The Target

by Catherine Coulter

  But he’d given Ingrid the day off. She was with her parents in Frankfurt. Maybe one of his groupie girls could rub him down. He walked to the door and pulled it open.

  “Alenon! Get in here!”

  A skinny young guy with acne and stringy blond hair stuck his head around the corner. “Yes, boss?” Even the kid’s voice was stringy, with little substance.

  “Get me one of the girls, one who just might know how to unknot my neck and shoulders.”

  Alenon was back in under five minutes towing a small black-haired girl who couldn’t have been more than sixteen. She looked like a baby. Was she one of the groupies who trailed after him like a pack of puppies? He didn’t recognize her.

  “This is Karolina, sir. She says her mother’s a masseuse. She says she knows what to do.”

  Louey looked into the girl’s eyes. She might be sixteen in years, but not in experience. He nodded. “Hello, Karolina. Can you help me?”

  She said in excellent English, “It is my pleasure to help you, Mr. Santera. Is your daughter all right? I read in the newspaper that she was kidnapped.”

  What the hell was this? “What newspaper?”

  “The Berliner Zeitung. There was an article about you. At the bottom, there was a sentence about your daughter being kidnapped. The reporter wrote it happened somewhere out in America’s Wild West. I’m very sorry.”

  How had the reporter known? Hell, when she wasn’t listening to him speak or writing down what he said or wrapping her legs around him, there hadn’t been any time for her to find out anything. He’d just muttered something about Emma, not even a complete sentence. She must have called Denver. He turned to Karolina. “You speak English better than that reporter did.”

  “My mother is American.”

  “Oh,” Louey said, rubbing his neck. He watched as Karolina efficiently covered the massage table with its soft flannel sheet. She stood back. Louey smiled. Slowly, he undressed for her. She didn’t say a word. When he started to pull down his jockey shorts, she stepped forward, holding a towel out wide in front of him.

  When she was rubbing his feet, she said, “I’m in Al-Anon. It’s for children whose parents are alcoholics. Why do you use it as a name for Rudy?”

  Rudy. That was the kid’s name? He shrugged, a small movement because he was lying flat on his stomach. “Because it amuses me.”

  “I see,” Karolina said as she moved up the table. He felt her hands dig into his shoulders. He closed his eyes.

  It was the best massage of his life. When he woke up two hours later, Karolina was gone.

  Alenon was standing there, watching him. For how long? Had he snored? Drooled? “What do you want?”

  “I have a message from Mr. Lord for you.”

  “Oh no,” Louey said and sat up, pulling the sheet to his waist. “When did the old man call? What did he want?”

  “It was actually a man who said he was calling for Mr. Lord. He said he didn’t need to speak to you. He said that your daughter is safe again, with Mr. Lord, at his house. That was all.”

  Rudy Brinker watched one of the most talented men in the world lower his head in his hands. He looked sad, broken. But his voice, when he spoke, was vicious. Rudy listened to him curse for a good thirty seconds. Then he quietly let himself out of Mr. Santera’s room. He went down the hall to Mr. Murdock’s room and knocked twice.

  The ugliest man Rudy had ever seen answered the knock.

  14

  MASONLORD SWIRLED the rich golden brandy in the Waterford snifter, watching it lightly veil the sides of the glass. It was magnificent brandy, coating his tongue and his throat as well when he swallowed. He allowed himself one snifter at night, an hour after dinner.

  Eve was sitting on the sofa, watching television. He thought it was an idiotic show like Wheel of Fortune, only worse. Although he’d felt contempt for her taste even before he’d married her, he hadn’t felt anything but lust for her body, and in his way of thinking, contempt couldn’t begin to catch up with lust.

  She looked up. It must be a commercial. “What are you going to do with them, Mason?”

  He took the last drink of his brandy, carefully set the snifter down on a marble-topped side table, then said slowly, “I wanted them to come here. You heard me tell Molly when she called that she was to come here.”

  “Yes, so she listened to you.”

  “But she didn’t want to. It was the man. It was Ramsey Hunt.” He looked at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “He said he would come down to speak to me. Miles told him he wasn’t to bring Molly.”

  “When did he say that?”

  “Miles told him what he had to do if he wanted my protection. He’ll do as I ask. He knows he needs me.” He streaked his long fingers through his hair. Eve stared at him. She’d never seen him do that. “What’s wrong?”

  “She needs to be controlled. The way she spoke to me. I nearly struck her, Eve.”

  “But you didn’t. When she threatened to leave, you backed off and told her what she wanted to hear—that you wanted to know what she had to say as well as this Ramsey Hunt.” Eve paused a moment. The show was coming back on. Then she said, “You flattered her and she fell for it. You did control her, Mason.”

  “No,” he said, “really, she didn’t fall for anything. She’s scared for her daughter. She’d make a deal with the devil to keep her daughter safe, even if the devil is me.” But he knew if he hadn’t backed off, she’d have been out of there, and that man would have gone with her. She had to be sleeping with him, to have him so pussy whipped. He looked at his wife. She’d turned back to her game show. He walked to the door of the immense living room and quietly opened the beautiful French doors that gave onto a walled-in, quite lovely English garden. The air was soft, redolent with the intermingling scents of hyacinths, roses, and star jasmine. The jasmine he’d selected himself for the garden. There were no sounds to break the quiet. Very few people knew that half a dozen men were stationed in and around the house. As soon as Molly, Emma, and Ramsey Hunt had arrived, he’d added more guards. He turned to see Miles coming from across the hall, toward him.

  “Emma liked the spaghetti I made for her,” he said. “The pasta was shaped like Jurassic Park dinosaurs.”

