by Gene Riehl
“It’s not the pennies we’re concerned about, Thomas,” Ballinger said. “It’s the billions. And you want to put even more money over there. Your insistence on increasing the size of our existing infrastructure all over South Korea borders on irresponsible.”
“Especially,” Jeffrey Cox interrupted, his higher-pitched voice coming in a rush. “Especially with Pyongyang’s nuclear arsenal growing stronger and stronger every day. Good God, Thomas. Kim Jong Il has made no secret about his dream of invading the south. If his weapons program gets any bigger, he might just do it. We could lose everything we’ve invested over there. We could be ruined.”
Franklin nodded. We might be, if a doormat like you were running this company.
“I appreciate your input, Jeffrey, but an invasion’s not going to happen. The Wall Street Journal is reporting that Seoul is considering paying off Pyongyang if Kim agrees to freeze his nuclear program. I’m on top of that situation. With my access to the president and his national security advisor, I’m not about to let us get caught by surprise.”
“My point exactly,” Pat Devore said, his eyes sweeping the table. “You would know as soon as anyone if the north makes a move to invade.” Next to him, his twin brother nodded in support.
Franklin forced a smile, but Pat Devore’s words brought no comfort. Pat hadn’t been at Battle Valley Farm the other day. He had no way of knowing about Franklin’s meeting with the president. No way of knowing that when Ishii Nakamura got his bombs, Global would be ruined. That the hundreds of millions of dollars Franklin had spent would be wasted. Franklin felt a weakness sweep his body as he admitted there could be an even worse outcome.
If the Justice Department discovered what he was doing, the attorney general would act quickly. Franklin pictured the FBI arresting him, handcuffing him, and leading him to a bureau car, TV cameras crowding against him, reporters shouting, as he completed the infamous “perp walk.” In the end he’d lose everything, most of all the company he’d founded, that he’d given his life to creating and developing.
Jesus, he thought. There has to be a way to …
Sarah Hundley’s calm voice interrupted the noise in his head.
“Let’s get back to the money thing,” she said. “I’m not as worried about an invasion as an audit. If somehow—accidentally or any other way—our money is getting to Kim Jong Il, we could go to jail.” She glanced at the people around the table. “We could all go to jail.”
Franklin forced himself to concentrate on her words. “You’re right, Sarah, of course you’re right. What would you recommend we do?”
“A special internal audit. I want to see an accounting for the funds we have in Korea. Every penny.”
Franklin looked around the table. “And the rest of you?”
Voices rose in agreement, but Stanley Ballinger’s stood out.
“At least,” he said. “An audit at the very least … although I’m not sure what good it would do.” He shook his head. “There are too many ways to get around an audit, but it would be a start. Show good faith on our part, if nothing else.”
“Done,” Franklin said. He turned to Emrick. “Make it happen, Charles.”
Emrick made a note on the pad in front of him.
“Anything else?” Franklin asked. He stared at Jim Adams and Gordon Fairclough. “You two haven’t said anything.”
Fairclough shook his head. Next to him, Jim Adams appeared to have something to say. He sat forward for a moment, then relaxed back into his chair.
“I’ve got nothing to add,” he said, then looked around the table at his fellow directors, before turning his eyes back to Franklin. “As long as you keep making the kind of money we’re seeing, I’m just fine.”
Now there was a murmur of agreement and nodding of heads. Franklin could feel the tension drain out of the room. He looked at his board of directors. They worked hard at their job, made every attempt to pretend they ran the company, but in the end they were happy to let him do it.
Sarah Hundley had mentioned going to jail, and everyone in the room knew the best way to avoid such a disaster was to make sure the CEO made all the decisions: to make doubly sure that Thomas Franklin would take all the blame if things went sour. All in all, it was a good system, a workable system that made it unnecessary for these people ever to know the truth.
