“Did you record your conversations with Guilford?” She was not going to be won over easily. He was too convincing. That of course was why he was a politician.
“No. I tried, but he played loud music while we spoke, making it impossible to record anything. We spoke only once, for a very short time. We were to meet again, but I think Becker somehow found out that he had come to me. As I told you, I don’t think Carter’s plane crash in Honduras was an accident, Robin.”
It all sounded so convincing. But Preston could convince you that professional athletes weren’t really money-hungry too, that they played simply for the love of the game. He could make anything sound convincing. It was his gift. “Why did you meet with Lewis Webster, the senior partner of Walker Pryce?”
How in the world had she found out about that? “How much longer does the vice president’s chief of staff plan on grilling him?” Andrews’ voice rose in intensity.
She could tell he was furious. The tipoff was that he spoke in the third person. But she didn’t care. She wanted answers at this point. “As long as she wants to,” Robin retorted. “Answer my question, Preston.”
“He called me. He said he had heard that Andrews Industries was in trouble and wanted to offer his help. I had him come to Washington to assure him that my family’s company was not in trouble and that at some point I would give his firm some business with Andrews Industries. Wall Street people are so damned greedy. Once I offered him the business, he went away quietly. But it was the right thing to have him come to my office and give him the full red-carpet treatment. It worked perfectly. I haven’t heard a word from him since. The last thing I needed was a person like that telling the world I have personal financial problems. How he found out that the company was in trouble, I’ll never know. He wouldn’t tell me. But his figures were awfully accurate. I refuted them, of course, but I’d like to know where he got them.”
Again, it sounded so good, but who knew if Preston was telling the truth now? He had mentioned just one meeting, but her information was that there had been several. “Why didn’t you tell me you were meeting with Webster? After all, I’m your chief of staff.”
“I’m trying to keep you as far away from it all as possible, Robin.”
“How can you say that?” Her voice rose suddenly. “You just asked me to contact Slade Conner in person. How much more involved can I be?”
Andrews did not respond. He simply stared at her.
“I have one last question,” Robin said quietly.
“Just one, I’m sure.”
She ignored his sarcasm. “Who was the man at the Doha hotel that night I came into the room? You still haven’t told me.”
Andrews glanced away instantly. He could not tell her. That had to stay as quiet as possible. For as long as possible.
25
The man was dressed as an electrician, but his knowledge of the profession was limited to a single vocational course he had taken in high school many years before. He put his ear close to the door and listened intently for several seconds for any sound from within. But there was nothing. He checked the number on the apartment door one more time just to make certain, then pushed it gently. He gritted his teeth as he pushed. It would have been so much better to have surprised the target on a darkened street or in a crowded subway station, but his employers wanted him dead immediately.
The door gave way silently. The assassin glanced through the crack to see if there were any lights on in the apartment, but all was dark inside. He slipped into the room, closed the door, and slid the tool he had used to pick the lock into his pocket. Smoothly he dropped to his knees, placed the already unzipped bag on the floor before him, and pulled out the loaded weapon. He stood up again and began to move stealthily toward the bedroom. He had been given a rough map of the apartment—complete with approximate furniture locations—but there was no need to be cautious as the light from the city, coming through the large window in the dining room, was adequate to guide him.
The assassin moved quickly toward the far door, the door to the first bedroom. Mace McLain lay inside asleep. It was after two in the morning, and the information he had been given indicated that Mace had stayed at his office until nine o’clock and then taken a car service back to his Upper West Side apartment. He was tired and would be going to sleep soon after he arrived home. That was the assassin’s information. But he had waited until this late hour just to be safe.
It was almost over now. The target was as good as dead. The man hesitated at the door for a second. The gun gleamed in the dim light from the window as he brought it up to his face and reached for the doorknob. It was not a conventional weapon. It was a dart gun. But the dart was not filled with a sedative. The sharp projectiles held deadly poison that would paralyze the target within six seconds of skin penetration and stop the heart seventeen to twenty seconds later. McLain might manage to make it out of the bed and to the floor, but that would be about all.
Killing McLain wasn’t going to be the problem. The problem was going to be getting his body out of the apartment building without being detected. They did not want his body to be found—ever—so McLain had to be killed here with no signs of foul play or a struggle and then moved to a place where the body could be disposed of properly.
The assassin silently turned the knob to the right, took three short breaths, and burst into the room. The bed was empty. Quickly he moved to the bathroom and then to the second bedroom. McLain was not in the apartment. The assassin’s information had been wrong.
* * *
—
Gently but firmly Mace moved Leeny against the wall and then pressed his naked body against hers. The wall was slightly cool against the flesh of her buttocks and back, but the feeling was not displeasing since the room was extremely warm. Her hands massaged his muscular shoulders for a few seconds, then locked together at the back of his neck. For a few moments she stared into his gray eyes as the light from many candles flickered in the dark pupils. Then his mouth came to hers and their tongues met.
But just as Mace should have entered her, just as her legs should have been wrapping around him, he stepped back. She shook her head, not understanding.
