10. Fast Track

by Fern Michaels

  “Yes, he did say that, didn’t he? Go back and tell the president I’m PMSing, and until that phase is over, the phone will be in the OFF mode. Thanks for stopping by.” Rena slammed the door shut and slid the dead bolt, something she’d forgotten to do last night when she got home. Once inside, with the dead bolt on, no one could enter.

  Never one to make rash decisions, Rena realized she’d just made the Queen Mother of all rash decisions. She looked around at the spacious penthouse apartment. It was lovely—exquisite, really. She had good taste, and, in the beginning, money had been no object where Maxwell was concerned. She loved the floor-to-ceiling windows. She liked looking out at the starry night and seeing the Capital’s monuments, but she preferred the brighter, gaudier lights of Vegas.

  Rena eyed the creamy white furniture and matching carpeting that looked like no one ever sat or walked on it. It was all contemporary and went with the rooms and the lighting, but it wasn’t who she was. In her heart of hearts, when she wasn’t playing a role like she was playing with Maxwell, she was a down-home girl, preferring home and hearth with a roaring fire in a big old fieldstone fireplace. Cozying in with a few good women friends and bashing men till the wee hours of the morning, more often than not drinking coffee or hot chocolate and sometimes a few bottles of good wine.

  Rena walked around the rooms, checking the soil on the luscious green plants that a florist tended once a week. It was a nice perk, but she could water her own plants the way she had in Vegas, so in the end it wasn’t really a perk at all. Just like all the other perks weren’t really perks. When you had to pay with your body for a perk, it simply wasn’t a perk. She was angry as she marched into her bedroom, which was as big as one of the reception rooms in the White House, and headed straight for her closet. She set her coffee cup down on the dresser and moved over to the huge walk-in closet. She stared down at the lush white carpeting on the floor, knowing if she dropped to her knees and peeled back the thick carpeting at the corners, she would see the safe she’d had installed in the floor six months ago. That had really taken some doing, but she’d managed it. Just the way she managed everything else once she put her mind to it.

  The only thing that bothered her was Maxwell’s security people. The moment they sensed that she could cause the president harm, they’d take care of her in ways she didn’t want to think about. Maxwell had warned her early on what would happen if she ever crossed him. And she never had, until now.

  Rena backed out of the closet, her thoughts on the group of women she’d met at the piano bar. Savvy women. Even the dowdy one had some spunk.

  Friends.

  Back in the kitchen, Rena poured herself a second cup of coffee. This time she sat down at a chrome-and-glass table that held fresh flowers. The fresh flowers were another little perk. She looked around for her purse and the prepaid cell she used to call Esther and a few other friends in Vegas. Then she realized it was too early to call Vegas. And the girls always slept well into the afternoon since they worked almost all night. The downside to working in Vegas was you hardly ever got to see the sun. She reached inside her bag for the World Bank cell phone Maxwell had given her. She switched it from OFF to VIBRATION mode and set it on the table, knowing it would vibrate continuously until it slid off the table and, she hoped, break into a hundred pieces on the marble floor.

  To kill more time, she turned on the television and gaped at what she was seeing and hearing. She switched channels, but the same news played out on every channel. Rats, plague, frightened people, other people saying there was no cause for alarm while the camera panned the choked highways. She looked at the vibrating phone as it shimmied on the glass-top table. Maybe she should answer it and just get it over with.

  Rena sucked in her breath and did a few deep-breathing exercises until she was able to manage a throaty, sensual, “Hello, darling.”

  It was hard to get past the snarling, high-pitched voice that was reaming her out. She got up and walked through the living room to the bedroom as she listened to the president’s tirade, her eyes on the floor of her closet. She listened a little while longer, then her back stiffened. Knowing how he hated to be addressed by anything other than Maxwell or President Zenowicz, she said, “Listen up, Maxie. I’ve had just about all of your bullshit that I can stand. I told your…your person I wasn’t feeling well. What part of that don’t you understand? Do not talk when I am speaking, do you hear me, Maxwell? And remember this, too, Maxie, I know where all the bodies are buried. So, having said that, be extra nice to me, and I will be extra nice to you the next time I see you. To show you how kind and caring I am, I suggest you go to your doctor and get a shot to ward off the plague. You have been watching the news, haven’t you? I’ll call you when I’m feeling better. I certainly hope I’m not coming down with the plague.”

