by Jeff Buick
“Yes. Swanson knew about my decision not to approve the conversion before he should have. And I think he acted on that knowledge.”
Halladay cocked his head slightly and said, “That’s a serious allegation, Leona.”
“I know.”
“What sort of action did he take?”
“He tried to kill me.”
Halladay’s eyes flickered, then narrowed. “What did you say?”
“Derek Swanson, or someone in his hire, tried to kill me. They blew up my restaurant.” She glanced over at the Washington Post, sitting unopened on the coffee table. “I take it you haven’t read the newspaper yet. It’s all over the front page.”
“I don’t bother reading it on Sunday. There’s no worthwhile business section,” he said, standing and walking over to the table. He picked up the paper and flipped open the first section, scanning the headlines, then reading the first few lines of copy. “This is your restaurant?”
“Was. There’s not much left.”
“And you think Derek Swanson was behind this?” He returned to his seat, the paper still in his hand.
“I do. And I think he was involved in the deaths of Reginald Morgan and Senator Claire Buxton as well.”
“Jesus, Leona, this is serious.”
“You have no idea. Two of my employees are dead. One of them had a wife and small child.”
“Why would Swanson do something like this?”
Leona stared at him, like he had asked a stupid question. Which he had. “Money, Anthony. A lot of money. Fifty million dollars. He wanted the trust conversion to go through, and when it looked like there may be some stumbling blocks, he removed them. He killed people for financial gain.”
“Have you been to the police?”
She nodded. “Yes. They think he’s involved.”
Halladay stood up and walked across to the windows, the light playing off his features. Worry showed in his eyes and the downturn on his lips. “This is not good news. If this is true, we have to break the connection between him and the bank. And quickly. He could drag our name into the press.”
“Probably too late to sidestep that one,” Leona said. “Someone, somewhere, is going to put this together. Or the police are going to get enough evidence to charge him. Then it’ll really hit the fan.”
Halladay stared out over the tranquil forest behind his house. The sky was unmarred by clouds and only a hint of breeze tugged at the leaves on the trees. Leona waited, watching the man, measuring his reaction to the inevitable scandal that was about to rock the bank. His shoulders were rounded, his head down. The pose of a man who knew of difficult times to come.
“Thank you for coming today.” He turned from the window.
Leona stood. “I thought you should know.”
“Yes, of course. I take it I have your final decision on the income trust conversion.”
“That we won’t touch the deal with a very long pole,” she said, stating the obvious. “Our shareholders would lynch us if we got behind Swanson with what we know.”
“I’ll see you out.”
Halladay shook her hand at the front door. She pulled away from the house, checking the rearview as she rounded the circular driveway and started into the thick grove of trees that shielded the house from the road. The banker was still framed in the doorway. She couldn’t tell the expression on his face or where he was looking. But one thing she could pretty well guarantee was that he wouldn’t be golfing anytime soon.
The gentle hum of the car’s tires on the pavement diminished, then faded to nothing. Halladay watched the Saab disappear into the trees, and a silence descended on his house. He stood unmoving for the better part of five minutes, leaning against the doorjamb, staring at the empty road. He retreated into the house, closing the front door behind him. The foyer was bathed in darkness, and for the first time it bothered him that his house was so dimly lit. He walked down the hall into his master bedroom and opened the wall safe hidden behind the plasma television. Inside, tucked away among his valuables, was a cellular phone. One registered to a shell corporation and impossible to trace back to him. He powered it on and dialed a number. Another cell phone—a private one that only he had the number to.
“Hello, Anthony.”
“Derek.”
“Why are you calling?” Swanson asked, concern creeping into his voice.
“Have you read the paper today?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Nothing in the West Virginia newspapers about an explosion in Washington?”
“No. What are you talking about?”
“Did you tell anyone about Leona Hewitt’s decision not to okay the conversion?”
There was a pregnant moment of silence, then Swanson said, “Someone found out. I didn’t tell him.”
