I made a mental note.
I was hungry by then—I hadn’t eaten since the lobster tail at lunch—and was planning to order room service when I got back to the suite and saw that Sukie was gone. There was only a note, on hotel letterhead—Join me at dinner downstairs xx. I found her sitting alone at a table set for two. She was drinking coffee and looking at her phone. She was wearing a white blazer over a white T-shirt and white pants with sandals.
I called over the waiter and ordered a New York strip steak, medium rare.
When the waiter had left, she said, “Want to tell me what you’ve been up to?”
I smiled. “Better for you if I don’t.”
She furrowed her brow, shook her head. “Really?”
I looked around the dining room, saw her father sitting at a big round table with Megan and Fritz. The others were probably big shots in the sales department. This was their event. They were hosting the CEO.
Then someone approached Conrad Kimball. Dr. Zubiri was saying something urgent. Kimball looked receptive. He was nodding, almost rhythmically. Then he appeared to ask something, and Zubiri replied.
I had a fairly good idea of what they were talking about. If Zubiri was doing what we’d agreed upon, he was telling Conrad that a reporter had called him, asking about the suppressed Tallinn study. That the reporter had a copy.
Conrad leaned to his left and muttered something to Fritz. Then the two men stood up and left the dining room.
If I had figured out Conrad Kimball correctly, he would be heading directly to his hotel suite to confer with Fritz. Zubiri had provoked a crisis; now Conrad would be huddling with his security chief in his suite. Talking aloud, near one of my recording/transmitting devices, about the Tallinn study. I wouldn’t have to return to retrieve the devices; they would broadcast out compressed files every thirty minutes, send them via text message.
I’d be electronically eavesdropping on Conrad Kimball.
Sukie and I returned to the suite, and about thirty-five minutes later, my iPhone lit up. I’d just received a text containing a compressed audio file.
The crisis conversation was under way.
People really do generally behave in predictable ways. Conrad and his security chief were talking, and I was capturing their words. I listened to a moment of the audio file through my AirPods to make sure the recording was working:
VOICE 1 (CLEARLY CONRAD KIMBALL): The Tallinn study? I thought the only copy left was in Katonah, and I burned the goddamn thing!
VOICE 2 (PROBABLY FRITZ): Could someone have found it in Estonia? Could the scientist in Estonia be talking, after all this time?
CONRAD: Dr. Kask? Not very easily. We took care of him years ago.
FRITZ: You think Megan’s behind this?
CONRAD: She’s ruthless. She’ll do anything.
FRITZ: True.
CONRAD: I want this weekend to go off without a hitch. I don’t want trouble from her. I don’t want her getting in the way.
FRITZ: Understood.
CONRAD: Why is Sukie here?
FRITZ: I’m working on that. I can’t figure it out yet.
Sukie passed through the sitting area where I was listening with my AirPods, right around the moment when her father spoke her name on the recording. It was disorienting.
I took out my earphones. “I think I have what I need,” I said.
I noticed that a red blinking light on the room phone had just come on. I pointed out to Sukie that one of us had a message. I called the front desk.
“Yes, Mr.—Brown?”
“Yes.”
“You have a message from a Mr. Heston. He left his mobile number.”
72
It was a few minutes before nine, but Fritz Heston had left his message just five minutes earlier. I called his number.
“This is Fritz,” he said by way of answering the phone.
“Nick Brown,” I said. “You wanted to talk.”
“Mr. Brown, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you after dinner. It can certainly wait until morning if you prefer.”
“Let’s talk right now,” I said. “What’s this about?”
“I’d rather talk in person. Would that work for you?”
We arranged to meet in five minutes in the lobby. Sukie was watching a documentary about Beyoncé. “I’m off to meet Fritz,” I said.
“Really? For what?”
“No idea. He wants to meet me.”
She looked alarmed. “What do you think he wants?”
I shook my head. Actually, I had a pretty good idea what he wanted.
“I’ll be back soon.” I left her watching the documentary and went downstairs.
Fritz Heston was sitting in an easy chair in the lobby, dressed, as he was at dinner, in resort attire. A muted, vaguely Hawaiian shirt and chinos.
He got right up as soon as he saw me. Extended his hand and shook firmly. “Mr. Brown,” he said.
“I didn’t expect to see you here. Is security a concern in Anguilla?”
Anguilla was a small island; cruise ships didn’t stop there, and its only flights went to other Caribbean islands. There was only minor crime. It was safe.
“Security’s a concern everywhere these days,” he said. He gestured to another chair close to his, and we both sat down. The lobby was empty. There was no one around.
“What are we talking, snorkeling accidents?” I said. “You can’t be expecting protesters down here. They couldn’t afford it.”
“Not all the threats are from outside the firm.”
“What does that mean?”
“Why are you here?” he said.
“Never been to Anguilla before.”
“And why is Sukie here?”
“Ask her.”
“I’m asking you. And how long did you think you’d get away with the fake name? Do you think I’m an idiot?”