THIRTEEN
Monk stared through the window of the massive Bell 412EP helicopter as it swept across Thomas Franklin’s estate on the way to the mansion that dominated the gentle hills of Battle Valley Farm. Despite the size of the chopper, he still had to fight off a twinge of claustrophobia, but was less successful against the shiver of doubt that swept through him as they passed over the billionaire’s private golf course, the stables, the skeet range, and on to Franklin’s twenty-thousand-square-foot house. Seeing all of this grandeur through the haze of an August twilight, Monk had to wonder if he’d made a big mistake by accepting Philip Carter’s assignment. Gambling was one thing, but this just might be ridiculous.
He glanced at Lisa Sands. She grinned at him and he felt a twinge of guilt. His FBI-agent girlfriend carried the same credentials and badge he did. She could be a big help to him tonight, but he couldn’t allow her to participate. If this mission for Carter and William Smith failed—if he got busted in the attempt to validate the information from their asset in Pyongyang—Lisa would at least have “plausible deniability” when the shit hit the bureau fan.
He surveyed the other guests in the helicopter, recognizing three senators and a lady congressman, and that was only in this chopper. Franklin had leased a fleet of them for the evening: ten of the beefy 412s to ferry the more than one hundred gowned and dinner-jacketed guests from the Global Building in Crystal City, Virginia, out here to Gettysburg. Tonight’s party to honor America’s newly appointed ambassador to the United Nations was the hottest ticket in town. Even the president was expected to drop in to say hello. Monk still wasn’t sure how NSA got Lisa and him included on the guest list.
On the ground nobody moved until the rotors stopped spinning. A lot of money had been spent on hair and makeup, and no one was about to make an entrance to Franklin’s party looking like a tornado victim. Again Monk glanced at Lisa, but this time he felt nothing but pride. These were beautiful people, but Lisa was the most gorgeous of all. Her backless red gown highlighted the tan she’d been working on all summer, and with her dark hair hanging straight to her bare shoulders she made him want to reach out and touch her. In his own white dinner jacket, Monk was indistinguishable from the other males, which was precisely the point.
A few minutes later, he and Lisa stood with the others inside Franklin’s front door, in a marble foyer big enough for a parking lot. Gilt-framed mirrors lined the entry hall. Cast-bronze figurines and multicolored ceramic treasures filled the niches and crannies between the mirrors. Lisa took a long look around before turning to Monk.
“What a dump,” she murmured.
Monk glanced past her toward the great room just beyond the foyer then gestured toward the reception line inside. “There’s Franklin, talking with Harrison Ford.”
Lisa’s head snapped around, and she took a couple of steps toward the movie star, then turned back to grab Monk’s arm. “C’mon,” she said. “Before he gets away.”
Lisa led the way toward the receiving line, striding as hard as she could in her formfitting gown, but they didn’t make it in time. Before they were halfway there, Harrison Ford was shaking Franklin’s hand and walking away. Lisa stopped dead.
“Damn it,” she said. “I’m going after him.”
But she’d only taken one step before Monk touched her shoulder.
“Why don’t we start with Thomas Franklin first. Trust me, Harrison’s not going anywhere you won’t be able to find him.” Monk glanced around the room. “And he won’t be the only celebrity here tonight. The place is crawling with them.”
A moment later they were standing in the reception line, one couple short of
Franklin himself. He was a tall man, Monk realized, taller than he looked in the photographs William had provided. At least as tall as his own six-two. In his late fifties, Franklin’s gray-streaked dark hair was still full, and combed straight back above his high forehead.
As Monk had been told to expect, he was asked by Franklin’s assistant—a slender man in a white dinner jacket—to identify himself and Lisa, so the assistant could make the introduction. Monk did so, and a moment later they were in front of Franklin.
“May I present,” the assistant said, “FBI agents Lisa Sands and Puller Monk. They’re with the Washington Field Office.”
Franklin stepped toward Lisa and extended his hand, exposing several inches of gleaming French cuff and a gold cuff link the size of a half dollar. Lisa took his hand.
“How very kind of you to join us, Special Agent Sands,” he said, then chuckled. “I trust that you and your partner aren’t working here tonight.”
