CHAPTER
SEVENTY
Austin, Texas
December 12, 1999 / Sunday / 1:00 p.m.
The G3 landed with only the slightest bump, causing a ripple in Mason’s second martini. He turned and looked at the rear of the luxurious cabin, where Bianca, his new mistress, was still sleeping in one of the seats. He could just see the golden brown of her young legs through the blanket that partially covered her. Mason decided he wouldn’t wake her just yet. The limo would be waiting on the tarmac. He could make his calls from there and wake her later. His first call would be to Paquin.
The woman’s visa was still in process. Mason knew that he was taking a risk bringing her into the country illegally on his private jet, but the risk was nominal. Helius’s airstrip was a private facility, and it was located within a small township about forty miles outside of Austin. The local authorities were more than respectful of Helius’s expressed desire for privacy.
Mason finished the last of his drink and stood up, irritation playing across his face. The copilot had lowered the stairway to the tarmac minutes ago. His driver should have come in to pick up his bags. Mason waited another minute and then walked to the doorway. His staff was well aware of his insistence on exact compliance with his personal demands.
Mason’s irritation level ratcheted up another notch when he looked down the stairs leading to the tarmac. No one was in sight. He walked down the stairs, keeping his eyes on the steel steps. When he reached the tarmac and looked up, he could see the limousine was parked in the usual spot, but something was wrong. Six people were standing beside the car. He didn’t recognize any of them. Mason’s initial reaction was confusion and then anger.
As he walked toward the group, Mason saw his pilot and driver standing further away, near the building that bordered the airstrip. A man in dark glasses was standing beside them. Neither man would meet his eyes. Mason’s stare came to rest on the woman in the middle of the six people standing by the limousine. There was no respect whatsoever for his position in the woman’s face. If anything, there was a hint of scorn in her eyes. She was holding a rolled-up paper in her hands like a royal sceptre.
Before Mason could say anything, she walked over to him. Three men wearing dark suits followed her. Two of the men were younger and wore sunglasses. The third man was older. There was a small bandage on the side of his face. The woman stopped about three yards from Mason and opened the paper.
Mason spoke first.
“What, may I ask, is the meaning—”
“No, you may not ask, but you will listen. My name is Michaela Russo, United States Attorney for the Western District of Texas. These men are with the FBI.”
Then the woman returned her attention to the paper in front of her and began reading it aloud.
“Carter T. Mason, you are hereby placed under arrest by the United States government. You have the right to remain silent … ”
The woman’s strident voice continued through a litany that Mason had heard on television and in the movies innumerable times, but could not conceive of anyone having the temerity to read to him. A terrifying thought struck him like a blow in the stomach. What if Paquin had … no, that isn’t a possibility. Then Mason regained control. This woman had one thing right. He was Carter T. Mason, and she had made a colossal mistake in presuming to invade his airport and place him under arrest. He would destroy her.
As soon as the woman finished reading, the two men in sunglasses came forward with a pair of handcuffs. They placed them on Mason’s wrists and walked him over to the small building just behind the limousine. The woman waved to the door and a crowd of people flowed out. The microphones and cameras told the whole story. Mason looked over at the woman, a cold rage on his face. She’d planned this. She intended to parade him through these press-hounds like some kind of criminal.
Mason started forward, but then he realized that the woman had turned and was looking back at the jet. Mason twisted uncomfortably in the grip of the men on either side of him. He could just see Bianca’s revealing dress and the stunned look on her face as she came down the stairs of the G3. His rage and frustration at the embarrassment almost induced him to struggle against the two men holding him, but he controlled himself, knowing it would be futile.
“And who, Mr. Mason, is this?” Russo said, with open scorn, as she moved toward Bianca. The young woman covered her mouth and ran back into the jet.
A hard smile played across Michaela Russo’s face and she turned to one of the FBI men holding his arm.
“Check to see if she has a passport. If she doesn’t, place her under arrest as well.” Then she turned on her heel and headed over to the press. Mason’s face was ashen as he was pulled forward by the remaining FBI agent.
CHAPTER
SEVENTY-ONE
Alsace-Lorraine, France
December 18, 1999 / Saturday / 1:30 p.m.
The ancestral home of the Ricard family was located outside a small picturesque village in Alsace-Lorraine. Ricard’s funeral, which had been a quiet affair in the local church, had been held the day before. After the service, Caine and Andrea had decided to stay in the village another day before returning to the maelstrom in Texas.
True to his word, Franklin had featured the “Helius Affair” on the front page of the Statesman. Every major newspaper in America had picked up the story the next day, and quite a few around the world as well. Mason had resigned as the head of Helius after the story broke, and he remained incommunicado despite the score of reporters camped outside his mansion. The phalanx of lawyers defending him had made it clear that he denied any wrongdoing.
The new chairman of Helius, a nationally recognized business leader, had instructed all Helius personnel to fully cooperate with the Justice Department’s investigation. He had also made a settlement offer to John Caine—a very large settlement offer.
As the couple walked down the worn cobblestone path that meandered through the old village, Andrea realized she was falling in love with John Caine. She glanced over at him for a moment, and tried to reach some conclusion about his feelings toward her, but failed. She knew he liked her, but was there more than that? There were hints, but she didn’t want to misconstrue them. John Caine was difficult to read in the best of circumstances, and the past week had been anything but.
Andrea was so deep in thought that she didn’t realize that Caine had stopped, until she had walked past him. He was staring at a gray headstone in a small cemetery bordered by a worn stone wall. Caine turned and looked over at her for a moment and then looked back at the cemetery.
“Do you remember when you asked me why I chose the surname Caine after I left the orphanage?”
“Yes. You didn’t answer.”
Caine nodded and continued, “I used to help out at a ranch back in Texas, doing yard work, painting, that sort of thing. The woman who owned it, Sarah, was in her eighties. She died the month before I left. There was a cemetery plot on the property that I used to look after—just a single tombstone. I could tell it was important to her, but she never spoke about it.
“The priest who spoke at her funereal said the grave was empty. Her … Sarah Caine’s husband had been killed on the beach at Normandy during the war. The body … it was unrecoverable. She’d had the stone laid so she could bring him flowers every day, which she did, for almost thirty years. I never forgot the words on the tombstone. ‘Jonathan Caine, beloved and remembered.’ That’s where the name came from.”
Caine paused for a minute and looked into the distance, his eyes glazing over.
Then he turned and faced her. “The flowers … every single day … Until I met you, I didn’t understand it.”
Then she was in his arms, and the nightmare was finally over.
his book with friends
Helius Legacy Page 36