“Is it the man I think it is?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it looks like he took things into his own hands,”
the banker said. “He blew up Leona’s restaurant. He missed her, but killed two other people.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
Neither man spoke for a minute, then Swanson said, “How much does she know?”
“She thinks someone else at the bank is the conduit to you. But it’s not us you have to worry about, it’s the police. They’re putting all this together. You should never have touched the senator.”
“That wasn’t my idea,” Swanson said angrily. “The son of a bitch acted on his own.”
“What about Leona?”
“I didn’t even know about the restaurant. I never asked him to take care of her.”
“Well, he tried. And he missed. Now we’ve got a problem. A really big problem.”
“I’ll phone him. Try to rein him in.”
“Do more than try, Derek.”
Halladay hung up and turned the phone off. He slid it back in the wall safe, closed the door and spun the dial. The plasma television was on a pivoting arm and he pushed it back tight to the wall, hiding the safe. He took a few steps to the bed and flopped down on his back, staring at the ceiling. Derek Swanson had made a grave error. Bringing in the assassin was a bad idea from minute one. Killing Reginald Morgan was stupid, probably unnecessary, but killing a senator was nothing short of psychotic behavior. Out of more than three hundred million people, only one hundred were senators representing their state. Who in their right mind would think they could kill a US senator and not be hunted down and thrown in jail? It was lunacy.
And now, through no doing of his own, he was caught in the web of violence Derek Swanson’s killer had woven. Guilty by association. The truth would come out. He knew it. Their long-term association. The forged financial records in the bank’s files to ensure Coal-Balt always had ample operating capital. The cell phones they used to call each other would be uncovered. The times of the calls, perhaps the contents. One thing was certain. His life as he knew it was over. Everything he had worked for. Gone.
He shut his eyes and a wave of blackness closed over him.
49
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
A slow smile crept over Darvin’s face. His eyes glittered with a strange mixture of contempt and satisfaction. He gripped the phone lightly, in contrast to the stranglehold he had on the other man. “Just taking care of business, Derek. It’s what I do.”
“Stop it. Stop killing people.”
“No.”
“What? What did you say to me?”
“I said no, you moron. I’ll stop killing people when I want to. And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
“I’m not involved in this. I have no part in what you’re doing.”
“Of course you do. The District Attorney could care less if you ordered me to kill Claire Buxton and Leona Hewitt. The fact that you paid me to kill Reginald Morgan is enough to put you in prison for life. Or the chair. What is West Virginia’s stance on the death penalty?”
“You’re psychotic.”
“No,
Derek, I’m not. I know exactly what I’m doing. You haven’t figured it out yet.”
“The money from the conversion is gone. You’ve completely fucked it up. There’s no way you’re going to get a cent out of this.”
“I know that.”
“You are fucking mental.” Swanson was yelling now, his emotions totally out of control. “The police were here this morning. DC homicide police. They had a warrant for a DNA sample. What the hell is that all about?”
“No idea,” Darvin said. He leaned back in the armchair and sucked in a long, mellow breath. “Perhaps they suspect you of something. That’s usually why they take DNA swabs.”
“You killed two innocent people when you blew up that restaurant. One of them had a young child, for Christ’s sake.”
“Shit happens.”
“You’re insane and you’re incompetent. You missed the banker. She’s alive.”
“Yes, I know. I read about that.” There was a pause as he walked over to the window and stared out at the tranquil Virginia countryside, then he added, “She won’t be around much longer, Derek.”
“Leave her alone,” Swanson screamed into the phone. “No more murders. You understand. No more bodies.”
“I told you before, Derek, don’t defend her. Leona Hewitt is a dead woman. She will not see the end of this week.”
Swanson’s voice came down twenty decibels and his tone shifted to threatening. “You listen to me. You are not going to kill any more people. I’ll go to the police, tell them you’re blackmailing me. They’ll hunt you down before you can do any more harm.”
