by Jeff Buick
“I need a chef,” she said as they sat together at one of the tables. “And your qualifications look good. What else can you tell me that would make me want to hire you?”
Tyler thought for a few seconds, then said, “Is the kitchen working yet?”
“Yes. It’s finished.”
“Any food in the freezers?”
“Not yet.”
“Give me ten minutes to find some food, and half an hour to prepare it. Then you can decide if you want to hire me.”
Leona stared at him. He was confident, not arrogant. “Okay, you’ve got a deal. But it’s not that easy. I’m a vegetarian.”
“You eat fish?” he asked, and grinned when she nodded. “No problem.”
An hour later she set her fork on the edge of her plate and waved him over. The sea bass he had found and cooked in less than an hour was excellent, but it was the vegetables and his presentation that absolutely floored her. It was one of the best meals she had ever eaten. “I need you today.”
“Now you’ve got a deal,” he said, grinning. The rest was history.
She tried a mouthful of the halibut and looked back to her paperwork. The condition of the mine and the plant and the labor problems were bad, but it was what Jarrod had uncovered that really worried her. New legislation could be coming into play inside the next twelve months, and it would require revamping the entire electrical generating plant. Claire Buxton, one of Utah’s representatives to the Senate, was pushing for tighter controls on emissions, and her bill was drafted and heading for committee approval. Jarrod’s feeling was that it may pass without being amended. If that happened, Lombard II would be facing a huge overhaul or be shutting down. One or the other. Either way, Senator Buxton’s bill was going to cost the parent company a lot of money. If it passed.
Leona pushed the papers aside and worked on the halibut. It was beyond delicious. Tyler poked his head out of the kitchen and she gave him two thumbs-up. He retreated, a smile on his face. She popped another piece of fish in her mouth and chewed, thinking about the timing surrounding the income trust conversion. It was convenient to say the least. If the conversion went through, and Buxton’s bill passed, the shareholders were in for a bit of a shock. The cost to rebuild Lombard II would be astronomical and the monthly beneficiary checks would shrivel or die entirely. If Coal-Balt had waited for the bill to pass before attempting the conversion, it would have fallen flat on its face.
Her first file as a vice president and she was already leaning toward nixing it. Which wasn’t going to sit well with Anthony Halladay, the bank’s CEO. Halladay had been quite blunt when handing her the assignment. I don’t foresee any problems with this conversion. I hope you don’t either. There was little room to read anything between the lines there. Halladay golfed with someone over at Coal-Balt; one of the big boys. She couldn’t remember whom, but was sure they both had memberships at the same private course.
Leona finished her meal and leaned back in her chair. The back of the restaurant was much more dimly lit than the front and she felt a tinge of anxiety. She steeled herself against an attack, but it overwhelmed her. The walls tightened around her as the intenseness built. Her hands shook and her breathing was quick and shallow. She sucked in a couple of deep breaths and forced herself to focus on her situation. It was dark, but she wasn’t in an enclosed space. She could get up and walk out the front door into the evening sunlight at any moment. There was no reason for an attack.
Logic won out. The attack diminished, then faded entirely. Her breathing returned to normal and she stopped shaking. Tyler breezed out of the kitchen and headed toward her table. Halfway there he quickened his stride, concern on his face.
“Are you okay?” He sat beside her at the table.
“That obvious?”
“Yeah, your face is totally white.”
“I’m fine. A touch of a panic attack.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t like enclosed or dark spaces. Guess it’s a bit dark back here for me.”
“Claustrophobia?”
She nodded. “Had it as a kid. Hated to be locked in small rooms.”
“How are you in elevators?” he asked.
She laughed. “Horrible. I take the stairs up to the eleventh floor—twelfth now—every day.”
“Keeps you trim,” Tyler said.
“I’m a size eight,” she replied snidely, “not a three. I’m hardly trim.”
Tyler grinned. “You look better already. How was dinner?”
“Delicious. Are you going to put that on the menu?”
