by Jack Bowie
CK
What could he do? Greystone had made it clear that he would take Lombard down with him if anything ever happened. But Keane still ran the company. And how would his boss ever find out about the meeting, anyway? Let the old gladiators fight it out. He was a survivor.
Over the past few months, he had kept detailed notes of Greystone’s manipulations. These would be his bargaining chips. Keane certainly knew of Lombard’s value. Why even bother to invite him if all he wanted to do was fire him? No, Keane wanted something and Lombard was ready to do whatever was necessary, for the right price.
He had only been to Keane’s farm once before, when he had delivered some papers to Greystone at a corporate retreat, but the address was still in his email. He found the message, then called up Google Maps on his cell and copied in the address.
It would take him at least an hour and a half to get there from Reston, assuming traffic cooperated. But it was already 5:00 and the congestion on I-66 would add at least another half hour. He grabbed his jacket and raced to the parking garage.
Chapter 12
Riverton, Virginia
Tuesday, 6:30 p.m.
CHARLES KEANE”S “CABIN” was an estate in the Blue Ridge Mountains, just outside of Riverton, Virginia. The estate sat on one hundred acres nestled among the lush green foothills. The focal point of the property was the manor house, an overgrown English Tudor with great stone exterior walls and diamond-paned windows. It had been built in 1930 for a reigning labor leader who had lived in the house twenty years until he mysteriously disappeared during a Chicago union negotiation.
The property had next been purchased by a very well-heeled US Representative. As luck would have it, the Rep had later been implicated in a nasty conflict of interest investigation over the awarding of a defense contract. Keane had received a tip that the politician was trying to get out of the country before the FBI got involved. He had made a generous offer, in cash, and the property was his.
The home had fifteen rooms, including a huge library that took up one complete wing. The library was where Charles Keane “held court” as his friends described it; the place where he threw parties, convened meetings, and generally infuriated friends, business associates and government bureaucrats.
The walls of the room were covered in intricate oak panels, alternating with inset bookcases that rose to the edge of the soaring vaulted ceiling. Antique cast-iron rolling ladders ensured access to the eight foot high shelves that were filled with dusty first editions, collected from Keane’s numerous excursions to the financial and political centers of the world. Only an occasional empty space could be found, and in these Keane had strategically placed an expensive object d’art.
A massive oak desk guarded the entrance to the room, sitting just to the right of the seven-foot double oak doors leading from the main hallway. It was a huge, ornately carved monument to the excesses of its owner. Save for a small lamp, telephone, and gold pen set, the top was clear; its polish a testament to the efforts of Keane’s small house staff.
The far end of the room exposed the exterior stone including an elaborate six foot fireplace and mantle that drew attention to the significance of the area. Above the mantle hung a mammoth oil painting depicting a simpler time of riding and sport in Virginia Hunt Country.
A sitting area had been placed in front of the fireplace filled with deeply upholstered burgundy leather chairs arranged in a circle on a stunning deep-blue Isphahan oriental rug. A small reading table sat next to one of the chairs; a rack of polished Meerschaum pipes and a humidor of tobacco rested comfortably on its top. Keane’s wife, Margaret, had had but one rule as far has her husband was concerned: smoking was expressly forbidden in their home, except in the library. Despite her passing, Keane was unwilling to break this covenant. For most, the room had a stifling, oppressive, air but for Keane this was the one location in the world where he could truly relax.
Margaret had died three years earlier and his friends wondered why he continued to maintain the old house. It was much bigger than he needed and was sixty-five miles from Theater’s Reston headquarters; quite a trek in northern Virginia traffic. He always replied that this was his home and he would stay here until he died; he intended to be a part of the continuing history of the estate. Margaret was buried in a small pre-Civil War cemetery at the top of a ridge overlooking the mansion and it was Keane’s wish that he be buried alongside her when the time came.
The sun had already set behind the mountains, and the estate was bathed in the glow of twilight. The old house could still be a bit drafty, so Keane had started a fire as he waited for his visitor. He was sitting in his favorite chair reading the latest issue of Fortune when he looked up to see a familiar face standing before him.
“Robert, what are you doing here? How did you get in?”
“Now Charles, don’t get excited,” Greystone calmly replied. “I thought it was time for us to get together and talk things out.” He selected the chair opposite Keane and leisurely sat down.
Keane felt a rush of adrenaline. His Senior Vice President was dressed completely in black: slacks, turtleneck, and even gloves. Whatever Greystone wanted, Keane knew it was not to just talk. He had humiliated his subordinate at the Board meeting. Had Greystone decided to get his revenge?
He also knew a physical confrontation was out of the question. Greystone was a regular at the fitness club across from their offices. He’d have to find another way to defeat this adversary.
Fear pressed in on him but he held it at bay, knowing his only chance was to stay calm.
How could he call for help? His alarm system! He had turned it on right after dinner. All he had to do was keep Greystone talking until the police arrived.
“Yes, I do think it’s time to get our issues out in the open,” he began, mustering a small smile at his intruder. “I know all about your little arrangements with our competitors too. The Board will be quite interested in hearing about the commitments you have made without their approval.”
