Rachel felt tears welling in her eyes. A half million dollars. She thought of the struggle and sacrifice of the last ten years: of Queens College, then Merrill Lynch, and now Columbia; of how she had enjoyed almost no social life at all since high school. But now all the sacrifices seemed worthwhile. Her life was finally coming together. She would never have to worry about money again.
Neither would her family. They had suddenly crossed over the line into the world of the haves, and she was the catalyst. Little Rachel. The strange one who liked to read the stock page of the newspaper, not the style section, as her older sisters did. Her family would not believe it, but she would show them the letter from Walker Pryce, and they all would begin crying together. Even her stepfather, who, since marrying her mother when Rachel was four, had worked his entire life at the welding job on the docks, earning barely enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. He had steadfastly supported her when the others had laughed at her dreams. He had been there for her every step of the way, and she would never forget it.
“Are you okay?” Mace was smiling at her. He understood what she was feeling. The world had suddenly changed radically. Anything was attainable now.
“I’m fine.” Rachel picked up her napkin and dabbed her eyes for a moment. “Stop smiling at me.” She threw the napkin at him.
He caught it easily. “I take it you will accept our offer.”
Of course she would. It was well more than Merrill Lynch was offering her to return to its sweatshop. And it was Walker Pryce. But those weren’t the only two reasons she would accept the offer. She leaned over the table again. She had to ask. It was time. There was no reason to wait any longer. “What about us?” Her voice dropped to a whisper.
Mace stared into the azure eyes. What about us? He had thought through that question so many times today, anticipating the fact that he would have to come face-to-face with his feelings as well. What if their relationship did not work out and there were bad feelings between them? She would be uncomfortable from the first day she walked through the Walker Pryce front door. What if it did work and she spent too much time doting on him and ignoring her work? What if she didn’t achieve the big bonus, and then they broke apart? That would be an even bigger disaster. But he cared. He paused, torn between the alternatives. But the answer was clear. He couldn’t do this to her.
“Us?” he asked innocently. He saw the terrible hurt in her eyes immediately. It was cruel, but there was no other way. This was for the best. She would thank him later. Working at Walker Pryce was the opportunity of a lifetime for her, and she had to stay focused.
“Yes, us.”
“I don’t know what you mean, Rachel.”
She shook her head slowly, unable to comprehend. “Look, I’m not an idiot. I know there’s been something going on between us. I’ve felt it. I know you have too.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “I mean, tonight was wonderful. And you said you wanted to keep me out late.”
“I want to make sure you join Walker Pryce. You are our number one recruit. It’s a big win for me if you join.” He looked at her evenly. “My stock at the firm goes way up if you join.” This was so difficult.
“So this is about your stock at the firm going up? But I thought…I was sure…I…” She turned away. The words had spilled out into the open, and now she regretted them. She could see in his face that there was nothing there for her. He had simply been a friend, but that was all. “I’m sorry.”
“Rachel…”
“No. God, I’ve acted terribly. You have made a wonderful offer of employment to me tonight, and look how I’ve acted.”
Mace felt a sharp pang in the pit of his stomach. He wanted so badly to make her understand. Perhaps it was worth a try. “Rachel, you are a beautiful woman, and I would love to—”
“No.” She stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute. I need to freshen up.”
“Of course.” Mace stood immediately and helped her with her chair. He watched her move away quickly toward the front of the restaurant, then sank back down into his chair as she disappeared around the corner. He had not wanted to hurt her. He had wanted to tell her the truth, about how much he cared. But this way would be far better for her in the long run. He refilled his wineglass and took a long sip.
* * *
—
Leeny had been waiting in the small doorway of the apartment building across Barrow Street from One If By Land for three hours. It was a tiny street snaking through Greenwich Village, the lower Manhattan neighborhood that was so different from any other part of New York City. But Leeny did not care about the aesthetics of Greenwich Village at this point. She was concerned about Rachel Sommers, who was becoming a problem. Mace had begun to develop that look in his eyes when he talked about her, and that was becoming more and more frequent now. Rachel was the reason Mace had kept his distance from Leeny since the night in New Orleans. Leeny had no doubt of that.
Men usually could not resist Leeny’s beauty and charm. Most of them were like the sniveling little banker John Schuler. They fell all over themselves in an instant to be with her. If she wanted it to happen, it happened. She had that kind of power over men. She had been able to lure Mace into bed as well, right on schedule. He had whispered the words about no commitment as he had moved against her body in New Orleans, but confident that she could make him want her constantly, she had discounted the words. But it hadn’t happened that way. Mace hadn’t mentioned the tryst once.
He was supposed to have fallen for her by now. At least that had been the plan. So that she could keep a very close eye on everything he was doing, particularly as they neared the end of the project. The man in Washington was disappointed. That was how Webster had put it. Disappointed that she could not lure Mace McLain into a tawdry relationship. Disappointed that Mace had not moved in with her, or she with him. Disappointed that she was not an accomplished enough whore. She slammed her fist against the brick wall of the doorway. Wasn’t that what it came down to? Being a whore.
