by Ben Coes
Brown reached for the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope, removing a thick joint. He took a lighter from his pocket and lit it, then took a puff. He offered it to Willoughby, who took it and, a dour look on his face, took a few puffs.
Willoughby cracked his window, letting in air.
“Fine,” said Willoughby. “Just don’t be surprised when I say, ‘I told you so.’”
5
SAYULITA, NAYARIT
MEXICO
Samantha Ponce wondered what Señor Winterthur did for a living. Probably another Hollywood type. Who else could afford the prices, especially for a house you might actually use only two or three months out of the year? Sturgis, like many of the owners on this stretch of Sayulita, had run through the money left to him by his parents. Most of Sayulita was that way: the children and grandchildren of successful businessmen who originally bought here, who’d mostly pissed through their inheritances and were unable keep up with the sizable maintenance bills associated with the big villas. Sayulita was at the beginning of a slow-motion changing of the guard. Samantha and a few other prominent real estate agents stood to make tons in the coming decade.
It was a man and a woman. They walked slowly, holding hands. Samantha watched as they drew closer. They looked young. The man had short-cropped hair and a baseball hat. He was tall, and wore khaki shorts and a red polo shirt. The woman had long black hair. She looked dark, perhaps Mediterranean. As they reached the rocks below the house, she waved.
“Señor Winterthur?” she asked.
The couple waved, saying nothing, then started climbing the winding wooden stairs that led from the beach up to the house.
“Per perdone,” he said in Spanish, extending his hand, “I am so sorry. I am Joseph Winterthur. This is my wife, Laura.”
Samantha detected an accent, a foreign sound, not too strong. She shook hands with the couple.
“It’s quite all right,” said Samantha in English, with a soft Spanish accent. “I got to spend the afternoon at the most beautiful place on earth.”
“Boy, isn’t it ever?” said Winterthur, looking back at the beach and shaking his head in disbelief. “It’s stunning.”
“Where did you come from?” asked Samantha. “I hope my directions didn’t get you lost.”
“Well, to be honest, I think it was Laura’s fault,” said Winterthur. “We ended up at a place down the beach. We decided to walk. It was well worth it.”
“I do that walk once a week,” said Samantha, “even in winter.”
Winterthur laughed. Samantha glanced at Winterthur’s wife. She’d been silent to that point. She stood, staring out at the beach. She reached into her pocket and removed a cell phone, then snapped a photo.
Winterthur was handsome. His hair was cut very short, but he was powerful, with a chiseled, severe face. Laura Winterthur was small and gorgeous. She had very dark skin and bright, light blue eyes. Samantha stared at her for several moments.
“Where are you two from?” asked Samantha.
“New York City,” said Winterthur. “I’m an investor.”
“Well, let’s look around the home,” said Samantha.
“It won’t be necessary,” said the woman, her first words. She had a much stronger accent than her husband. It was Russian. She smiled, her teeth as white as snow. A small gap was visible between her two front teeth, which made her even more intriguing. “We’ll take it.”
“You are aware that the asking price is ten million dollars?” asked Samantha. “Now you didn’t hear this from me, but I believe Señor Sturgis would probably be willing to move a little lower.”
“It won’t be necessary,” said the woman. “We’ll pay cash. We’d like to close this afternoon. Now.”
Samantha did a slight double take, then nodded.
“That … should be possible,” said Samantha. “Of course, it will take a day for the wire to clear.”
“When I said we’ll pay in cash, I meant cash,” said the woman. “Otherwise we’ll look elsewhere.”
“I think that will be fine,” said Samantha.
The woman turned and looked one more time at the beach.
“Now, if you wouldn’t mind,” said the woman, “could we bother you for a ride back to our car?”
6
HEADQUARTERS BUILDING
UNITED STATES SECRET SERVICE
H STREET, N.W.
WASHINGTON, D.C.
William Callahan, the deputy director of the U.S. Secret Service, was reading a briefing paper when an urgent knock came to his door.
“Come in,” Callahan barked.
A bald man in an ill-fitting suit opened the door. His face was beet red and he was perspiring. It was Hill, the agency’s assistant director for vice presidential protection. Hill had operational oversight of all Secret Service agents protecting Vice President Brown as well as her family.
“The fucking kid lost Stevens,” said Hill, exasperated and shaking his head. “Fucking college students—”
“What do you mean, lost Stevens?” said Callahan.
“One of the agents at Princeton,” said Hill. “Brown and a friend took off this afternoon. We traced the purchases. They flew down to Mexico.”
“Where in Mexico?”
“Guadalajara. They land in an hour.”
Callahan reached for the phone.
“I’ll call the vice president,” said Callahan. “You find out who the FBI has in Guadalajara and get them over to the airport.”
“Should we bring them back?”
“No,” said Callahan. “He’s a college kid, probably going on break. Get Stevens or someone on the next flight, and tell the FBI their agent is going to need to meet the plane and babysit the little fucker until we get there.”
7
MIGUEL HIDALGO Y COSTILLA AIRPORT
GUADALAJARA, MEXICO
Toby Brown and Dave Willoughby strolled through the airport.