So the flight attendant must have told him about my US passport, the different names. “I’m sure you’re excellent at what you do,” I said.
“Quite a legend you put together.”
He meant my alias, Nick Brown. “I always keep a few workable legends around in case I need them.”
“And why did you need it?”
“Sukie thought the family would be uncomfortable if they knew she was dating her security guy.”
“Is that what you are, a private security guy?”
I evaded his question. “With all the anti-Kimball stuff going on out there, it’s not safe to be a Kimball. You know that as well as anyone. And I doubt she’s the only family member who’s hiring their own security.”
“I didn’t know you did private security, Mr. Heller. I had the sense you were more in the private spy trade.”
“If you’ve done your homework on me, you know my background.”
“Okay.” Meaning he’d done his homework.
“So when a client has a security need, I can provide it.”
“You’re a little overqualified to be a security guard.”
“No such thing as overqualified. Not when you’re a Kimball and you can afford to hire the best.” I smiled.
“I guess women fall in love with their bodyguards fairly often, huh? Dating the client?”
“Look, I know it’s a big no-no in our line of work,” I said. “But screw it. We fell for each other, okay? Believe me, I’m the last person who wanted this to happen. Because I know what everyone’s going to think.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m some kind of gold digger, of course. But this is real. We’re in love. Not that I expect anyone to believe that.” I was confessing to a lie, of course. It made me look bad, which made it all the more plausible. “Anyway, you wanted to see me?”
73
Of course, Fritz had wanted t
o ask me about my real identity, and I’d dealt with the issue head-on. He had nothing more to say to me except to apologize for bringing up the matter.
By the time I got back to the room, Sukie was asleep. We hadn’t made love since that time in New York. In the morning we had a room service breakfast.
I had an omelet and a lot of coffee, and she had French toast and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
I told her I needed to get back to Boston as soon as possible. “Can you order up the jet?” I said. “I have a lot to do before the family meeting.”
I had what I needed on Conrad Kimball: I had evidence indicating the guy had ordered a hit on an Estonian scientist. But I still needed to get the damned Tallinn file.
Maggie knew about the file. She had been killed to keep it secret. And if it remained secret, Maggie would have died in vain.
I just handed you the baton, sergeant, she’d said. Your only job is to run like hell and bring it home.
I wanted to run the baton home. For Maggie’s sake.
“Are you listening to me, Nick?” Sukie said. “I wanted to tell you last night, but I fell asleep. I just got big-footed by my sister.”
“Big-footed how?”
“She just made a move on me. She’s announced she’s taking the jet this afternoon.”
“You mean you’re going to have to fly commercial?”
“You don’t get it, Nick. She’s up to something. And it’s nothing good.”
“So can we fly with her?”
“If you want.”
“I’m fine with that.”
“Listen, I broke my shoe. Broke the heel on my sandal.”
“Okay,” I said. “Didn’t you pack other shoes?”
“Just the sandals. I’m not exactly a fashion model, in case you haven’t figured that out. I have, I think, maybe ten pairs of shoes. So this morning I need to leave the resort and buy a new pair.”
She told me the hotel’s shop didn’t have much selection, so the concierge had recommended a boutique on the cliffside road at South Hill, one of the districts of Anguilla.
“Then I’m going with you. You’re not going by yourself.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
My mobile phone rang. Detective Goldman. I took the call on the balcony.
“I’m sending you a couple of video files. From the CCTV in the foyer on the night of Conrad Kimball’s birthday.”
“Images of the guests,” I said. “The family.”
“Yeah. Take a close look.”
“Will do,” I said.
An hour later we were picked up in front of the hotel by a black Suburban. The driver appeared to be a local, a hotel employee, but I always assumed the worst. That he was paid a little extra by Fritz to keep his ears open, report what he heard.
So on the way we didn’t talk much. It was about a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel, along Route 1, the major thoroughfare on the island.
Periodically I looked at the road behind us. I was fairly sure the Audi following us had been doing so since the resort. The car had pulled up right behind us as soon as we left the gates of the hotel. It had the Anguillan light blue license plate, and it ended with an R, meaning the car was rented.
Now our driver signaled for a right-hand turn. I looked around. As we turned into the driveway for the boutique, the Audi passed us. I felt a moment of relief. I’d been overly suspicious. I got out and walked with Sukie into the shop, which smelled of leather and coconut.
The store manager, a large woman in a muumuu, had clearly been alerted to Sukie’s visit—a quick heads-up call from the concierge at the hotel, I bet—and fell all over herself trying to be helpful. There was no one else in the shop.
Looking at the rows of shoes on display on their shelves, I suddenly had a thought. I called Goldman back, and he picked right up.
“Do me a favor,” I said. “Can you find me a specific shot from the security cameras in the foyer from that night?”
“What shot?”
“I want to see their feet. Their footwear.”
“Their footwear.”
“What they were wearing that night. Does the camera angle pick that up?”
“I’ll take a look. Send you what we got.”