  It occurred to her to wonder exactly what the plague was and how one could catch it. Rena disconnected, then turned off the cell, knowing it would irritate Maxwell to the point where he would be sputtering and cursing and lashing out at anyone in his path. “Like I give two shits,” she mumbled to herself. In five minutes he would be running to the doctor because he was a hypochondriac.

  Rena looked at the coffee still in her cup. It was cold now, so she heated it again in the microwave oven. She needed to sit very still and think about Maxwell Zenowicz and what had been going on of late. She’d picked up on hostility directed at her from some of her coworkers. She’d heard some strange rumors that weren’t meant for her ears. Not about herself but about Maxwell. As with everything in the world of high finance, there were two sides—their side and the other side. There were those who said Maxwell Zenowicz was the last person in the world who should be president of the World Bank. Those same people said he was a political appointee for a favor done for the administration. Other people said he bought his job with his vast wealth. His staff, according to Maxwell himself, hated him and his Gestapo-like methods. He defended his position saying that he ran a tight ship and wasn’t interested in winning popularity contests. The staff said he had shoddy methods of doing things, and if they didn’t clean up his messes, he’d be out on the curb, flat on his ass. She believed every word of it.

  He was a womanizer, and she knew she wasn’t the only woman in his stable. She was, however, the only kept woman. She didn’t mind his dalliances one little bit because the more of them he had, the more he left her alone.

  She also knew a very discreet audit was going on within the bank. Staff talk and whisper, and, if one paid attention, one could pick up all kinds of tidbits. When one had the smarts to put it all together, a story emerged that wouldn’t be to anyone’s liking.

  She’d been planning on bolting in the near future, but the way things were going, it just might be wise to head for safer shores sooner rather than later. She could get lost in Vegas. As the saying went, “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.” Something like that. Still, it would be a shame to leave since she’d just found new friends.

  How long before those crazy alphabet agencies here in D.C. started snooping around? She’d be the first one to go since her job was just a salary on paper. One of those gigantic perks for favors rendered. They’d splash her all over the big screen. She’d be toast in seconds. She might even go to jail. The thought horrified her.

  She had learned one thing from Maxwell, though. She’d learned how to send her money offshore. Not that Maxwell knew he’d helped her. She’d slipped him a really nice doctored-up cocktail one evening and he’d slept for twenty-four hours while she helped herself to his computer and his financial records. She’d simply picked the lock on his Halliburton case with an ice pick and gone to work. It had taken her three solid hours to figure out what his password was, and when she finally came up with it, she’d laughed hysterically. Six dollar signs, $$$$$$, and she had his life in front of her. A laugh tickled at her throat even now when she thought about it.

  She was so frazzled she couldn’t think straight. She really should start to p
ack. Then again, maybe she should go into the office and tidy up there if she wasn’t going to go back. She would do the right thing and type up her resignation and leave it on her desk for someone to find come Monday morning. She hoped she’d remembered to lock her office door. By then she’d be long gone. Hopefully, she’d be long gone, and not dead in some ditch somewhere. Though, come to think of it, she hadn’t seen a ditch anywhere since coming to Washington. Maybe they’d dump her somewhere on a grassy knoll out in Manassas. The thought was so depressing, Rena got up, rinsed out her cup, and left the building. She’d pack when she got back.

  Rena’s spirits were high. When she joined her new friends for dinner, she’d thank them all for giving her the guts to do what she needed to do. She’d offer an open invitation to all of them, even the dowdy-looking librarian, to visit her in Vegas anytime they wanted. She just knew they would be friends forever.

  Rena was back in her penthouse by one o’clock. She shed her Chanel suit, popped a Lean Cuisine in the microwave, readied a new pot of coffee, and set to work packing.