“It’s warm,” said Brown, smiling. “Gotta love it, my man. A week in Mexico.”
“We need to rent a car,” said Willoughby, pointing.
As they walked to the rental car area, a man in a dark suit approached. He was young, tall, and white—American.
“Toby?” said the man, standing in front of Brown. He looked at Willoughby. “David, I assume?”
The man’s demeanor was unemotional, with a slight edge.
“Who are you?” said Brown.
“My name is Dan Edwards,” said the man in the suit. “I work for the FBI.” He opened his wallet, showing them his identification. In addition to an ID card, a large gold badge with the letters FBI occupied part of the thick wallet. “Come on. Do you have bags?”
“What the hell do you want?” said Brown.
Edwards looked at Brown with a vicious stare, then caught Willoughby’s eyes.
“I told you,” whispered Willoughby.
“You know exactly why I’m here, Toby,” said the FBI agent evenly, looking hard at Brown. “So drop the attitude. Did you check any bags?”
“No,” said Brown. “Sorry. Are we in trouble?”
“I have no idea,” said Edwards. “I was told to pick you up and bring you in. Now get your shit and follow me.”
Willoughby and Brown trailed Edwards toward the airport exit. The three walked along the sidewalk toward a parking garage, weaving through crowds of tourists waiting for taxis and buses.
A white Chevy Tahoe pulled up alongside them and the two doors on the passenger side of the SUV opened. Two men appeared, both clutching weapons. In the moment Edwards noticed and reached for his gun, two loud gun blasts rang out above the din. Edwards was struck in the eye by a bullet, kicking him sideways and down to the concrete.
Brown and Willoughby watched in horror—then Brown yelled, “Run!”
But the two gunmen were upon the pair and they were abruptly thrown to the ground. Another thug from the SUV came over as Brown and Willoughby were bound at the wrists. They were led at gunpoint to the T
ahoe and shoved into the back, followed by the three goons.
It had all occurred in less than half a minute.
As silver duct tape was wrapped around each of their mouths, the Tahoe’s tires screeched and the vehicle bolted quickly away from the scene, which had descended into chaos.
8
OFFICE OF THE VICE PRESIDENT
OLD EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Judith Brown put the phone down and sat back in her large leather chair. Callahan had been brutally blunt. Her son had flown to Mexico with a friend after ditching the Secret Service agent who was supposed to be with him.
A storm cloud of emotions hit her. She was, above all, angry at Toby. On some level, she found it adorable that he would ditch his Secret Service detail. It was typical of him. She never let him see it, but he knew. That side of her son was her favorite thing. He was a rule breaker.
“It’ll be okay,” she said aloud, to herself.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a call on one of her cell phones.
NO CALLER ID
She answered it.
“Madame Vice President,” came the voice. It was a woman with a slightly British accent. “We have your son.”
“How do I know—” she started to say just as a text appeared. It was a video. She hit Play and watched her son and his best friend, Dave Willoughby. They were on a floor. Each had silver duct tape wrapped around their mouths.
“We will kill him,” said the woman. “Unless you pay us five hundred million dollars.”
“We don’t negotiate with terrorists,” said Brown.
“I’m not a terrorist,” said the woman. “I’m an entrepreneur. Watch the video until the end. There’s a series of numbers on a piece of paper. That is a bank account. Wire the money and your son and his friend live. You have until midnight. If we don’t have the money we kill them both and disappear.”
The phone went dead.
Brown stared at the phone. She was, suddenly, lost. Completely lost.
As governor of New York, Brown had made several wide-ranging policy speeches about foreign policy and America’s military and intelligence capabilities. She had called for a complete reorganization of the FBI and CIA. She was Langley’s biggest critic and was a hero in the conservative ranks of the Republican party for her willingness to criticize her party’s sitting president. It was the main reason Dellenbaugh had selected Brown. By doing so, he hoped to unite the party.
Yet, as she watched the video for the second time and tears streamed down her cheeks, she didn’t call the president, or her chief of staff. She dialed a different number.
“Hello?” came the gruff voice of Hector Calibrisi, the director of the Central Intelligence Agency—a man she had publicly suggested was too old for his job.
“Hector, it’s Judy Brown.”
“Madame Vice President,” said Calibrisi.
There was a long silence, eventually filled by the soft, uncontrollable weeping of a mother.
“It’s going to be okay,” said Calibrisi.
“My—” she stammered.
“Judith,” said Calibrisi, interrupting. “You need to speak with the president. We’ve paid ransoms before.”
“Do they let them go?” she asked, sobbing. “After you paid them?”
There was pregnant pause.
“No,” said Calibrisi. “Usually they just kill them.”
“Can you do anything, Hector?”
“I’ll try.”
9
CARLYLE HOTEL
NEW YORK CITY
Igor was lying on his bed, legs crossed. He had on a set of blue silk Derek Rose pajamas. A candle was lit on the mantel, above the fireplace. His right arm was beneath his head. In his left hand was a glass of red wine: Vega Sicilia Unico Gran Reserva, 1992.
Soft music was playing, a sonata by Shostakovich.