Greystone shook his head. “I doubt that will be coming to their attention, Charles. By the way, don’t count on your alarm system saving you. Your telephone line seems to have gone out.”
Keane was unable to hold back the look of surprise and despair. But there was still one other chance.
“I really can’t let you proceed with the takeover plan, you know,” Greystone continued calmly. “There are too many arrangements in place already.”
Keane managed a weak smile. “There isn’t any takeover plan, you fool. I planted three different sets of evidence with my staff. I knew who was behind the leak as soon as you mentioned Hawthorne Systems.” Keane drew strength from his hatred of the underling. He refused to go down easily. “How did you turn Clarice?”
“I didn’t. It was the work of my trusty assistant.”
“Lombard?” Keane nodded in recognition. “He always was a weasel. I would have fired him, but thought you two deserved each other.”
Greystone rose from the chair and strode to the fireplace. “If it’s any consolation, Charles, she really didn’t know. Lombard is quite good at what he does. I know he’s on his way here, by the way.”
“How could you? You weren’t copied on his email.”
“Come now, Charles. Lombard didn’t send you anything, I did. And he thinks you invited him. It was time for the two of you to get together.”
Keane furled his brow. What was Greystone planning? Was Lombard part of his plan?
Greystone draped his arm on the mantle and slowly gazed over the room. “This is a very nice place, Charles. I’ve always wanted a room like this.” He returned his focus to Keane. “You look like you have another question.”
“Why have Lombard come here?”
“To betray me. It was your idea.”
Keane pushed himself up from the chair. He had to face Greystone and find a way to deal with this maniac. “I don’t understand. Why would he . . .”
* * *
&nb
sp; Greystone had had enough of the small talk. Listening to Keane’s babbling just made him madder, reminding him of the indignity at the Board meeting.
He reached down and picked up a long iron poker hanging on the fireplace stand. He grabbed it with both hands and swung it like a baseball bat, striking Keane on the side of the head with all the force he could muster. Blood flew everywhere as the executive’s skull split open exposing the raw tissue underneath.
The ear-splitting crack that accompanied the blow startled him. He had never broken a bone before and had not expected such an audible result. Another fact to remember.
Keane fell back onto the chair, then collapsed on the floor, a growing dark stain outlining his body on the priceless Isphahan.
Greystone wiped his hands on his jacket and calmly walked back to the entrance to the library. As he passed Keane’s desk, he pulled two files from the pocket of his jacket. One he placed conspicuously on the top, being careful not to leave any blood stains. The other he slipped under one of the drawers, wedging it in the wooden frame.
He replayed all the steps, satisfied that there would be only one conclusion possible, and left the room.
Chapter 13
Riverton, Virginia
Tuesday, 7:00 p.m.
LOMBARD TURNED HIS Audi A4 onto the gravel road and checked the directions on his phone. This should be the place. He drove through the black iron gates and continued up the long driveway.
Storm clouds hung over the mountains like a shroud, and had become denser as the road had crept upward. He had had to turn on his headlights at Riverton to avoid dropping off into the voids next to the highway. At least the forecasted rain had held back.
Now his lights illuminated a winding trail that disappeared around each turn into the dense pine forest. He nearly missed the house, his attention so focused on the path. The house was completely dark, a huge ominous shadow in the woods. The darkness had been playing on Lombard’s confidence ever since he left the highway. And that was probably just what Keane wanted.
It was 7:15 when he finally stopped his car by the front door and walked up the portico. When his knock went unanswered, he pushed on the door and watched it swing back into more darkness. Gingerly stepping in, he paused to let his eyes grow accustomed to the shadowy interior. The hall was long and narrow with doors lining each side for as far as he could see. A single slit of light knifed across the hardwood about twenty feet ahead.
Lombard called out Keane’s name and heard it echo down the empty passage. Since the executive had invited him, he decided to go ahead into the house. As he approached the light, he saw that it was coming from a set of tall double doors, one of which was slightly pulled back. He knocked again, then pushed the door into the room and entered.
The huge room was empty. Light flickered from a wood fire at the far end of the space. A strange, sickly odor warned him of danger but curiosity drove him to explore further. He cautiously walked toward the light and the imposing stone fireplace. As soon as he saw the prone form on the floor he knew it was Keane. And the stain on the rug told him all he needed to know about the condition of his CEO.
His mind went into a frenzy. He had come to an isolated home to see an eccentric boss who had every right to hate him. The person he had been spying on was dead. This was not what was supposed to have happened. What was this going to do to his career?
He was about to run to his car and return to D.C. but hesitated. Keane couldn’t say anything against him now. The message telling him to come was stored in who knows how many computers; that couldn’t be denied. It would be safer to notify the authorities and tell the truth. Or at least part of the truth. He had arrived and found the body. He hadn’t touched anything. Stick to his story and he’d be okay.
He glanced around the room and saw a telephone on Keane’s desk. He raced over, grabbed the handset and started to dial 911 when he realized there wasn’t any dial tone. The phone was dead. What was going on?