Mace moved to the bedroom door and opened it. Rachel, already nude, moved into the room slowly from the darkness beyond, took Mace by the hand, and led him to the huge bed in the center of the space. She crawled onto the bed in front of him and lay on her back, motioning for him to join her.
Leeny tried to cry out, but the sound caught in her throat. She tried to move away from the wall, but somehow she could not. She could do nothing but watch as Mace moved onto the bed and began to make love to Rachel.
Leeny bolted upright in the bed, screaming as she came out of the dream. She breathed heavily for several moments, then became aware that her body was drenched with perspiration. The mattress was soaked.
“God. Oh, God.” She gazed into the pitch-black of her bedroom, then leaned across the bed to the lamp on the nightstand and switched it on. Instantly the room was bathed in a comforting glow. But the image of Mace making love to Rachel was still with her. It was an image she could not erase from her mind.
Again Leeny leaned across the bed to the nightstand, removed four pills from the bottle—four times the prescription inscribed on the vial—and swallowed them all with one gulp of water. Slowly she put the glass back down on the table. It balanced on the edge for a second, then tumbled to the floor, smashing loudly into many pieces. But Leeny hardly noticed. Her eyes were transfixed on the red digits of the clock. Two-thirty in the morning. The assassin had finished his work by now. Mace McLain was dead.
* * *
—
Slade watched the woman fade into the darkness of the Georgetown campus; it was almost three in the morning. It had taken immense courage for her to come here. She must know that it would be his duty to report this treachery to Becker.
&
nbsp; In the distance the lights of the old McDonogh Gymnasium shone brightly. What was he supposed to do? Robin Carruthers, chief of staff to the vice president of the United States, had just revealed herself as the writer of the two anonymous letters he had received. She had made incredible accusations against Malcolm Becker, his commander. And she had asked for his help. Slade laughed aloud. It was bizarre, the only word he could think of to describe accurately what he had just heard.
Slade turned and moved in the opposite direction from that in which Robin had gone. What the hell was he going to do?
* * *
—
The engine had been working hard for twenty minutes, the pistons roaring as the car slowly climbed the steep mountain, hairpin turn after hairpin turn. The smell of burning oil pervaded the inside of the vehicle, and the temperature gauge showed that the motor could not take much more. If it burned up now, help was miles away. The last remnant of civilization had been the old gas station at the foot of the mountain, and there had been no lights on inside.
Finally the car reached the apex of the huge mountain and began the long descent. The bright headlights peered through the night, illuminating little else but dense forest, huge mounds of snow—in places piled ten feet high at the side of the twisting, desolate road—and occasional whitetail deer, several of which had careened from the forest into the path of the oncoming car before bolting safely away at the last instant.
Mace sat hunched behind the steering wheel of the small car—he had rented it because he did not want to be conspicuous in the tiny West Virginia town by driving a sporty or large model—both hands firmly on the wheel in the ten and two positions, concentrating hard on the narrow, curving road. He was exhausted. The flight from New York City to Charleston hadn’t left La Guardia until eleven o’clock, and it had been snowing as the plane had touched down in West Virginia. That had cost him more time; he had been barely able to do more than twenty miles an hour for the first ninety minutes on the road. He had considered staying in Charleston for the night but had ruled out that option. He did not have the time to waste. They would realize quickly that he was gone.
But the snow had finally ceased, and now it was simply a question of negotiating the mountains in this godforsaken part of the country and avoiding the deer, which seemed to be as plentiful as the homeless on the streets of New York City. The huge mounds of snow and massive pine trees flashed by. This place really was off the beaten track. For Christ’s sake, he hadn’t seen another car in the last ten miles. Mace inhaled deeply. It had to be coming up soon. At least it looked like it according to the map.
Then he saw a small sign just visible at the top of a large snowdrift, SUGAR GROVE: 6 MILES. Slowly he began to relax into the seat. He was almost there.
Suddenly he hunched forward over the steering wheel again, this time farther than before. Always play the fourth quarter stronger than the first three. Don’t ease up with the finish line in sight. Finish strong. His eyelids felt like lead weights, but he was almost there, and there was an all-night motel waiting for him in Sugar Grove. He had checked.
Mace shook his head. This was probably a wild-goose chase. The wire transfer from the Broadway Ventures account at Chase to this little branch of the Charleston National Bank & Trust here in Sugar Grove in the middle of nowhere probably meant nothing. But he had to find out.
Suddenly a deer moved out from beneath several tall pine trees, surprising Mace. It was a huge, magnificent buck. The animal, seemingly unaware of the steel beast bearing down on it, moved slowly, directly into the car’s path.
Despite the animal’s slow progress, it appeared to Mace that the deer would make the other side of the road easily before the car hit it. But as it stepped across the pavement, the animal made the deadly mistake of turning toward the headlights of the car. It stopped, statue still, and stared into the bright lights. Mace slammed on the brakes instantly, but the tires did not grab hold of the roadway immediately, instead skidding on a large patch of ice.
