Her stomach turned. She had been two minutes behind the man who’d killed Win, and countless what-if scenarios swarmed her thoughts, stinging like killer bees.
“At eleven forty-one,” Castor went on, oblivious, “five white males, varying in height and weight, heavily tattooed, armed with dart guns and zip ties, entered the building as well.” Peering at her over the top of his notepad, he added, “They were heard speaking to one another in a foreign tongue. My men said it sounded like Russian.”
“Russian,” Margo repeated, and all her blood slowly turned to ice.
“Does that mean something to you?”
Shaking her head, Margo nonetheless saw the dots connect before her eyes. After having his goons shake down LA’s high-end fences with no results, Petrenko probably resorted to subterfuge. Someone shopped around, posing as a customer and offering money no one would be able to turn down for a job tailored to fit the team that had infiltrated the castle. Vojak wouldn’t even have had to be complicit, just too smitten with the payoff to see that he was being played.
They had been under surveillance at the Mulholland site; and she had been followed—all the way to Beverly Hills, where she left her car and gave Petrenko’s goon squad an opportunity.
And tranquilizers and zip ties meant they’d intended to take her alive.
“About two minutes after these gentlemen entered the building, you exited via the third-story windows,” Castor concluded, flapping his notebook shut. “I had two men staking out your car almost from the moment you were first spotted.”
“Why?” she asked, her throat dry as dust. “How do you know all this? Why were your men there at all?”
Castor steepled his fingers with a moody frown. “I’ve been expecting something terrible to take place for some time, Margo. I’ve had men outside Winchester’s office every night for the past week.”
“They did a hell of a lot of good,” she retorted bitterly. “He’s dead. While your men took notes on body weight and Slavic accents, someone was putting a knife in Win’s chest.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that.” The man sounded sincere. “I’m sorry my fears were well founded, and I’m sorry my precautions amounted to nothing. I’m also sorry you had to be there when it happened.”
“What is this about? Who would want to kill Win?”
Castor was silent for a moment, swirling his drink. “Are you aware of what’s been happening at Manning these past few weeks?”
“Vaguely,” Margo dodged. “I’ve heard things.”
“Yesterday Addison Brand held an emergency board meeting, where he unveiled a prototype that he says represents the company’s future.” He poured booze into the second glass and nudged it toward her. “His brainchild turned out to be a tactical assault weapon—a high-capacity rifle with a carbon-fiber body. Extremely lightweight, easy to carry, easy to handle.”
She blinked. “Manning doesn’t do offensive technology.”
“It does now,” Castor returned, “under Addison Brand.”
“Okay.” She shook her head, palms to the sky. “Dad would have hated it, but … it’s officially Brand’s company now, and—”
“What do you know about the nation of Malawi?” He asked next, out of nowhere.
“What?” Margo squinted at him. “Is this a trick question? Because—”
“It is not.” His tone was so grave she fell silent. “I’m afraid this is very important. What you need to know, what is relevant, is that Malawi is one of few nations with exploitable deposits of certain rare earth minerals—yttrium, thulium, lutetium—that Manning utilizes in its manufacture of microtechnology.”
“And right now, they’re at war,” Margo added, proud of herself for knowing a basic fact pertinent to the conversation. Whatever this conversation was about.
“For eight months, after a military junta led by General Bomani Tembo attempted to seize power. The government forces, backing President Joseph Mabedi, prevented the coup but failed to defeat the rebellion. Tembo and his faction fled the capital and have been growing their numbers and support ever since.
“What instigated the rebellion was an attempt by Mabedi to nationalize the country’s resources, which include a vast and very profitable chain of mines that produce—among other things—yttrium, thulium, and lutetium.” Castor leaned forward, his brown eyes reflecting the golden flames of the fire. “Manning has had a longstanding relationship with the owners of the mines, an international consortium with similar sites in other countries, and have long been given favorable deals. Nationalization would change all that, and Mabedi planned to renegotiate all contracts with foreign entities, raising costs.”
“So, a raw deal for Team Us?”
“You might say. The plan to nationalize is stalled for now, but your father had been in the process of seeking out other sources for these materials, looking for new mines to partner with, just in case. But it isn’t easy. The term ‘rare’ is a bit of a misnomer, as the elements themselves are not especially uncommon; it’s just that they don’t occur in concentrations large enough for any one mine to be dependable. Except in a handful of cases.” Castor held her gaze. “But Addison Brand did not want to give up. He believes the rebels can win, and if they do, the mine will remain privately held.”
Margo fidgeted. “I still don’t see what this has to do with Win’s death.”
The man nudged the crystal tumbler even closer. “You’re going to want this. Trust me. You’ve heard about the reports of child soldiers in Malawi?”
Dallas’s awkward attempt at breaking the ice came back to her. “Yes. It’s horrible.”
“Horrible,” Castor echoed. “Worse than you can imagine. Children are abducted from their homes, held against their will, force-fed drugs until they are dependent, and then—high and addicted—sent out to kill. Often they are forced to kill their own families first.” Margo stared at him, appalled, and he gave a slow nod. “Yes. It’s that bad. And it is child soldiers that are currently, and quickly, beefing up the rebels’ ranks.”
