The engineer gazed at the old security guard over the coffee mug. “We run for the hills.”
Liam swallowed hard. “Huh?”
Wilson continued. “You could think of it like a car engine when the cooling system fails and the radiator explodes. Like when you’re on the highway and you see steam shooting out from beneath a car’s hood on a hot summer day. It’s the same principle really. Pressure builds up until something gives and the core is violated.”
“Violated?” Liam didn’t like the sound of that.
“The core explodes or simply melts through the containment vessel surrounding the core. Either way, radiation is released into the atmosphere.”
“And that would be dangerous.”
“Radiation makes you grow ten fingers on one hand, if it doesn’t kill you first.” Wilson sipped from his coffee mug and glanced south toward the city. “It gets on buildings and into the water supply. A big dose of it can make a place uninhabitable for a long time.” He said the last few words quietly.
The guard nodded. He wished he hadn’t asked about the plant. Coming to work would never be as easy again. It was true what people said: ignorance was bliss.
Wilson turned away from Liam and stared out the window. People were always assuming the worst about nuclear power plants: that these plants were constantly just minutes away from blowing sky-high and raining deadly radiation down on everyone living within a hundred miles of the explosion. It was so ridiculous. Far away on the horizon he could see the World Trade Center towers soaring skyward from lower Manhattan.
* * *
—
The dark man with the thick black mustache stood on the ridge, cracking sunflower shells between his teeth, watching the men rappel quickly down the sheer face of the quarry on the long ropes. He smiled as he removed several delicious seeds from their casings with his tongue, spit the empty shells into the West Virginia snow, chewed the seeds for a moment, then swallowed them. The men were ready. Very ready. The training had been difficult—already they had lost two men during exercises on these cliffs and in the abandoned mines. But it had been worth the trouble. They were a machine now, having weeded out those who might have failed in their duties during the attack. They were a strike force no ragtag group of ex-policemen could ever hope to delay, let alone stop.
They would overpower the defenses of the target the way the panzers had overpowered Poland. It would be that easy. He laughed aloud as he thought about the poor assholes at their posts, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts. Most of them wouldn’t even know what had hit them. They wouldn’t have time. The fires of hell would open up before them for a few brutal seconds, and then they would be killed, mercifully. It would be that fast. A turkey shoot. Conventional rifles and fat bellies against high-tech weaponry and trained assassins. It didn’t add up. It wasn’t fair. It was just as he wanted it, just as the man in Washington wanted it.
Vargus—what he was calling himself for this mission—yelled to his second-in-command at the base of the cliffs. The other man nodded, then screamed at the men, who immediately began pulling themselves back up the cliffs by the long ropes. Vargus stuffed another handful of sunflower seeds into his mouth. The men, handpicked by Vargus from the best pools of talent Syria, Libya, and Iraq had to offer, had dedicated themselves with vigor to this mission, though of course they did not yet know what the target was. But they knew it was high-profile, and they knew the attack would be launched against a U.S. installation. And they had been told that this would not be a suicide mission, that the powers controlling the mission intended to get them out once the ransom was collected. They were too talented a pool of men for the powers to lose.
Vargus laughed. They had bought the explanation so easily. He was the only person who was going to get out alive. All the others would be killed. Each and every one of them except him. It was all part of the plan, the master plan every detail of which even he was not privy to.
Vargus gazed up toward the top of the cliffs. Several of the men, the best ones, were almost there already. He would have to undergo intense plastic surgery right after it was over. The doctors would actually lift his face off and sew a new one on. They would rush him right to the hospital after the attack because time would be of the essence. The powers in the Middle East would understand quickly what had happened: that they had been stung. They wouldn’t understand exactly how, but they would figure out that he, Vargus, was responsible. And they would send death squads for him. Immediately.
After the surgery the man in Washington would move him to another destination to convalesce. In fact he would probably be moved several times to ensure his safety. There would be incredible pain and suffering for a few weeks during the recovery, but once it was over, he would be free to slip away forever with no fear of being recognized. There would be no questions asked. He would enjoy the spoils of war for the remainder of his long and happy life. Twenty-five million was the price they would pay. That would buy several mansions, several boats, and all the beautiful women he could possibly lure into his bed. Twenty-five million dollars. He was worth every penny.
He turned and began to trudge back toward the main buildings, inhaling the clean, crisp West Virginia air as he moved through the four inches of new powder that had fallen overnight. His eyes narrowed as he passed a small shed on the periphery of the compound. He paused and stared at the wooden door. They still needed to dispose of the bodies of the lost hikers he and his second had murdered. He considered checking on the bodies for a moment, then dismissed the idea and kept moving back toward the main buildings. It was a detail, something he would take care of later.
8
From the raised level at the back of the large room Rachel watched the dark-haired woman lead Mace through the crowded restaurant. Rachel took another sip of wine. She rarely drank at all, never during the middle of the day, but this was a special occasion.
Through the curved glass Rachel watched the hostess guide Mace the long way from the maître d’s stand to the table, past the bar and the checkroom. The woman flung her waist-length hair over her shoulder each time she glanced back at Mace to make certain he was appreciating her sensual walk. The hostess smiled and chatted with him, something she had not done with any of the other men she had guided through the restaurant. He smiled back at her politely, but Rachel was glad to see that he was not overly impressed with her, as the other men had been.