“As a special once a week for a month to see how people react. If it goes well, I’ll add it on in early September. Spicy dishes do well in the fall and winter months, so the timing works.”
“You’re the chef. It’s your call.”
He leaned over and gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. “Glad you liked it. I’ve got to get back to work.”
He headed back for the kitchen, his lanky legs moving jerkily. She watched until the door closed behind him, then packed up her papers. What to do? She had another few days, then a decision to make. But it was looking more and more like her recommendation was not going to jibe with Anthony Halladay’s.
And that was not good.
15
Jack Dunn leaned forward, his elbows on the table, his tie dangling precariously close to the pork medallions he had ordered for lunch.
“It’s partially conjecture, Derek.” His deep baritone voice was a whisper that carried nowhere in Mendocino Grille and Wine Bar, the upscale Georgetown restaurant on M Street. “But we can assume it’s accurate.”
“Claire Buxton had lunch with Senator Watson on Tuesday and Grieve on Wednesday. And your sources say she’s got their backing for her bill. That’s what you’re telling me,” Derek Swanson said. His voice wasn’t quite as hushed and his face was taking on a deep shade of crimson.
“Yes. You’ve got to realize that Senator Buxton’s bill is attractive right now for a slew of reasons. The whole global warming thing is . . .”
“Don’t fucking tell me about global warming, Jack,” Swanson cut him off in midsentence. “Don’t tell me her bill is good. Tell me that you’ve got enough support to kill it. That’s what you do, Jack. You’re a fucking lobbyist. You lobby. You tell people what they’re supposed to think. You tell them how to vote on issues.” Swanson leaned back in his chair, grinding his teeth. “That’s what I’m paying you to do, Jack. Now go do it.”
Dunn’s jaw tightened and he let out a couple of long breaths. He had spent twelve years in Congress representing the interests of the voting public of Michigan, and was more comfortable telling people off than being told off. But life was different now. He was the paid lobbyist, working for the interests of big business. And Coal-Balt was not a company he wanted to alienate. They paid extremely well and Derek Swanson was tied in with a host of other high-level executives in the resource industry who could need a lobbyist at some point. Not a good bridge to burn. Jack Dunn relaxed and felt the tension melt from his shoulders.
“Okay, Derek, I’ll work on it. I’ve got a couple of favors I can pull in, votes I can sway, but even with those in the bag it’ll still be close.”
“Do what you can, Jack. This one’s important. I want that bill killed in committee. If it gets to the floor, there are too many variables.”
Dunn nodded. “Agreed. That’s why Watson and Grieve are so important. They control the committee. If the bill has support from both the Democrats and the Republicans, it shows a united front. That makes it tougher to influence the swing vote.”
“I understand all that. But the bottom line is to get the job done. I don’t care how you do it.”
“My fees may have to increase if I start calling in these aces. I’ve had these favors sitting around for a long time. I don’t want to use them unless I have to.”
“That’s fine. Sometimes it costs money to make money.” Swanson sipped his wine and set the e
mpty glass on the table. “The financial upside to the bill dying in committee is worth the extra cost. See that it happens.”
He slipped out from behind the table and left the restaurant without looking back. Outside the sun was warm and there was little or no breeze. He shrugged out of his suit jacket and folded it over his arm as he walked. Jack Dunn was one of the best in the business, and if he was having trouble, then stopping Claire Buxton was not going to be easy. He knew her by reputation, and the most common observation was that she didn’t quit. Once Buxton got her mind set on something, she followed through and got results. That was an ugly character trait if you were on the other side of the table.
Swanson flagged down a cab and gave the driver an address. He had other business to take care of in Washington before heading back to West Virginia. The city flashed by, stone monuments to important men, important moments in American history. There would never be a monument to him; his legacy would be wealth in the bank. And that was fine. Public recognition was great for civil servants, which included everyone up to the president, but he wanted money. It was very simple. Money motivated him. It excited him.