“And Brand knows this?” Margo sat up. “He knows this Tembo guy is sending children out to kill and die, and he still wants to work with him?”
This time, Castor physically lifted the second tumbler off the tray and pushed it into Margo’s hands. “Miss Manning … Addison has gone well beyond passive support. He has gone to the length of designing and building an assault rifle that is high-capacity and extremely lightweight—easy for small arms to carry, easy for small fingers to handle.”
The glass trembled in Margo’s grip. “You can’t be serious.”
“Addison has a secret and private server, which I was … temporarily able to access, and a number of my darkest suspicions were verified when I did so. The design and manufacture of the weapons were paid for through his discretionary funds, all hidden under—”
“Project Pluto.” She whispered the words, and Castor nodded with a strange expression.
“It would be highly illegal for an American company to openly arm a foreign revolution, of course, but there are ways.” He stared into the fire again. “I uncovered an encrypted communiqué on Brand’s server, confirming a preliminary sale of one thousand rifles to a third party—a man notorious for his lack of scruples, who also happens to be a partner in the Malawi mining consortium.”
More dots connected, and Margo went slack with disbelief, even as the name came out of her mouth. “Arkady Petrenko.”
Castor inclined his head. “A very good guess. Petrenko is a partial owner of the mine. He’s also part owner of two different private security firms, and it would not appear the least bit unusual—on paper anyway—for him to buy weaponry. And as far as smuggling arms into the country—”
“General Tembo’s forces currently control Lilongwe’s airport,” Margo concluded hoarsely, and took a healthy gulp from her tumbler. What had she stumbled into? “I don’t understand this. A thousand guns didn’t materialize overnight, and my dad would never have approved this deal
. I know he wouldn’t. Are you telling me that Brand spent the past few months just … waiting for my father to die so he could arm a bunch of child soldiers and hold on to a favorable import/export contract?”
Castor shifted in his chair, the fire crackling, and finally struggled for words. “Margo, I don’t know how to tell you this, but I uncovered a second communiqué—also encrypted—transmitted on the subnet to an off-shore location. It was nearly eight months old, and the recipient’s identity was disguised, but it made reference to the development of a … a genetically targeted toxin.”
“What does that mean?”
“Essentially, it means a synthetic poison, so sophisticated that it only affects individuals with specific genetic markers. It means you can put a lethal dose of it in a punch bowl at a party, knowing it will only kill one person in the room.”
“What…” Her voice failed her, a knot in her throat. “What are you saying?”
“I believe there’s a reason your father’s illness was impossible to diagnose,” he replied bluntly. “I’m saying that Addison Brand is an investor in Arkady Petrenko’s mining consortium. I’m saying that shortly after Malawi’s civil war began and your father declined to support the rebels, he fell ill while Project Pluto materialized on Addison’s internal memoranda.”
The room twirled, and Margo felt bile crawling up her throat. Lights flashed and she bent over, head between her knees, thinking of all the times Brand had been out to the house in the past months—of her father’s strange, roller coaster ride with his illness, the hip flask in Brand’s jacket, and Harland’s brief recovery when he stopped drinking.
She remembered the night her father was rushed to the hospital—the night Addison Brand emptied his flask into a glass and handed it to her to finish off. Had it really been poisoned? Had he been certain it wouldn’t affect her? Had he cared?
“Please forgive me for the way you had to find this out,” Castor was saying, his voice low and soothing. “I know you must be quite shocked—”
“It can’t be real,” Margo gasped, her hands tingling. “It doesn’t even make sense.” Peering up at Castor, she shook her head. “He paid for a … a genetic poison and killed my father, built an arsenal of advanced firearms, all just to hold on to a mining contract?”
“To hold on to a fortune,” the man corrected, “and to make more money than you can possibly imagine. As I said, he’s heavily invested in Petrenko’s mine—by far more, I’ve learned, than he’s let on to anyone in the company—and if President Mabedi succeeds, Addison could be financially ruined. If the rebels prevail? He stays rich. His guns will bring lucrative arms contracts, and a toxin tailored to genetic specifications is … well, the ramifications are nearly unfathomable.” For the first time, his brown skin looked gray. “How much do you suppose terrorists would pay, or genocidal regimes, for a poison that could take out an entire group of people with a shared genetic marker?”
Margo just stared. “Would he do that?”
“For money? I believe Addison Brand would do just about anything.”
“You have to go to the police!” She struggled to her feet, the floor unsteady beneath her. “You have to show them what you’ve found!”
“But, Margo, I haven’t found anything,” the man protested, infuriatingly. “A memo agreeing on the sale of guns to a private security contractor? An email that mentions a fantastical poison? All I have is speculation—grounded, but unprovable—and getting involved would paint a target on my back.” He shifted in his chair. “Addison already wants me removed from the board. He can’t do it alone, even with all his newfound power, but he’s exploring ways to get it done.”
“Why? And how do you know all this?”