Igor stared, transfixed, at the wall across from the bed. Hanging on it was the magnificent Damien Hirst piece that he’d bought at Sotheby’s that day: a ten-foot-tall object that looked like stained glass but was, in fact, dried butterflies, arranged in perfect symmetry, beneath glass.
Igor was considered by those who mattered to be the greatest computer hacker in the world. Yet for someone who had made hundreds of millions by staring at computer screens for days on end, Igor much preferred real life—and those objects of beauty that his vast wealth allowed him to acquire.
“Vam nravitsya?” he said as a woman with short black hair entered from the bathroom, wearing a see-through black teddy.
“Do you like it?”
“Da.”
Igor’s phone beeped and he reached for it. He wasn’t going to answer, but then eyed the screen.
CALIBRISI HECTOR
Igor sat up and put the phone to his ear.
“Hector,” said Igor, his Russian accent thick. “How are you?”
“Fine,” said Calibrisi.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
“We have a situation,” said Calibrisi. “We need you to find someone.”
“Who?”
“Can you look at a phone call that’s been heavily sanitized and determine where it was actually made from?”
“Yes,” said Igor, standing up. “Provision me into the trunk and send me the keychain to the call.”
Igor sat down on a white leather Eames chair in front of his desk and started typing.
“How long will you need?” said Calibrisi.
“Not long,” said Igor. “Five, six minutes at most.”
“The person you’re looking for kidnapped the vice president’s son on vacation in Mexico,” said Calibrisi. “Katie is in-theater. When you find something, run it through her.”
“Got it. Shouldn’t be long.”
10
ACAPULCO
By the time Dewey, Tacoma, Rachel, and Erin stepped out of the steakhouse, it was midnight. Acapulco was teeming. Sports cars lined up along the drive: Lamborghinis, Ferraris, Porsches, Bentleys. A big white BMW 750i stood out like a double-wide in Beverly Hills. Tacoma walked ahead with the brown-haired woman, as Dewey and the blonde followed behind. After a few blocks, they came to the entrance of a place with a large doorman in front of a red rope. A sign said, FELTO above the door. A neon light shone in the window in the shape of a pair of pool cues. A long line stretched down the block, people waiting to get in.
At the sight of the two gorgeous women, the bouncer unlocked the rope and let them in.
It was dark inside the pool hall. It wasn’t crowded. There were at least two dozen pool tables in a big room with a large, long bar, behind which was arrayed a wall of TVs, all broadcasting sports: baseball, soccer, football, golf, even a hockey game.
The air had the faintest hint of marijuana, a sweet, pleasant smell. The women inside the club were almost uniformly stunning. Most were blond. Dewey scanned the room as he followed Tacoma, looking, out of curiosity, for anything other than a blonde. He saw two black woman, both jaw-dropping gorgeous. Nearly every woman was dressed in a skimpy outfit; several wore nothing more than bikinis.
The men were, in their own way, equally flamboyant. Many dark-skinned Mexicans with lots of chains dangling around thick, muscled necks, black shiny shirts unbuttoned to the waist. A few with sunglasses on, even though they were inside, it was dark, and it was nighttime.
Of the two dozen or so pool tables, less than half were in use. At those, small groups hovered around playing, drinking, laughing. A few tables had couples playing with other couples. At two adjacent tables, what looked like a bachelor party, with a small horde of sunburned twenty-somethings laughing, having a great time, trays of shots on tables near them.
They found a pool table and ordered drinks. The blonde came over and stood near Dewey.
“So, I guess we’re on the same team,” she said.
“Yeah. Are you good at pool? I’m not.”
“I’m okay,” she said.
“Wel
l, we have to beat them,” said Dewey, looking over at Tacoma, who was racking up balls as the other woman watched, talking to him.
“I will do my best,” she said.
Dewey took a swig of beer.
“So, Dewey? Is that your real name?”
He knew the look she was now giving him, as she stared at his stubble-coated face. She may have seen the slight bulge at the left side of his torso, the gun which clung tight to his chest, concealed. He couldn’t tell. Dewey certainly wasn’t every woman’s cup of tea, but those ones who didn’t want him were few and far between. Though his physical assets were impressive, that wasn’t what did it for most. For most, it was the silence, his unreachability.
Dewey had no interest in her. She was beautiful, and clearly smart. Moreover, Dewey knew the best way to get rid of her was to be nice, to be talkative, to ask her about her job, her cat, her dog, where she grew up, her astrological sign, whatever; to make her think he was interested, that was how you repelled a woman. But he didn’t have the energy. He was too drunk to even put the sentences together now. He wanted one more drink, just one more, then he wanted to go back to the Ritz and pass out.
“Yeah, Dewey.”
“Nickname?”
“No.”
“Okay, Dewey. So what brings you here?”
“Just want to play some pool.”
She laughed.
“You’ve had a few, huh?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“I meant, why Acapulco?”
Dewey shrugged.
“How about you?” he asked.
“I’m a model,” she said.
“Oh,” said Dewey. “I thought he was bullshitting me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean you look like a model. I don’t know any models, but you certainly are, um, beautiful enough. More than beautiful enough.”
She grinned.
“Okay, rewind,” said Dewey. “You’re … Rachel?”