Lisa smiled. “Not tonight. Tonight we’re just here to enjoy ourselves.”
Again Franklin laughed, but Monk ignored it as not worth trying to read. He waited for a smile instead. You could tell a lot more from a smile.
“And Special Agent Monk,” Franklin said as they shook hands. “You are most welcome as well.”
Monk was afraid for a moment that he wasn’t going to smile at all, but an instant later he did, his perfect teeth made even whiter by his world-class tan. It was a big smile, but not in the right places. The corners of Franklin’s mouth were turned up, but the creases in the skin to the outside of his eyes, his crow’s-feet, didn’t move at all, and the orbital muscles were totally uninvolved. “Nonzygomatic” was the technical term, but Monk needed more. In this setting a less-than-heartfelt smile was actually more normal than the other kind. Most likely it had nothing to do with the fact that they were FBI agents. Monk decided to up the ante.
“Your home is magnificent,” he said. “Especially your art collection. I hope you won’t think us rude if we have a look around.”
“Not at all,” Franklin said, but Monk noticed his body turning as he said it, very slightly, but enough so that he was no longer facing Monk head on. An unconscious shift from an aggressive posture to a defensive one. “I’m very proud of Battle Valley Farm,” Franklin added. “You have my permission to look at every inch of it.”
Unlike his body, Franklin’s voice was anything but defensive, although Monk couldn’t miss the irony of his words. Without a warrant there was only one legal way to search this house—with the permission of the owner—and Franklin had just given his permission. The idea made Monk smile, but Franklin didn’t notice as he turned to the next couple in the receiving line. Monk and Lisa moved a few feet away and stood for a moment as Lisa glanced around the room.
“Come on,” she said, her voice eager. “Let’s go see who we can find.”
Monk followed her for a few steps, but stopped when a white-jacketed waiter appeared at their side. “Drinks?” he said. “What may I bring you tonight?”
Monk turned to Lisa. “Champagne for me,” she told the man.
Monk decided to test Franklin’s cellar. “Cabernet,” he said. “Do you have any Fallbrook in the house?” A boutique winery that was helping establish Southern California’s growing reputation as wine country.
“Of course,” the waiter said. “As a matter of fact, we just opened a couple bottles of the 2001 Cabernet.”
They hadn’t taken a dozen steps into the thick of the party when the waiter returned with their drinks. They stood sipping, then began to wander through the room. As they passed among groups of people in animated conversations—toward the string quartet playing at the far end of the room—Monk didn’t bother looking at the paintings hanging on the walls along the way. The last place the Madonna would be was down here. He turned toward the magnificent staircase behind them and to their left, covered with guests on their way up to the second floor or coming back down. If Franklin had a secret cache of stolen paintings, it would be somewhere closer to where he actually lived, somewhere up in the residential area on the third floor.
As he thought about where he’d have to go to find those paintings, what he’d have to do when he got there, Monk almost stopped walking. Now that he was actually inside Franklin’s house—surrounded by the people who ran this country—he couldn’t help questioning his decision. Had he finally gone too far? Had his addiction to risk finally caught up with …
“Puller?”
Monk felt a tug on his arm. He turned to Lisa. Her dark eyes were concerned as she moved closer to him.
“¿Qué te pasa?” she asked in the flawless Spanish her father had brought from Spain and taught her as a child in Texas. “What’s the matter with you?” she repeated. “You haven’t heard a word I’ve said … and you look terrible.” She touched his face. “Feels like you’re running a temperature.”
Monk shook his head. “Sorry, Lisa, I was daydreaming. But it is awfully stuffy in here.” He pointed in the direction of the huge open doors at the far end of the room. “Why don’t we check out the veranda.”
But it was even warmer outside, the August night soggy with humidity.
“My God, Puller,” Lisa whispered in his ear. “You were right about the celebrities. That’s Paul Newman over there. Can you believe it?”