  By three o’clock she had all four Louis Vuitton suitcases filled. The big problem was how was she going to get them out of the building and to the airport? Her plan was to ship the suitcases separately so that when she was ready to leave, she would just walk out of the building like she was going shopping. Even if she bribed one of the staff in the building, Maxwell and his people would be on it in a nanosecond. She also knew her limo driver would give it all up in a heartbeat. She didn’t know anyone else well enough to bribe. In Vegas, all she would have had to do was snap her fingers and the job would have been done, and the deal would never have seen the light of day. Maybe the girls would have an idea this evening when she met up with them and told them what was going on. Surely one of them would come up with something plausible.

  She looked in her closet to see what she’d left. Just enough to get her through the next couple of days. Plus an outfit for tonight, a good pair of shoes, and that was it.

  Nothing in the penthouse was in her name, so she didn’t have to worry about paying anything or about bills coming due. She felt a little sad that there was nothing to cancel. She’d leave the World Bank cell on the kitchen counter. She did have to log on to her computer and move the money in her personal checking account. She also needed to hit up a few ATM machines for as much cash as she could get her hands on.

  Then it was good-bye, Washington, D.C.

  Rena walked around the spacious apartment again. No, she wouldn’t miss this place one little bit.

  Chapter 16

  Charles Martin walked outside into the bright summer sunshine and took stock of his surroundings. His heart was beating so fast and hard he thought he might keel over at any moment. In the whole of his life, even during his wartime years, he had never seen such total and utter destruction.

  The storm had come out of nowhere, and he’d barely had time to get the dogs and himself into the underground bunker beneath the Big House. All he could remember was a whistling sound that had set the dogs into a frenzy. He’d stayed in the bunker for seven long hours with the two dogs huddled next to him. He’d never been truly frightened for his life until the minute that the heavens exploded over the mountain. Now, on shaky legs, he surveyed the damage he was seeing. The Bell JetRanger helicopter was gone, probably swept from its moorings someplace on the mountain. The cable car hung drunkenly from its nest. There were no roofs on any of the buildings. Monster pine trees clogged and cluttered the compound. The rich resin scent engulfed him as he tried gingerly to make his way around to assess the damage.

  He was cut off from the world, pure and simple. The satellite dish was nowhere in sight. The special phones were dead, the computer room a soggy, sodden mess of wires and plastic. And no one was going to come to his rescue. He couldn’t even hike down the mountain because it was mined with explosives.

  The dogs looked up at him, not understanding what was going on. “Boys, we have a slight problem here. Let’s see if we can find something to eat in the kitchen. If we have a kitchen, that is.” The dogs followed him as he made his way cautiously through the fallen trees. His main worry was the girls. He could survive here for a while. Sooner or later, the girls would know something was wrong and act accordingly. But sooner or later could be a long way off.

  While he was feeding the dogs, he heard a far-off but deafening noise and rushed to what had once been a doorway. Overhead he could see five helicopters circling the mountain compound. He blinked when he saw dark-clad figures clinging to cables and dropping to the ground. Friend or foe? Charles felt his guts start to churn, but the dogs weren’t kicking up a fuss. Friendlies? The dogs moved to his side and stood at attention, waiting to see what Charles would do.

  Charles picked his way through the debris and waited for the first man on the ground to approach. “Looks like you hit a spate of trouble, eh, mate?”

  Charles just looked at him, a helpless look on his face.

  “Well, we’re here to help. By tomorrow at this time, you’ll never know a storm came through here.”

  Charles finally found his tongue. “How did you know? Who sent you?”

  “Friends,” the man said. “They said to give you this.”

  Charles reached for what looked like a diplomatic pouch. He needed to go somewhere private to look inside, but he waited as more men dropped to the ground. Chain saws started to whine and screech, the sounds dueling with the noise of hovering helicopters. He saw a crew of four men take up positions near the cable car. A second later giant rolls of cable dropped to the ground. Not one wasted motion as the men worked as a team. More heavy wooden boxes dropped to the ground. Ten minutes later, the helicopters moved out of range and five more took their places. More men, more supplies dropped to the ground.

  “What do you want me to do?” Charles asked.