At the last instant Mace released his foot from the brake. The car hurtled to the right, following the front wheels, barely grazing the buck’s thick coat. Then Mace was past the deer, slamming his foot on the brakes again. Again the compact car skidded on the ice. Finally it slammed headlong into a huge snowdrift.
The car had not been traveling particularly fast at impact, and Mace was unhurt. But in the crash the car’s engine had stalled. Mace put the transmission into park and attempted to restart the motor, but there was no sound. Several times he tried, waiting a few minutes in between, but the ignition did not respond. Finally he kicked the door open and got out. It was going to be a long walk.
He reached back inside the car, grabbed his bag, and turned to go. The deer, which had not moved as the car had skidded past it and into the snowdrift, suddenly dashed for the trees at the edge of the roadway.
“Damn!” Mace stepped back involuntarily. The animal had startled him.
It bounded quickly into the pitch-black forest. Mace listened for several moments as the animal crashed through the underbrush, the sounds of its progress growing fainter and fainter until he could no longer hear the animal. Now he became aware that there were no sounds at all.
Slowly he began to trudge down the icy road toward Sugar Grove. What would Leeny think if she knew where he was? What would Webster think? Well, they weren’t going to find out. He would be back to New York City on Monday night, back to work first thing Tuesday morning, with a plausible excuse for his Monday absence and no credit-card receipts for them to find. He had withdrawn a significant amount of cash this afternoon to fund any unforeseen situation he might run into down here.
Mace shook his head. Rachel was right. Leeny had a lot of problems. Why had she been so interested this afternoon in exactly when he was going home? And if he had plans to go out tonight?
26
Sugar Grove was nestled in a remote valley of the ancient Appalachian Mountains. Tree-covered snowy peaks rose about the cluster of aging clapboard homes in every direction. It was a land the twentieth century had all but forgotten. Every other vehicle on the potholed streets was a mud-splattered pickup truck. All three thousand inhabitants seemed to be related or at least to know one another. And there were two of almost everything: two grocery stores, two hardware stores, two banks, two liquor stores, and two ancient movie theaters, still playing 1970s fare.
The Deliverance Motel, located directly across Main Street from Mabel’s Truck Stop Diner, offered rooms with little more than a stiff mattress, a Bible, and an old black rotary telephone. To make a call from the ancient phone, a motel guest had to be connected to the outside world by the person on duty at the tiny front desk, who most of the time was Max Shifflette, the establishment’s obese owner. The only modern amenity available at the motel was a mammoth wide-screen television in the lounge that offered ninety-two channels, thanks to a huge satellite dish positioned at the top of the highest peak overlooking the secluded settlement. The Deliverance Motel was a far cry from the five-star hotels of London, Paris, and Los Angeles to which Mace was accustomed, but when he tumbled onto the rickety bed at five o’clock Saturday morning after the six-mile walk from his stalled rental car, it had seemed like heaven.
“Another beer, Max?” Mace passed the half-empty twelve-pack of Coors to the motel’s proprietor, who sat in an old wooden chair next to him. Mace had purchased the beer at the Piggly Wiggly, located next door to Mabel’s. It was funny, Mace thought as he held the carton out for the other man. This little part of Sugar Grove was a lot like New York City in that all of life’s necessities were available right outside his door, twenty-four hours a day.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Max responded quickly in a high-pitched voice with a thick mountain accent. He turned the can he was holding upside down, guzzled what was left, tossed it onto the frayed rug of the lounge, and grabbed the carton from Mace. With a huge paw Max removed anot
her gold can, popped the top, and drank half the contents. He belched loudly as he finally pulled the aluminum from his lips.
Mace smiled to himself as he watched the man consume the beer. Max was a bear of a man. Six feet six inches tall and three hundred pounds if he was an ounce. His black hair was long and scraggly, as was his beard, and he looked as if he could have enjoyed a sterling career in the World Wrestling Federation. Mace had jokingly offered to be his agent in this endeavor, but Mad Max, as Mace had heard the young maid call the owner this morning, didn’t want that. Max wanted to remain in Sugar Grove until the day he died, tending the motel five days a week, hunting black bear and deer the other two. That was life for Max, and he was satisfied with it. And there was something to that, Mace thought.
Suddenly the huge television’s reception dimmed, and the tractor pull contest faded from the screen. “Damn it!” Mad Max finished off the beer and hurled the can at the screen.
“What’s the matter with the reception?” Mace asked.
Mad Max dug into the carton he had carefully placed on his lap and retrieved another beer. “Oh, the satellite probably went on the blink. That or the company that operates it finally figured out that I’m pirating their signal.”
“What?” Mace smiled at the man.
Mad Max took a swig of the beer, then turned toward Mace and smiled back at him widely, showing his protruding upper gum. “Yeah, my brother and I put that dish on top of the mountain a couple of years ago without really telling anyone.”
“And the cops didn’t do anything?”
Mad Max shook his head. “My brother’s the sheriff.”
The Vulture Fund Page 28