Monk followed her discreet effort to point with her head, and damned if she wasn’t right. Paul Newman—older than you’d expect, but still every bit the larger-than-life figure Monk had grown up watching—was talking with a man Monk didn’t recognize. Next to Newman, Teddy Kennedy was laughing with Jimmy and Roslyn Carter, and behind them Senator Hillary Clinton—no hubby in sight—was surrounded by a gaggle of admirers, the familiar insistent pitch of her voice clearly audible as Monk and Lisa passed by. He wasn’t about to gawk, but he came close. Lisa didn’t even try to be cool. She might be an FBI agent and a former district attorney, but right now her eyes were wide as a fifth-grader’s.
Monk used her distraction to do some business. He turned around and looked up, examining what he could see of the back of the three-story mansion from his position on the terrace. There were a few lights in the windows of the second floor, but the top floor appeared to be completely dark.
Lisa nudged his arm. “When’s the president supposed to show?”
Monk spotted a couple of strapping young men with bulges under their white dinner jackets and earpieces in their ears. “Can’t be long,” he said. “The detail’s here already.” He thought about the Carters and Hillary. There’d be Secret Service with them as well.
He checked his watch. A quarter after ten. The Secret Service bodyguards down here meant there would be a few more upstairs, but they wouldn’t be at peak vigilance until POTUS was actually on the premises. Monk had to get moving before that happened.
“I need to find a bathroom,” he told Lisa. “Do you mind if I leave you alone for a few minutes?”
She didn’t answer, her eyes still riveted on the celebrities. Monk touched her arm and she spoke without looking at him. “Go … Take your time. I’ll be right here when you get back.”
He hurried through the double doors and headed for the main staircase, halfway back toward the front of the mansion. On the way he spotted an alcove leading to what had to be a bathroom, and suddenly he needed to use one. Inside the baroque powder room, he stared into the mirror over the sink and once again saw the face of his father. He blinked it away—getting used to Pastor Monk’s ghost by now—but still it was unsettling. It had been seven months now, Dr. Gordon had reminded him, and the old bastard shouldn’t continue to show up like this.
Monk turned on the cold tap and bent over the sink, used his cupped hands to throw water on his face. Picking up a towel from a stack next to the basin, he dried his face, then flipped the towel into an ornate basket against the wall to his right. He didn’t risk another look in the mirror before opening the door and heading back to the party. Another helicopter had arrived, Monk gues
sed from the increased noise level in the room, but the president was still nowhere to be seen.
He threaded his way through the crowd to the base of a curving staircase wide enough to climb in a Hummer. As he stood there, two couples approached, glasses in hand, laughing as they started up the steps. Monk began to laugh himself as he fell in with them, as he stuck close all the way to the second floor.
FOURTEEN
When he reached the landing, Monk saw that the second floor was every bit as impressive as downstairs. A wide corridor stretched in both directions. Crystal chandeliers hung in a sequence that carried all the way to both ends, creating a gentle light that made the crimson Persian carpets seem to shimmer underfoot.
He followed the two couples he’d come up the staircase with as they started down the corridor to the right, but no longer bothered to laugh at their wisecracks. He stayed with them just far enough to verify that William’s mole had been right about the second level, that the sitting rooms and galleries were primarily display areas for the billionaire to show off his art collection.
He hurried back to the staircase leading to the third floor. There was a small white sign hanging from a blue velvet rope across the bottom of the steps. PRIVATE, the sign read. PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB. Monk glanced around. He saw no one looking his way, but he found himself hesitating anyway. From here on he was trespassing, which was an extremely polite word for what he was really doing. He straightened to his full height and felt the “juice” rise through his body.
Life’s a gamble, he reminded himself. Sometimes you just have to let it ride.
He stepped over the low velvet rope, and started up the staircase. The temptation was to skulk, but the trick was to do just the opposite. The only way to go up these stairs was to march up with his head up and shoulders back. When you act like you belong, people take if for granted that you do. But halfway up he couldn’t help pausing anyway, as he listened for the voice of anyone trying to stop him. Better now than later. Better here on these steps than deeper inside the privacy of the mansion.