A video clip arrived on my phone seven minutes later. It wasn’t easy to see details on the small screen, but I pinched-to-zoom and swiped and double-tapped and managed to move in close enough to confirm a theory of mine.
I stepped over to the front window of the shop to call Goldman back and explain.
As I peered out through the slats in the blinds that hung down in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw the same Audi, with the Anguilla plates, coming from the opposite direction, pull into the boutique’s narrow parking lot.
So now it was obvious he was following us, but the question was, who was he working for? Certainly Fritz Heston distrusted me, no matter how polite he was about it. What was I doing with Sukie, what was Sukie up to? It wouldn’t surprise me if the Audi driver was one of Heston’s employees.
I returned to the women’s shoe department, where the manager was saying to Sukie, “Madame, I have the cutest pair of Jimmy Choo sandals with fascinator bows.”
“Bows?” Sukie said. “No thanks, not for me. Just something simple in white.”
The front door opened, and a bing sounded, and a man entered.
The florid-faced man I’d seen at the hotel earlier. The man driving the Audi. Would he be a Kimball employee brought down to the island for security? I didn’t think so. He was too unprepossessing physically. He was chunky. Maybe, instead, he was a local working for Kimball. That made sense.
The manager excused herself and went up to the newcomer. He spoke to her in a low voice, something about “looking around,” and she returned to Sukie.
I decided to go up to the guy and confront him directly. When he saw me approaching, his eyes narrowed. He didn’t expect his quarry to approach him. It wasn’t in the handbook.
He said, “Yes?”
“If you’re trying to let us know we’re being followed, congratulations, you’ve succeeded. But if you’re trying to be subtle, well, your technique needs a little work.”
“Do I know you?” He sounded South African.
“Nick,” I said. I stuck out my hand to shake, and he instinctively flinched. When he realized he’d overreacted, he glowered. It all happened in about two seconds.
He didn’t tell me his name. But I could tell he was pissed off. I’d called him out, insulted his competence. No one likes that.
74
Sukie bought a pair of simple white sandals, Christian Louboutins; I told her she looked nice in them, and we got back into the hotel’s Suburban. But instead of returning to the hotel and packing up to fly out, she told me she wanted to have lunch at a place she’d found previously on the far eastern end of the island.
I made a private deal with the hotel driver, dropped him off at the hotel, and drove the car myself. It took a half hour to get there, and when we did, I was surprised at how modest it was—a beach shack, right on the beach and not in one of the resorts. We were early for lunch and got a table by the water.
It should have been relaxing—it felt like a tropical island cliché, nearly like a film set, the sand and the water and the beach umbrella—but I was feeling the immense press of time. I wanted to get back to Boston and prepare for the Kimball family meeting. I didn’t want to be sitting there having lunch. I sneaked a glance at my watch. If I didn’t somehow end up with the Tallinn file, none of my plans stood a chance of working.
“I found this place when I was here a couple years ago,” Sukie said. “I know it doesn’t look promising, but they have the best conch fritters. And johnny cakes.”
I ordered a Jamaican beer, a Red Stripe, and she asked for a frozen margarita. We
were the only customers there.
“The real reason I wanted to get out of the resort,” she said, “was so we can talk openly. Knowing my father, and Fritz, our suite might be bugged.”
I nodded. Anything was possible.
“I saw you talking to that guy in the store,” she said. “You know him?”
“I know the type,” I said.
“What do you mean?”
“A local guy, a retired mercenary, I bet. From South Africa, I’m guessing. The kind who takes the occasional freelance job. Local talent.”
“But hired by who?”
“That’s the question.”
“Fritz?”
“Not likely. He’d use his own company employees.”
She began absently, straightening the sugar packets in the holder on the table. “Then who?”
I shook my head. Shrugged. “What do you know about the meeting on Saturday?” I asked.
“Just that we have to take a vote on ‘the future of the company.’ So it’s a big deal.”
“Any guess what that means?”
She shook her head. “Like I said, maybe he wants to file for bankruptcy.”
“He sounded very gung-ho at the sales conference.”
“He was defending his legacy, his honor. Of course he was. But if he does file for bankruptcy, I lose. That Tallinn study will do me no good anymore. Basically I need to have it, like, yesterday.”
“If Kimball files for bankruptcy, what really happens to all the lawsuits against them?”
“They all get frozen. That means the company gets to escape its reckoning. Instead of paying damages to families it destroyed, it gets away scot-free. If Kimball goes bankrupt, all these people around the country who are suing them will get pennies.”
“Why would your father need a family meeting to declare bankruptcy?”
“Because we each sit on the board of the Kimball Family Trust, which in turn owns Kimball Pharma.” The sugar packets were now perfectly aligned.
“You each get an equal vote?”
“Hell no. Dad gets fifty-one percent, and the rest of us get a total of forty-nine percent. But a vote to declare bankruptcy requires a supermajority. Which means he needs two of us to go along with his plan. And I’ll bet Megan won’t agree to it. Or Paul. And obviously I won’t.”
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