And fifty million dollars was incredible motivation. Enough to disrupt the legislative process. Enough to order a man killed. Reginald Morgan flashed through his mind, then was gone. There had been no news from the police that the CEO was dead, and the only explanation was that Darvin had yet to kill him. Swanson wondered about that—about the timing. It was already July 19, only four days until the cruise ship was scheduled to dock in Miami. Why wait so long? Why not kill him a couple of days out of Miami? No answers to that, but it didn’t matter. The task had been delegated and was being taken care of. Leave it alone and let the man do his job.
The cab stopped in front of the monstrosity that was the Old Executive Office Building and he paid the driver and strode quickly inside. Coal-Balt had numerous ongoing applications allowing them to expand their mining operations, and he had bureaucrats to see. Things got done quicker when he took care of them personally. All except for murdering people. That was best left to others.
16
At eleven o’clock, an hour before July 20 dropped into the history books, Brilliance of the Seas was twenty-nine hours out of Grenada, en route to Cozumel. The seas were calm with a quarter moon on the horizon. The night air held a chill and the few passengers who were on the upper decks wore light jackets.
Reginald Morgan leaned against the railing next to the golf simulators on the twelfth deck, watching the waves generated by the bow as it cut through the dark, foamy water. It fascinated him, the power of massive cruise ships—how two propellers could push so much weight through such a dense medium with absolute ease. The engineer in him wanted to see the machinery that drove the ship, but with all the terrorist attacks in the past few years, any chance of being allowed into the engine room had vanished. He settled for enjoying the result of the diesel engines driving the props.
The wind was noticeable on the upper decks, where protection from the rushing air was negligible. Nonetheless, it was his favorite spot. Every night, long after the golf simulator and Seaview Café were closed for the evening, he had spent a few minutes alone, mesmerized by the immenseness of the sea. When in port, the ship looked huge. When at sea, it was merely a speck atop a living creature that could swallow it in a moment. The seabed was littered with wrecks, one of them deemed unsinkable. When dealing with Mother Nature, arrogance had a price.
He looked about as another person passed him, then stopped at the railing a few feet away. Reginald recognized him as the man who had noticed his handkerchief had fallen from his pocket. They had spoken numerous times since, but nothing more than a quick hello and a generic comment on how nice the weather was.
“It’s wonderful up here,” the other man said. “Very peaceful.”
“Yes,” the elderly man replied. “A nice place to think.”
“I agree.” There was a moment’s silence, then the man asked, “What do you think about?”
Morgan turned slightly and leaned on the railing with one elbow. “Anything that comes to mind. That’s what is so nice about being here. When I’m in the office, I think about work. At home, it’s the family. Here, it can be anything.”
“You still work?” Darvin asked. “You look old enough to be retired.”
Morgan laughed. “Passed that milestone years ago. But I love going into the office. It’s in my blood. And my wife understands, bless her soul.”
“What sort of business?”
“Utilities. We generate electrical power.”
“Now that’s an interesting commodity,” Darvin said. “Electricity. You can’t see it, can’t really touch it, but it powers all sorts of things, and it can certainly kill you.”
“It’s dangerous, but I can’t imagine living without it. Everything we rely on needs power of some sort, and most of it is electrical.”
“‘Live Better Electrically, ’ ” Darvin said, repeating the electrical industry’s catchphrase from the 1950s.
“Have you enjoyed the cruise?” Morgan asked.
“Very much so. I liked the islands, but I think this is my favorite part. Standing on the deck late at night looking out over the water. It really does encourage abstract thinking.”
“What do you think about?” Morgan asked.
Darvin moved closer, to within a couple of feet. Despite the wind, not a hair moved. “I think about my mom and dad a lot. About what my life was like when I was young.”
“Where did you grow up?”
“In West Virginia, but that’s unimportant. What is interesting is the family dynamics. You know, how Mom and Dad interacted.”
“How was that?” Morgan asked, wondering where this was going.