“Before I joined the private sector, I worked in security and counterintelligence. I know how to spot a threat, and even if things have changed a bit since my cloak-and-dagger days, I still have a few tricks up my sleeve.” A smile came and went like a wave. “But Addison’s move against me was inevitable. And I’m afraid it concerns you, too.”
Sitting back down, she immediately refilled her glass. “Now what?”
Castor took a moment before answering, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass. “I believe that at one point, perhaps a year ago, your father made the decision to leave his company to Addison. No one wanted it more, and Harland had a soft spot for the man. But about a month ago, something changed.” He looked Margo in the eye. “Your father called me, asking if I would consider a custodianship of your inheritance in the event of his death.”
Her eyebrows drew together. “But he put his financial manager in charge of—”
“Not the liquid assets. The stock. In Manning.”
“But…” She ran out of breath. The implications were too big to consider, the very idea absurd. Wasn’t it? “But … why…?”
“I don’t know if Addison did something to earn Harland’s distrust, or if you did something to gain his respect; but the arrangement he described to me, and to which I agreed, was that I would hold the stock and act in your interest until your eighteenth birthday—at which point you would be free to appoint a new custodian, if you chose to do so. Upon completing your education or turning twenty-one, whichever came later, the stock would revert fully to your ownership.”
The silence that stretched out was absolute and deafening. Margo reached for her voice, and found it was surprisingly small. “So why did he change his mind again?”
“Margo … I don’t believe he did.” Castor’s expression was pitying. “You may not be aware of this, but Clive Winchester Martin had a dark side that Addison Brand would have found quite easy to exploit. I was surprised at the reading of Harland’s will; but upon witnessing Brand’s reaction, and Winchester’s guilt-ridden descent into the bottle, I became convinced of foul play.”
More dots connecting, more air squeezed from her lungs. The room closed in as Margo remembered that day at the hospital—Win releasing Dallas from his witness duties, offering Brand a ringside seat at Harland’s decision to take total control of Manning out of his hands, granting his teenage daughter a guiding influence on the company.
It would have been her company. As chief shareholder, she’d have essentially been in charge. She didn’t even know if she wanted that, if she would ever want to walk so closely in her father’s footsteps; to go from a princess to a queen. But Addison had taken the chance, the choice—her future—away from her.
“That is why I’ve had my men outside Winchester’s office,” Castor continued grimly. “Only a handful of people could threaten Addison’s ascendancy, and a drunken, unstable attorney with a guilty secret was the most immediate danger.”
“So you believe the assassin was hired by Brand.”
“I’ve no doubt. And as he must know the role Harland envisioned for me, and that I had been approached about it, I’m certain that I’m next on his list.” He ran his finger around the rim of his glass again. “But there’s another person who could stand in his way. Who could ruin everything he’s worked for, just by contesting the will.” His eyes flashed, lit gold by the fire. “As the rightful heir to the Manning empire, Addison will never be truly safe until he eliminates you, Margo. For good.”
29
In a haze, struggling to handle all the razor-edged puzzle pieces Reginald Castor had dumped in her hands, Margo allowed James to escort her into a waiting car. It idled in the drive for several long minutes while she decided where she wanted to go. The mansion, her cave and refuge for the past weeks, was out of the question; the Russians had followed her, had likely seen her face, and the chances that she’d been identified to Petrenko were high.
Finally, she gave them the safest address she could think of. The car pulled out, winding through the Hollywood Hills, while hideous thoughts stormed her brain. Addison Brand had killed her father. In their final hours together, Harland told her that he saw her potential, recognized her leadership skills; and he’d meant it. Maybe he’d always intended for Brand
to succeed him as CEO, but he’d wanted Margo to be Manning’s moral compass.
She recalled the papers tucked in the assassin’s waistband, and hated herself for not grabbing them before diving out the window. Win’s final words filled her ears: There’s something I need to show you. Had it been the real will? Could there be more copies out there? She’d thought that the reading of Harland’s final testament had been the end of their shared story; but maybe she was wrong. Maybe their last page had yet to be recovered.
And if she had to tear Addison Brand’s still-beating heart from his chest with her bare hands in order to find it, she would.
Boyle Heights was uninviting after two in the morning, and Margo’s driver gave her a skeptical look when they pulled up to the curb outside a grubby stucco-and-shingle duplex. “Are you sure you want me to leave you here?”
“I’ll be fine,” Margo lied. As if she’d ever be fine again.
Just before she got out, the man handed over her baton; then, with a doubtful “Good night,” he sped away.
Starting up the walk, still dazed by regret and anger, she almost didn’t notice the hollow-eyed figure stepping down from the porch of the front unit until he was right in her path. “Hey, Blondie. You lookin’ for me?”
“What? Gross.” Margo recoiled. He was greasy, with bad skin and worse tattoos, exuding a smell like spoiled milk. “I’m here to see Davon.”
She stepped around him, but he moved—quick as a snake—grabbing her by the arm. “That’s interesting, because he’s been dodging me all week, and he owes me money.”
Peeling his hand off, Margo gave him a withering look. “He owes you money.”
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