  “Stay out of our way, mate. Just let us do our job, and we’ll have you operational before you can say ‘Queen Mum.’” Charles blinked, then blinked again. No! Impossible! Well, perhaps with modern technology what it was, anything was possible.

  Charles, the dogs at his side, moved off toward what was left of the back of the Big House. He looked around for something to sit on, but there was nothing. It was Murphy who led him to a log at the far end of the pool, which had collapsed inward. All he could see was a foot of water on the bottom. It looked like the colorful tiles had exploded from the sides. They were everywhere.

  The dogs were breathing heavily. He wasn’t sure if they were frightened for themselves or him. Probably both, he decided. He talked calmly to both of them as he stroked their heads. Within minutes, both animals were lying at his feet, their heads between their paws. They’d been reassured, and now they could relax.

  Charles opened the pouch that was as big as a bread box. He grew light-headed at the contents. A laptop. Two special cell phones. A brown envelope with a huge red seal over the enclosure and a thick red stamp in large block letters that said, “TOP SECRET.”

  Charles ran his tongue over his lips as he drew a deep breath. A sudden rage, unlike anything he’d ever experienced, riveted through him. Rage at his circumstances, rage that other people had to bail him out. He looked down at his hands and saw how badly they were shaking. His hands were shaking. This was another first. How had it come to this? Murphy whined as Grady pawed at his leg. Both shaking hands went down to soothe the anxious dogs, who waited moments before lying back down. This time their ears stayed up, their eyes alert.

  Charles ripped at the envelope and pulled out the contents. The relief he felt, the total surrender to calmness, left him in a euphoric state. He’d been so sure the pouch was from his friend Lizzie. Instead, the name at the end of the letter was Kollar. The letter wasn’t long, but it said everything he needed to know.

  Sir Charles,

  I’m sorry about your current situation. The same thing happened to my father and me in our third year at Big Pine Mountain. I’ve sent help. You should be up and r
unning in three days’ time, operational by this time tomorrow. My people saw the destruction via satellite. The Bell JetRanger is midway down the mountain. It exploded on impact. It might take an extra week to clear away the debris. A replacement will be sent shortly. The way I see it, you have a three-day vacation. Call me if I can be of any further assistance. I’ve programmed in my special number. Stay well, Sir Charles.

  Charles closed his eyes for a moment while he thought about the contents of the letter. Kathryn would have said, “Three-day vacation, my ass. Get on the stick and pull this mess together. We don’t want to hear about your little problem on the mountain. It’s just a pimple on your ass, Charles.” He laughed then, a genuine sound of mirth that woke the dogs.

  Charles looked down at the laptop as he waited for it to power up. He thanked God now for the long talks he and Kollar had had prior to the decision to switch mountains. He’d sent all his encrypted files to Kollar, and they were stored on the mountaintop in Barcelona. Kollar’s originals were here and so now lost. But there were copies of his in Spain, too. Foresight.

  In the world of espionage and counterespionage, you could never be too careful or too safe. Right now it was win-win, and for that he would be forever grateful.

  Charles shoved in one of the memory sticks, and the screen in front of him came to life. He tapped furiously and clicked the SEND button so many times his finger got a blister on it. A blister was the least of his problems. While he waited for the return responses to come through, he punched in Jack Emery’s number. When the DA came on the line, surly as usual, Charles barked orders.

  “Hold on there, hotshot,” Jack said. “You need to hear our problems first. This is not going well, Charles. The shit hit the fan, and it is splattering in all directions. Right now the girls are holed up in McLean at Myra’s farmhouse. Everything is in play with a few side problems. It seems the city is on high alert due to rat infestation at the British Embassy. Reston Exterminating is out of business. Ted Robinson is onto us. There really are rats at the embassy. The Brits are being closemouthed—there hasn’t been a peep out of them. As we speak, there is a mass exodus from the District as everyone is afraid of the plague and the so-called terrorists who are behind it. Traffic going out of the city is unbelievable. Even with opening up the incoming lanes to outbound traffic, there are some places where the roads are one big parking lot. On top of that, the rumor mill is reporting the pending sale of the Post. Our very own Annie is supposedly buying it. Is that true? I don’t have a clue.