“Not all that well. You see, Mom used to beat Dad. Now that’s backward to most abusive relationships, but my mom was a mean-spirited bitch. And she was smaller than Dad. But meaner than you could ever imagine. I know I already said that, but repeating things is good for emphasis. And after she beat the shit out of my dad, then she went to work on me. It had quite the effect actually. I grew up hating women.”
“That’s an interesting story.” A hesitation crept into Morgan’s voice.
“Yes, it is. And surprisingly enough, it has relevance to our situation.”
“What situation?” The distance between the two men suddenly seemed very narrow.
“This situation. Right here, right now. I don’t think I would have been so violent if my mom had been nicer to me. I didn’t like her hitting my dad, but I really hated her for beating me.” Darvin leaned even closer to the CEO. “I finally hit her with a shovel. From behind, so she couldn’t see me coming. Split her head wide open. You ever see a human brain, Reginald?”
Morgan licked his lips nervously. “How do you know my name? I never told you my name.”
“Derek Swanson says hi,” Darvin said quietly. His arm shot out and snaked around the old man’s neck. He jerked his forearm toward his own body, snapping the brittle bones in Morgan’s neck. The man went limp, and in one fluid motion Darvin heaved the lifeless body over the edge. There was no sound, no splash, nothing to indicate a person had dropped twenty stories into the water. Darvin glanced over the railing and stared at the water. The wake was covered with foam and it was impossible to see anything in the churning sea. The killer stood at the railing, watching the approximate spot where Morgan’s body had landed, until it disappeared into the vast darkness behind the ship. He scanned the deck for any possible witnesses who may have happened onto the scene at the moment he killed the elderly man, but no one was watching.
He glanced at his watch. It was a few minutes before twelve. Perhaps the midnight buffet would be better tonight. He hoped so. Time to have a good meal with the rich and privileged.
17
Nairobi was a hole.
At least, that was Mike Anderson’s take on the place. He hated the heat, the garbage and the poverty. But even more, he hated the
shifty eyes, the untrusting nature of the people and the violence. Random violence with sickening results. He often operated in the wrong part of town, where mutilated bodies were dumped in the gutter and the police never came. Eventually the corpses disappeared. Weird how that happened.
The first stop after arriving was the bank. He deposited the bank draft, slipped the bank manager five thousand and took two hundred and sixty in cash in a worn leather briefcase. His bodyguards, Tuato and Momba, watched the street as he left the bank and slid in the backseat of the car. Since his third trip to Kenya he had been using the two men to escort him about Nairobi. Once he was on the outskirts of the city, Kubala took over. But inside the madness of the Kenyan capitol, he relied on them to keep him alive. White guys with money didn’t last long on the streets by themselves. Anderson was resilient and street smart, but the odds were totally in the locals’ favor.
“Nikala’s place first,” he said as the two large men piled in the front seat of the older-model Mercedes. He sat in the back, quietly splitting the money into two uneven piles. He stuffed the smaller pile, eighty thousand dollars in total, in a slit under the driver’s seat. It fit tight against the bottom of the springs and padding. He glanced at the two men in the front, but both were concentrating on the street and neither had seen him hide the money. He replaced the remainder of the one hundred and eighty thousand in the briefcase and set it on the worn leather beside him.
The streetscape changed as they left the somewhat upscale banking district and burrowed deeper into the sprawling legion of decrepit apartment buildings and shanties. The cracked streets were littered with garbage and stray dogs prowled about searching for scraps. In a city where people scavenged for food, there was little left over for the animals. They were skinny with unkempt coats. None were neutered or spayed. Anderson had this strange tape that replayed in his head, where Bob Barker showed up and gave the people a piece of his mind for not having their pets fixed. Then they shot him.
He blinked a few times to wipe out the bizarre images. Where the hell had that come from? He refocused on the briefcase and his thoughts turned to Leona. She placed such faith in him—absolute trust. The one thing he could never get from his wife. How did that happen? Maybe it all had to do with the commodity. Leona was about money. His wife was about emotion. No, not true. His wife hadn’t trusted him with money either. Maybe Leona was a trusting person and his wife was a bitch. Ex-wife, he reminded himself.