Leeny felt her throat tighten. Don’t think of it from that perspective now. You are simply acting out of self-preservation. She glanced at the restaurant door. An elderly couple had emerged, but there was still no sign of Rachel or Mace.
She had advised Webster not to extend the offer of employment to Rachel. It would only ensure that Rachel remained in the picture. But Webster had overruled Leeny. Rachel had impressed everyone she had seen during her day of interviews at Walker Pryce. Everyone had recommended that the firm extend this woman a job offer immediately. Mace knew that. Rachel had to be extended an offer.
Suddenly the restaurant door swung open, and Rachel stepped onto the sidewalk. Leeny moved back into the shadows of the garden-level doorway, waiting for Mace to appear. To her surprise Mace did not appear right away. Rachel looked up and down the street, then waved to a cab waiting a half block away. The cab roared to life and squealed up the block to meet her. Rachel threw herself onto the backseat and the hack sped away.
Leeny moved slightly out of the shadows. What the hell was that all about? Mace should have given her the offer, and after three hours of drinking Rachel ought to have been happy. They should have left together arm in arm. They should have gotten in that cab together. Her lip curled involuntarily.
Several minutes passed, and the door opened again. Again Leeny moved back into the shadows. Mace stepped onto the sidewalk beneath the streetlamp and looked up and down Barrow Street several times. Finally his shoulders slumped, and he moved back into the restaurant.
Leeny leaned back against the brick. Rachel had ditched him at the restaurant. That was the only explanation for what she had just seen. She smiled. Perhaps he had pushed himself on to her a little too obviously after making the offer. Perhaps he had linked the job to a night of sex, and Rachel had reacted fiercely, storming out.
Leeny let out a long breath. This was certainly a positive dev
elopment for the project. Still, she would follow Mace wherever he went tonight, just to make certain he didn’t rendezvous with his little student at some point.
* * *
—
The ether-soaked rag wrapped tightly around Liam’s face pressed hard against the old guard’s nose and mouth. He awoke immediately from his fitful sleep and attempted to break the vise-like grip of his attacker as soon as he realized where he was. But his efforts proved futile. The chemical rushed into his nasal passages as he sputtered and coughed, weakening him instantly, rendering him incapable of breaking free of the man’s powerful hold. The ether did not work quickly, but the attacker was incredibly strong and did not release the wet rag from Liam’s face for a full minute. Finally the guard’s eyes fluttered shut.
The invader let Liam’s body fall gently to the floor of the guard tower, then secured his hands behind his back with a length of nylon rope and stuffed the ethered rag into his mouth. Next he moved to the window of the tower, pulled his flashlight from his belt, and flicked it on and off three times into the pitch-black night.
Immediately the assault team began pouring into the compound. The front gate of the Nyack Nuclear Generating Facility had already been neutralized, and as the men headed for the front entrance of the huge building, they realized that what they had been told over and over—that the defensive force of old cops had no chance against them—was absolutely true. Dressed in black from head to toe, the invaders did not hesitate when they reached the main doors. As they burst through the door, they sprayed the three men dressed in the neat blue uniforms behind the desk with a splattering fire. The guards fell backward over their chairs to the floor.
Two of the attackers moved quickly behind the desk and threw several switches, opening the huge metal doors and allowing them access to the entire nuclear power plant. There were many places they could have gone inside the massive structure, but they had only one target: the brain of the building, the control room. Once they controlled the brain, they could do anything they wanted to the body.
They rushed down the hallway, following their leader toward the control room, running almost in unison, the floor tile cracking beneath their thick boots. Suddenly they turned right, then just as sharply left into another hallway. A technician emerged from a doorway. She did not even have the chance to scream before she was gunned down in a murderous fire.
Down one flight of steps and around another corner. Two more people, this time off-duty engineers, were gunned down. One reached for a general alarm as he staggered against the wall, but he was pasted with another volley of fire before his fingers could reach the button. He collapsed to the floor.
Around one more corner, and they were in front of the huge, highly polished stainless steel control room doors. The doors were locked, but the leader had a special password, one only he and five other people in the world knew, that would gain them entrance into the brain. The leader entered the long string of numbers—twenty-six digits in all—into the lock in perfect sequence. If he had not, if he had missed one number, four extra bars inside the great doors would have slid automatically and smoothly into place, preventing entrance into the control room by anyone for twenty-four hours. There were no second chances with the password. No one could have entered or exited, but the people in the control room would have been safe. More important, so would the facility.
If the leader had entered a wrong number, in addition to the bars sliding into place, four things would have occurred instantaneously. A piercing alarm would have screamed through the control room, alerting those inside that a wrong sequence had been entered into the lock and that unwanted intruders might be just outside the door. Another alarm would have gone off in the Nyack Police Station and at the Fifty-fourth Street precinct in Manhattan, alerting the authorities to the danger. Finally the control rods in the nuclear core would have slid into place automatically, shutting off any nuclear reaction in the core for twenty-four hours. All these things happened instantly unless the string of twenty-six numbers was entered absolutely correctly or the people inside the control room opened the doors.