“A threat. My, I’m scared. But should I be?” Darvin said sarcastically. “You don’t know my real name or where I live. You know nothing about me, except what I look like. And do you really know that, Derek? Maybe I wore a disguise. Christ, you really are a rube. How did you ever achieve such wealth and power? Certainly not through any of your own initiative.”
“I’m phoning Leona Hewitt and warning her.”
“Go ahead. It won’t matter. She’s already scared and trying to hide. I’ll find her. I have my ways. You phone her and all you do is give away your involvement in all this.”
“I’ll get you, you motherfucker.”
Darvin leaned forward in the chair, a cruel, remorseless stare washing over his eyes. “No, Derek, you won’t. And that’s the beauty of this. I’m going to get you.”
Darvin pushed the off button with his finger and set the phone on the end table. He stared at the hunk of plastic, marveling at how much damage he could do with such a simple instrument. Derek Swanson was terrified. His life was coming apart at the seams, like it should have years ago when the union rep floated to the top of the lake. If the police who were assigned to figure out who had killed him weren’t so incompetent, none of this would have happened. Derek would have been in jail years ago. Where he belonged.
But the cops had messed everything up. No different from when his mother had caved in his father’s skull. She had done it right in front of him. Even with a witness, the police working the file couldn’t put it together that his father hadn’t fallen getting out of the bathtub. That the woman was a murderer. He tried to tell them, but they never listened. Finally, the police told his mother that her son was having delusions, saying crazy things. He stopped trying after that and let them think that his father had died accidentally. All the while plotting how to kill the queen bitch.
He rose from the chair and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor. The door at the end of the hall was closed. No light escaped from the thin crack between the door and the floor. It was time to open the drapes. She liked the light. Liked to be pushed around the room in her wheelchair. She was so demanding. He touched the handle and turned.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said as he entered.
50
Heat waves rose off the runway, distorting the sleek lines of the Air France jet as it taxied to the terminal. Kubala stood at the windows, watching the plane attach to the jetway. A couple of minutes later a steady stream of passengers made their way through the bridge into the terminal. On the ground and under the harsh glare of the night lights, baggage attendants unloaded the plane and a fuel truck parked next to the fuselage on the far side. Two other wide-body jets flanked the Air France 767, and inside the terminal all three gates were crowded with people waiting to board their flights. Despite the late hour, the building was oppressively hot, the air-conditioning units ineffective in such a large space.
Mike Anderson entered the terminal from the street. Bawata Rackisha and his sidekick were tight to either side of him. They stopped at the security checkpoint and Rack-isha produced identification that allowed them to proceed without walking through the lone metal detector at the main entrance. There was no doubt in Kubala’s mind that both men were armed. He checked his watch as they approached. Ten minutes after eight. Not much time. He raised his hand and Rackisha caught the motion, angling toward where he stood.
“Hello, Kubala,” Mike said when they were standing a few feet apart. He was clean shaven and well dressed, in new blue jeans and a patterned shirt. Another foreigner heading home after a safari. His eyes told a different story. They showed pain and distrust, perhaps even a hint of fear. Something Kubala had never seen in the man’s eyes before. “Thanks for coming.”
“Of course, Mr. Mike.”
“Did you make the phone call?” Rackisha asked impatiently.
Kubala shook his head. “Not yet.” He reached inside his shirt and pulled out an airline folder. He handed it across to Mike, but Rackisha intercepted it and yanked it out of Kubala’s hand.
He flipped it open and scanned the boarding pass, focusing on the flight and time. “Make the call,” he said.
“I require Mr. Anderson to at least be through the final security checkpoint and boarding his plane. Then I will make the call.”
Rackisha looked like he was going to erupt. After a full minute he finally calmed down enough to hand the folder across to the American. “The sooner you get moving, the sooner your friend can make the call.”
“No problem,” Anderson said. He grasped Kubala’s hand and squeezed. “Thank you so much, my friend.”