Rachel took another sip from the wineglass and counted the heads of the women who turned as Mace moved past their tables. “Swaggered past their tables” was a better description, she thought. Not the swagger of arrogance or insecurity, just the stride of a man who gave the impression that he could remain calm in any situation, no matter the chaos around him.
“Hello, Rachel.” Mace’s natural smile broadened as he saw her. He glanced quickly down at the wineglass, but his expression did not change.
When he came to the table, he took her hand gently, but she could feel the restrained strength in his grip as it wrapped around her delicate fingers.
The hostess’s demeanor receded to its former state of boredom as she watched the greeting. She placed the menus on the table as Rachel shot her a smug look. “Your waiter will be right with you,” she said.
“Thank you,” Mace said, without taking his eyes from Rachel. God, she was even more beautiful up close.
“Certainly.” The hostess flashed him one more desperate smile, which he did not notice, and then she was gone.
“Hey, this looks like a great place. A good choice on your part.” Mace motioned back toward the restaurant. “A couple of associates down at Walker Pryce told me the food here is fantastic.”
“Carmine’s has some of the best Italian food in the city. And the portions are huge.” Rachel pointed at the large menu high on the wall. Her lips curled into a quick smile. “Somehow I figured you’d much rather go to a place that has good food and lot
s of it than some fou-fou place where you get a piece of steak the size of a quarter and a strip of asparagus as your entrée.”
Mace’s gray eyes caught her glance. “You know me well.”
No, but I might like to, she thought. She laughed to herself. Usually men did not affect her this way. At Columbia she could have any man she wanted. But she paid little attention to them. She was at Columbia to learn, not to be distracted by men who presented no challenge. Mace was different. “Well, sit down and take your coat off.”
Mace did not hesitate, hanging his suit coat on the back of the chair.
“I like your suspenders.” She nodded at the colorful straps which crossed the blue pin-striped shirt at his broad shoulders.
“Thanks.” He laughed as he looked down at them. “It’s a long way from the Plymouth orphanage.” He sat as he spoke.
“What’s that?” she asked quickly.
“Would you two care to hear about our specials?”
Rachel and Mace glanced up at the tall waiter holding a small pad before him. Rachel wasted no time. “This gentleman needs a drink. We’ll wait on the specials,” she said firmly.
“I’ll have one of those.” Mace pointed at the wineglass before Rachel.
The waiter nodded and was gone quickly. He realized that his presence was not appreciated and was experienced enough to know that in this case his tip would probably be inversely related to the amount of time he spent at the table.
Rachel leaned forward. “What did you say before the waiter interrupted?”
Mace allowed himself to gaze again at her for a few moments before answering. She was so fresh. Her hair fell gently about the soft, smooth skin of her face. When she smiled, a dimple appeared in her right cheek. She had perfectly shaped, full lips, and her slightly gravelly voice was terribly sexy.
“Mace, what did you say before the waiter came?” Rachel persisted.
He snapped out of his daydream. “I said I was from Minnesota originally. Plymouth, Minnesota. It’s about twenty miles northwest of Minneapolis. Actually I was born downtown, but I grew up in Plymouth.”
“That’s not what I meant. You said something about an orphanage.”
“Oh.” Mace stretched out the interjection in mock surprise. “You’re interested in my time at the Plymouth Home for Wayward Boys.”
“Yes.” Her eyes were riveted to his.
The waiter interrupted again, this time with Mace’s glass of cabernet. He placed the wine on the table quickly and retreated without a word.
Mace picked up the glass, swirled the contents for a moment, then drank. He nodded. “Not bad.” He took a deep breath. “My mother had me when she was sixteen. She was poor and didn’t have any way to support me, so she gave me up for adoption, but no one wanted me. Fortunately the good people at the Plymouth home took me in.” Mace took another sip from the glass. He had remembered Charlie Fenton’s comment about how poor Rachel’s family was. The bit about the orphanage had been an awfully forward thing to slip into the conversation so early, but he had researched her background thoroughly and thought she would relate quickly to his experience. If Walker Pryce was going to win her services, it was going to have to do so on the strength of something special, of something different. She would have to feel comfortable with the people with whom she would work. All the other firms were going to offer her tons of money too.
Mace had now taught three classes of the real estate course and was convinced that Rachel was the star of this year’s graduating class at Columbia Business School. He wanted to make certain that she came to Walker Pryce. With a face as beautiful as hers and the brains to match, she could be responsible for winning quite a few financing mandates very quickly in her investment banking career. And he would be a direct beneficiary of her capabilities.
His background was sinking in, and it was having the desired effect. He could see it in her eyes. So his gamble had worked. For an investment banker, being a good psychologist was an asset.
Rachel gazed back into the gray eyes. She had never seen eyes that color. They were mesmerizing. She tried to think of something to say, but he was making her nervous simply by sitting at the same table with her. She hadn’t felt this way in a long time. It was wonderful.