Slowly but steadily the massive stainless steel doors opened, the gears humming as they strained to move the several tons of metal. As soon as the doors were far enough apart for a man to fit through, the attackers began spilling into the brain. In a matter of seconds twenty of them had moved into the space just inside the doors, securing the room that controlled every important aspect of the facility. They stood there for several moments, rifles pointed menacingly at the unarmed engineers. The engineers did not move. They did not dare to. The room—dark except for the blue, green, red, and yellow lights that flashed from the gigantic control board—was still, except for the heavy breathing of the attackers.
After what seemed like several minutes, the man in charge of the control room on this graveyard shift, Richard Steele, began moving toward the leader of the assault troops from the far side of the large room. Steele moved with a sense of purpose mixed with agitation.
Finally he reached the man who had opened the doors with his twenty-six-digit combination, grabbed the man’s rifle, then turned and sprayed the control room with paint canisters, screaming loudly as he fired. The other engineers in the room, as well as the attackers, ducked as the tiny pellets splattered the walls. In seconds the clip was spent, and he hurled the gun to the floor. It clattered against the tile until it slammed into the base of a central processing unit.
“God damn it!” the little man screamed at the top of his lungs. “I keep telling them that the security around here isn’t worth shit! But they won’t listen to me.” The words echoed in the huge room. Slowly Steele turned toward the attackers’ leader, who was removing his black ski mask. “We’ve got to do something,” Steele whispered.
Jim Dolan, the off-duty senior engineer at Nyack who was acting as the terrorist leader in tonight’s simulation, nodded at Steele. “Yes, we do.” It was all he could say.
* * *
—
John Schuler moved quickly on the park side of Central Park South, across Fifty-ninth Street from the New York Athletic Club, the collar of his long winter coat pulled up about his face, the brim of his hat pulled down over his eyes. He had not taken these precautions as a result of the winter cold, but for quite another reason.
It was stupid, he thought as he walked east toward the opening into the park. No, insane. He was an executive vice-president with one of the biggest banks in the world, with a good chance of attaining an even higher title—members of the board had expressed this belief to him in the past year—and here he was sneaking around New York City like some hoodlum. But he had never known a woman as beautiful as Leeny Hunt, and she was making herself available to him.
Fear and exhilaration flashed through Schuler’s body as he turned left and ducked through an opening in the stone wall into the park. He followed the narrow asphalt path for fifty feet, then turned right down a set of stairs toward a lonely pond tucked into the southeast corner of Central Park. The path became dark as the streetlights disappeared. Tall trees rose on either side of him, blocking out all but only the tops of the tallest buildings on Fifty-ninth Street. He could barely hear the sounds of the cars now. He was alone. It was amazing how desolate Central Park could become just a few feet inside the stone wall surrounding it on this side of the park. Schuler slowed his pace. It would not take long to make contact.
“Coke, smoke, anything you want.” The whisper startled Schuler. It came from beneath a large pine tree to his right.
For several moments Schuler focused on the tree until he could make out a lone figure leaning against the trunk. Finally he nodded at the figure. The man pushed off the tree and moved over the thin snow cover toward Schuler. Schuler caught his breath. If this was a cop, it would all be over quickly. His career would explode like Fourth of July fireworks, for everyone to see, splashed all over the business and society pages of th
e New York Times.
The drug dealer stopped several feet in front of Schuler, eyeing him through the gloom. “What you want?”
Schuler swallowed. “Cocaine. Can you help me?”
Schuler saw the other man’s white teeth as he smiled at Schuler’s request. “Don’t you worry, my man. I’ve got all the help you need.”
16
Malcolm Becker and Willard Ferris sat smugly in the large red leather chairs in front of the vice president’s desk. This wasn’t going to be easy, Andrews thought. The president had directed Andrews and Becker to coordinate an award ceremony to honor several Wolverines who had performed with exceptional bravery in the Los Angeles incident. The purpose of this morning’s meeting was to begin planning the event. The ceremony was something that should have been arranged by assistants on each staff. This meeting shouldn’t have had to occur. But the president had called Becker to inform him of the intended proceedings with respect to the Wolverines, making it clear that Andrews was to be the host of the event, and Becker had required this face-to-face meeting to set the agenda.
Robin sat in a chair to the side of Andrews’ desk. The vice president tried to elicit some sort of subtle response from her but received none. Her face remained impassive.
Andrews rubbed his eyes. He knew why Becker had required this meeting. As always there was a hidden agenda with this man. But Becker was about as subtle as the Washington Monument, and therefore few things about him could truly be termed hidden. It was all part of his direct, take-no-prisoners attitude that seemed to play so well with the general populace, but that would go over like hillbillies at a black-tie ball with the Washington establishment if Becker were actually elected president. You didn’t get things done in Washington with a direct, can-do attitude. You got things done by scratching the right person’s back while he scratched yours. That was why it was called politics.
The Vulture Fund Page 18