“It’s okay.” He held Anderson’s hand for a second longer than necessary. “I tried to get you a window seat, but was unable. I had to settle on the airline’s second choice. I think you’ll be pleased with it.”
Anderson nodded. “I’m sure you’ve done well, Kubala. I’ll be fine.”
They released hands and Anderson queued up for one of the two metal detectors that delineated the main section of the airport from the gate area, where only ticketed passengers were allowed. He went through without incident and kept moving, disappearing into the throng of people waiting at the gates.
“Make the call,” Rackisha said, turning to Kubala.
Kubala pivoted slightly so the men couldn’t see the number he was dialing. He hit the send button, waited a few seconds, then said, “Everything is fine. Where is the money?” He nodded a few times, then said, “Thanks.” He clicked the phone shut. As it closed, it slipped out of his hand. He tried to grab it but missed, and it hit the worn tile floor, shattering on impact. “Shit, my phone.”
“Never mind your phone,” Rackisha growled. “Where is the money?”
“Close,” Kubala said. “In Nairobi.”
“Where in Nairobi?” the inspector said, growing impatient very quickly. “It’s a large city.”
“In the arboretum. There is a garden shed on the north side of the road, one hundred yards in from Arboretum Road. Not Drive’Road. My friend was very specific about that. You must come in from the south entrance or finding the shed will be very difficult. Especially at night.”
Rackisha looked to his flunky. “Did you understand the directions?”
“Yes.” The man turned to leave. “I’ll call you when I have the money.”
Rackisha watched him leave, then pointed to a couple of empty seats
. “Please get comfortable. You’re not going anywhere until I have the money.”
“I understand.” Kubala sat on what looked to be the most comfortable chair.
They waited, watching the people enter and leave the airport. Two of the three flights called for boarding, one of them Anderson’s flight to Paris. When the two planes had loaded, and the people in the departure area had thinned out, Kubala scanned the crowd for his friend. There were few white people in the crowd and no Mike Anderson. He had already boarded his flight. Things were looking good. The plane next to the Air France wide-body pushed back, then taxied to the runway. Kubala watched as the bridge pulled back from the French plane. Almost there.
Rackisha’s phone rang and he answered it. He nodded twice, then hung up. “Your friend did well. The money was where he said it should be.”
“Good,” Kubala said, breathing easier.
“But I have a little something to take care of,” Rackisha said. He leapt from his seat and ran to the security checkpoint, police identification in his hand. “Stop that plane,” he yelled at the guard.
“Which one?”
“The one to Paris. Gate two.”
An airline rep intervened. “The bridge is already pulled back. The plane is ready to leave.”
Rackisha shook his head. “It will leave when I say. Attach the bridge.”
The employee returned to her podium and spoke into the telephone. A minute passed, then the arm slowly returned to its position against the side of the plane. Rackisha pushed past the gate attendant and disappeared into the walkway.
Kubala grabbed the opportunity and left the terminal, slipping into the backseat of a cab and waving at the driver to get moving. He glanced over his shoulder as he spouted out the address where he had left the Land Rover, half expecting to see one of Rackisha’s men coming after him. Nothing. He had escaped. And once he reached the vehicle he was out of Nairobi and back to his village. His wife and child would be waiting. And they would leave for a few months, until Rackisha forgot about him.
There was nothing he could do now to help Mike Anderson. What he could do, he had. The American was on his own. Breaking the telephone by dropping it on the floor was necessary to keep Rackisha from taking it and hitting redial, looking for the last number dialed. There had been no outgoing call. No one on the other end. Just him. And if Rackisha had discovered the ruse, there would have been no stopping his murderous rage. Kubala closed his eyes and tried to force the image of the corrupt and violent inspector heading onto the plane from his mind. It didn’t work. Rackisha was on the plane, looking to pull the American off. Looking to take him back to whatever hellhole they had imprisoned him in for over two weeks. To do as he wished with his prisoner now that he had the money.