to an elevator reserved for VIP donors. Cavanaugh and Novak got out first, joining six protective agents, three on each side, who shielded Dant as he moved from the vehicle to the elevator.
The lobby doors opened, revealing tuxedos and evening gowns, the drone of hundreds of conversations, lights glinting off champagne and cocktail glasses—and diamonds, an abundance of diamonds. Uniformed servers moved through the crowd, offering canapés from polished trays. A string quartet played in the background.
For most attendees, the occasion seemed festive. For Cavanaugh, it was a nightmare. At the other entrances, security personnel presumably made sure that everyone who came through the various doors had an invitation, just as a guard now took Dant’s invitations and the ones he’d arranged for Cavanaugh and Novak. But invitations were easy to counterfeit. Plus, there weren’t any metal detectors. If Cavanaugh and Novak could enter with concealed firearms, so could someone with violent intentions. To add to the problems, while Cavanaugh wore a tuxedo, Novak did not. Nor did any of his security team. The rule was, Always match what your employer wore. Not only did you blend with the environment, disguising your function, but also you might confuse a gunman’s aim, making it hard for him to distinguish his target from similarly dressed people around him.
Dant merged with the crowd. Following, Cavanaugh watched him approach a woman whose blond hair was combed above her head, emphasizing her statuesque figure. As she turned toward Dant and smiled, her movement had a dancer’s grace. He kissed her on the cheek, so low that his lips almost reached her neck.
Cavanaugh stopped a discreet distance away.
“Champagne?” a server asked.
“No, thank you.”
“Looking for a good time, lover?” a woman asked.
It was Jamie, who shifted in front of him so that he seemed to be focusing on her while he actually concentrated on the people around Dant a dozen feet away. She wore an evening dress with a loose hem, allowing her to move quickly if she needed to.
“As long as you’re with me, it’s always a good time,” he said, the murmur of nearby conversations floating over them.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing that’s not good,” Jamie said quietly.
“You mean, apart from the fact that Dant’s security team is wearing suits instead of tuxedos, so they can’t move into the crowd without attracting attention? Hell, even if they did, their military haircuts would give them away.”
Looking past Jamie’s shoulder, Cavanaugh watched Dant whisper into the woman’s ear. She nodded, as if experiencing pleasure.
“He certainly has a way with the ladies.”
“With her, he’s had practice,” Jamie said.
“What do you mean?”
“She was his second wife.”
“What?” Cavanaugh concealed his surprise. “But she doesn’t look like her photographs. She’s too young. She ought to be in her late fifties by now.”
“The kind of alimony she gets from Dant, she can afford the Elixir of Youth. That’s the name of the office of her cosmetic surgeon. By the way, I got a look at the seating chart. Dant has a balcony seat. First row.”
“Novak should have caught that. What else hasn’t he checked? We need to—”
“I should have said Dant had a balcony seat. I arranged for him to sit behind you.”
Cavanaugh’s feeling of relief lasted all too briefly. “Wait a minute, what’s he doing?”
Dant and the woman left the crowd, moving toward an exit.
Cavanaugh spoke into a microphone on his lapel, warning the team that Dant was headed outside. He and Jamie followed, trying to disguise their urgency.
“Mr. Dant,” Jamie called. “Can we speak with you, Mr. Dant?”
Dant turned, annoyed.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Cavanaugh said, “but an old friend asked me to give you a message.”
“Not now.”
“He said the message was very important.”
“It’s too loud in here,” Dant complained. “This lady and I want some fresh air. It’s been a while since we had a chance to talk.”
Impatience with Cavanaugh’s interruption made the ex-wife’s features harden.
“You know it is loud in here,” Jamie said. “I’d like some fresh air, too.”
She and Cavanaugh followed Dant and his ex-wife into the nightglow of the plaza outside Lincoln Center. The blare of traffic replaced that of conversations and the string quartet.
Cavanaugh saw Novak and the rest of the security team coming outside. If they’d worn tuxedos, Dant might have been indistinguishable from his protectors.
Dant headed toward the fountain.
Cavanaugh hurried in front of him. “All you needed to do was tell us in advance what your plan is.”
“Sometimes I don’t have one.”
“Look, just give us a half hour, and we’ll make sure the area’s clear.”
“The opera’s scheduled to start by then.”
“Please.”
“What good does all the money in the world matter if . . .” Dant shook his head. “I knew this wouldn’t work.”
Cavanaugh looked ahead toward the huge, circular fountain. Lights shimmered under the water. A tarpaulin covered part of the fountain’s curve. Cones stood in front of a sign: UNDER REPAIR.
“At least, let me check the tarpaulin.”
“Get out of our way.”
The explosion had the force of hands shoving at Cavanaugh’s chest. His ears felt slapped. Stumbling back, he closed his eyes from the glare of the blast. He winced as Dant and his ex-wife walloped against Jamie and him, all four of them crashing onto the plaza. Sickening smoke swirled around him. Bystanders screamed.
* * *
“How many fingers do you see?” the doctor
asked.
Cavanaugh told him.
“What year is it?”
Cavanaugh told him.
“What’s your social security number?”
“You’re kidding, right? You expect me to give you my social security number?”
“Just wanted to see if you’re alert. Are you sick to your stomach?”
“No.”
“Are your ears still ringing?”
“Not as much.”
“I wouldn’t try to handle any heavy machinery.” The doctor looked at Jamie, whom he’d already checked. “Otherwise, I think it’s okay for the two of you to leave the hospital.”
“What about Mr. Dant? Is he okay?” Jamie asked.
“The same condition as you. I released him twenty minutes ago.”
“Released him? No. We need to talk to him.”
“The police wanted to talk to him downtown. But even if they hadn’t, it would have been impossible to keep him here. He definitely knows what he wants. Speaking of the police, there’s a detective waiting to ask you more questions.”
* * *
Two hours later, Cavanaugh and Jamie were escorted by Global Protective Services agents to a car outside the hospital. They were driven to the security firm’s headquarters on the fortieth floor of a building in midtown Manhattan, where they met with the hastily summoned heads of GPS’s various divisions.
“Dant’s been treating his protective team so badly, no one with any talent wants to work with him,” Cavanaugh said, his ears continuing to ring from the explosion.
“You should buy a lottery ticket,” the director of the Far East division said. “That close to the blast, somehow you didn’t get hit with shrapnel. All things considered, this was your lucky night.”
“What about the other people in the area?”
“No serious injuries,” the head of electronic-security devices replied.
The Attitude Adjuster: Three Cavanaugh/Protector Stories Page 3