“Enough about me, let’s talk about you,” Mace said. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
Rachel leaned back in her chair without responding to his question.
So she didn’t want to talk about her background yet. He saw it in her body language. Well, that was fine. He wouldn’t push it. “How is the Columbia fund going? I spent some time on the Bloomberg machine and pulled up that Wall Street Journal article on you. Very impressive.”
She looked back at him and smiled. “Thanks.” Rachel played with her silverware. “We work hard to ensure the fund’s strong performance,” she said.
He liked the way she used the word we. It indicated that she was probably a team player. That was good. She would fit right in at Walker Pryce. That was if she could keep the wolves at bay. All the younger men at the firm would want to see her crash and burn right away because they would immediately see her great potential. If Rachel were able to develop confidence in herself, she would accelerate past them quickly because the older partners would prefer her around them to another obnoxious young man wearing flashy suspenders. “We? I understand it’s your show.”
“There are several people involved in the management of the fund.” Rachel took another sip of wine.
“But it’s your show. I talked to Dean Fenton about it. He says the charities to which Columbia donates the proceeds are going to be very unhappy when you are graduated.”
“They’ll get over it.” She smiled quickly, then became serious. “I’ve been lucky and had several good small cap stock picks.” She said the words matter-of-factly as she watched the waiter deliver a heaping plate of pasta to the table next to theirs. As she watched the man serve it, she wondered what Mace was thinking. What was the true motivation behind this lunch? Did he want a quick trip to the Marriott Marquis just a few blocks away for a roll in the sack? Was that why he had called to arrange this meeting? Or was this really an honest recruiting lunch?
“You’re very talented, Rachel. I think you would fit in well at Walker Pryce. I want you to come down to Two Wall Street, our headquarters, and meet some people.”
Immediately her eyes dropped to the tablecloth. “I doubt I’d fit in very well at Walker Pryce. I’ll probably just end up going back to Merrill Lynch. They have already sort of made me an offer.”
So she was scared of that blueblood, aristocrat crap. “Don’t be put off by the firm’s stodgy reputation, Rachel. It’s just a spin the other firms on Wall Street market to turn people off about us. Look, I know that you’re from a tough part of Brooklyn, and you probably think you wouldn’t be accepted by people—”
Her eyes flashed to his.
“—but your background wouldn’t be a problem.” He’d played all his cards now, and there was no turning back. But from the sound of it, there wasn’t much time left, so there was no reason to be coy. “The firm has changed a great deal in the last few years. Look at me, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, look at you.” Her lips broke into a wide smile, and she brought a hand to her face. It had spilled out spontaneously.
Mace ignored her comment. “Merrill Lynch is an excellent firm. I know a lot of people over there in the real estate group. But it’s not Walker Pryce. You’ll earn more money faster at Walker Pryce, and more important, you’ll be able to work on a wider variety of projects.”
Rachel tilted the wineglass back and finished it off. So the lunch was purely for professional reasons after all. He respected her for who she was and not for what was beneath the clothes. She should be happy. Shouldn’t she? Wasn’t respect what she should want from him?
“Rachel, a full day of intervie
ws has already been arranged for you at Walker Pryce on the basis of what I’ve seen of you in real estate finance and what Dean Fenton has conveyed to our senior partner, Lewis Webster. We want you to come down on Monday. I suppose you’ll have to miss a few classes at Columbia, but believe me, it will be worth the time.”
She heard him speaking, but the words barely registered. Her thoughts were a million miles away. Mace was probably earning three-quarters of a million dollars a year, if not more, and he probably went out with a different runway model every night of the week—that is, nights he wasn’t running an important board meeting. She was a business school student from a poor family in Brooklyn, New York. How could she possibly have thought Mace McLain’s interest in her might be anything but professional?
Mace glanced at the beautiful face and then away. Her expression projected an obvious inner strength and a desire to succeed. The fire of motivation burned brightly in the gleaming blue eyes. But in those eyes there lay a hint of vulnerability too. “So can I tell Webster you’ll see us?”
Rachel hesitated a moment. “Yeah, sure. What the heck?” She did not look at him as she spoke.
9
Robin Carruthers stood naked before the full-length mirror of her bathroom in the Doha Marriott. She did not like what she saw. The whirlwind trip through Saudi Arabia, Jordan, Kuwait, Bahrain, and now Qatar had taken its toll. Puffy bags had formed beneath her eyes, red blotches had appeared on the pale skin of her face, and her body seemed to be sagging in all the wrong places. Minimal sleep, bad food, and no exercise. A wonderful combination for a forty-three-year-old woman trying to remain at least somewhat attractive for just a little while longer.
The vice president’s official visits to foreign countries—other than Europe—were a terrible pain in the ass. But as his chief of staff and longtime trusted adviser, she simply had to accompany him on a tour as important as this one. The election was now less than a year away. The presidential campaign was entering its most critical state, and Preston Andrews viewed this trip to the Middle East as a major opportunity not only to plaster his photograph all over the papers back home but also to put some distance between himself and his only real competitor for the office of the president, Malcolm Becker, director of the CIA, an opportunity to gain some ground on a man he viewed as an unworthy opponent.
The Vulture Fund Page 9