Lombard then reached for his cell phone, but stopped.
He remembered that Keane had had the local cell tower torn down. He demanded full attention at his conferences and this had been just another way to enforce his will. Lombard had always wondered who he had blackmailed for this little bit of public service.
“Dammit!” he whispered. There wasn’t any way to contact the police.
He couldn’t just wait there alone with a dead body. There had to be a phone down the mountain in Riverton. He’d drive there and call the police.
Stay calm, he told himself. I can get through this. I haven’t done anything wrong.
As he turned to leave, he saw a folder sitting on the desk with his name on it. He flipped it open and scanned the pages. It was a report on his clandestine activities over the past five years. All of his contacts and payoffs. How the hell did Keane get all this?
He grabbed the folder and ran back to his car, now even more terrified of his precarious situation.
Lombard swerved down the driveway, gravel spitting in all directions, and skidded onto the paved road that headed back down the mountain. His heart pounded in his chest. Clouds had completely shrouded the road in darkness; he had only his headlights to guide him down the chicanes of the serpentine road.
At least there was no traffic to get in his way. Just a solitary pair of lights in his mirror. They would be far behind in a few minutes.
The road took a hard left and Lombard heard the tires squeal. He couldn’t keep up this speed. He had to get to the police station to report his story, not fall off the mountain and be part of it.
He went to pump the brakes, but with each motion his foot pressed farther and farther. Then the pedal hit the floor board. He wasn’t slowing down. He didn’t have any brakes.
“Shit!” he exclaimed. The violent drumbeat of his heart throbbed down to his toes. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel and struggled to keep the vehicle steady.
A flash of lightning illuminated the road ahead; the next switchback was racing toward him. Droplets of rain appeared on his windshield. Just what he needed. There was no way he would stay on the road at this speed. What the hell could he do?
The emergency brake! He stomped on the pedal with his left foot. The car lurched, nearly throwing him over the steering wheel and through the windshield. The speedometer plummeted from ninety to seventy, then he heard what sounded like an explosion from the rear of the car. The emergency pedal went slack; the cable had snapped. His speedometer returned to its deadly creep upward.
Lombard pounded his hands on the steering wheel. Panic was taking over. His head throbbed and bile burned at the back of his throat. First Keane and now this. What was happening to him?
The rain became heavier. It was like looking at the road through underwater goggles.
The switchback was now only a mile away. He thought back to all those spy novels he was always reading. What would Jason Bourne do?
Look around! Think!
The rock face of the mountain was on his left; a shear drop into a granite valley below on his right. Could he rub off speed on the rocks? It would ruin his car but it just might save his life.
Could he really do that? If he hit too hard, he would bounce out of control and flip off the mountain. But he didn’t want to die. It was his only option.
He mustered his courage and edged the Audi closer to the wall of stone.
Just a little bit farther.
There was a terrifying screech—the sound of metal scraping and buckling against the jagged, eternal mountain. The car lurched to the right and he was thrown hard into his seatbelt. He straightened the wheel and glanced at the speedometer. It was down to sixty. He could do this!
He lined up for another run then heard a roar from behind. It was the pair of lights he had seen. The damned car was coming up on his left. What was this idiot doing?
Lombard jammed his hand on the horn, but the car kept coming. He frantically waved his arm and screamed for the driver to get out of the way.
But it moved faster, even coming alongside, leaving him no place to go. Was the driver trying to kill him?
He was going over eighty miles an hour. The guard posts on his right were a blur as they raced past, coming closer each second. He was wedged like a bull going to slaughter and there was nothing he could do about it.
The Audi ripped through the barrier cables just as another flash of lightning struck. Lombard took a final glance at the car’s driver before going into the abyss. And everything became clear.
* * *
Greystone slammed on the brakes of the battered Trans Am and fishtailed through the turn, finally stopping at the rail on the other side. He watched as the Audi tumbled down into the mist of the valley. It disappeared into the darkness, then erupted in a ball of scarlet and yellow flame. At least that saved a slow and uncomfortable walk to the bottom for confirmation.
While Lombard had been inside Keane’s home, Greystone had placed the bloody poker in his trunk, and a small remotely-activated explosive charge on his brake line.
There should still be enough of the poker left for an identification.
And the charge had done its job. As brake fluid gushed from the open line, Lombard had lost all control, careening back and forth across the highway.
Greystone had never thought that Lombard would try to slide onto the rock wall. It was a surprisingly brilliant idea and he had barely managed to intervene. That had been a bit too close.
He headed carefully back down the mountain, always under the speed limit, and pulled into a rest area just before rejoining I-66. Getting a summons for using a cell phone while driving would be the ultimate irony.
He took out the burner phone, dialed his home number and punched in the codes for the program he had written that afternoon. His computer monitored all the signals on that line and would handle everything else. He hadn’t used some of the sequences for years, but a quick look in the TAP archive recalled them easily enough. It amused him that a cabal of teenagers would provide a key component of his evening’s adventure. He ended the call and entered the Interstate.