  Mason Lord could only stare at a man who’d been loyal only to him, at his beck and call only, for twenty-two years. He’d begun here when Molly was a little girl, but he’d never paid her much attention. Why Emma? Sure she was pretty, she was the very picture of Alicia, but so what? He’d never paid any attention to Alicia either.

  He saw Ramsey Hunt coming down the wide staircase to his right. He was dressed well in black slacks and a white shirt. No tie, but that was all right. They’d been on the run. He called to him, “Did you deal with Molly?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told her how she was to behave in my house?”

  Ramsey wanted to laugh at the heavy-handed tactics. He just smiled. “She knows exactly what to do. Now, I hear from Miles that you want to speak to me.”

  “Yes, but just you, not Molly. She doesn’t understand either business or strategy.”

  “Last I knew, Molly was in her bedroom, giving Emma another reading lesson. The kid’s really bright.”

  “I read Moby Dick when I was five years old.”

  “I understand that Molly was reading very early on as well. That’s remarkable.”

  Mason Lord had forgotten that. He nodded. “Come to my study. It’s quiet there.” He shut the double oak doors, cutting off the repulsive sound of that game show in the living room and all those shouting low-class slugs.

  Ramsey said without preamble, “I understand that when you heard that Louey Santera had beaten Molly you were out there like a flash. That was well done.”

  Mason Lord stared at the big man standing in front of his desk, at ease, his face open, his expression even admiring.

  He wouldn’t have even gone to Denver if it hadn’t been for what Louey had done. “I wasn’t about to let that little cr
eep hurt one of mine.”

  And that was the bottom line for Mason Lord, Ramsey thought, relieved and pleased. “And naturally you’d feel the same about Emma. She’s also one of yours. Who do you think is behind this?”

  “It’s a kidnapping. Louey is rich—well, not as rich as he was before my daughter divorced him, but he’s doing very well. His European tours net him literally millions, the wretched little shit.”

  “No, it’s not just a kidnapping. I told you there were a lot more men after us. How many more people would you need to mount a tracking operation like that? Say at least two more, all of them professionals. Not a kidnapping, sir. Something else. I’d stake a lot on that.” Ramsey paused a moment, then said, “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but you don’t know yet that Emma was taken to a cabin in the woods, high in the Rockies, and sexually abused and beaten. It’s another thing we have to think about. Emma needs to see a doctor and a child psychiatrist. She has nightmares. Neither Molly nor I have spoken about this because we’re afraid of making things worse.”

  The blood drained from Mason Lord’s face. For a moment Ramsey thought he’d be sick—that, or explode. He did neither. Gradually the color returned. His breathing was slow now, calm.

  He looked directly at Ramsey. “The bastards have just signed their death warrants.”

  “I shouldn’t, but I feel the same way.”

  “You’re supposed to uphold justice and the precious laws that protect scum like that.”

  “Yes,” Ramsey said. “I’m supposed to uphold the rights of all sorts of scum.”

  Mason Lord looked at him sharply, but Ramsey’s expression didn’t change. “As much as I don’t want to even consider it, you’re probably right that there’s got to be either a connection to me or to Louey. I will think about that. Actually, I’d already spoken to Buzz Carmen about my enemies being behind this. We’ll see.”

  “I want to leave Molly and Emma here with you. At least here I know they’ll be safe.”

  “Just what will you do that I can’t?”

  “Your people didn’t do much of anything in Colorado. No, my resources are more far-reaching.”

  “Just who are your resources other than a whole bunch of cops and lawyers in San Francisco?”

  Ramsey shook his head. “You wouldn’t approve, so I’ll just keep that information under my collar.”

  Mason Lord felt red creeping up his neck. He rose slowly, his palms flat on the beautiful mahogany desktop, but he didn’t have time to say anything. The door opened and his daughter walked in. She was smiling. She said to her father, “Have I missed much? I’m sorry for being late, but Emma wasn’t ready to go to sleep. You know, it’s true—a mother’s work is never done. Now, tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll tell you what I think.”

  Ramsey winked at Mason Lord. “Might as well, sir. She’s got a really good brain. It’d be stupid not to use it. You should have seen her drive the getaway car.”

  Mason Lord heard the mindless music from the game show. He shouldn’t have, not in his soundproofed study. Had she turned the volume up? He looked at his daughter’s face. “Go back to see to your daughter.”

  “Your granddaughter is peachy. She’s with Miles. Let’s talk.”

  “Go watch the game show with Eve.”

  “I don’t know Eve. I don’t like game shows. Actually, on my list of priorities at this moment, neither of those is very high.”

  He wanted to tell her to butt out, that this was his home and he was the boss here. Then he looked at her eyes, filled with pain and defiance and determination.

  “Well, hell,” he said.

  Ramsey Hunt smiled and nodded at him. He still had to tell Molly that he was leaving her and Emma here. He’d been avoiding it. He wondered if she’d take him apart. But he had to do something.

  Molly smiled at him, patting his arm. “Don’t even think it,” she said. “I overheard you speaking to Dad. No, Ramsey, no way am I letting you go out there on your own.”

  Ramsey looked at Mason Lord. “Well, hell,” he said.

  * * *

  DILLON Savich said to Agent Sherlock, who happened to be his wife of six months, two weeks, and three days, “This whole thing just doesn’t make any sense. I’ve tried lots of different approaches with MAX but he can’t seem to get a reasonable handle on it.”

  MAX was Dillon’s laptop and partner, so he called him. Dillon’s reputation in the Bureau was that he could make the laptop dance, and he did, that was true enough. Sherlock patted MAX’s case. “You’ve got lots of supposition, but just a few facts. Unfortunately MAX likes solid facts, not wussy guesses from the ether.”

  “That true, MAX?” Savich punched a key on his laptop. A deep mellow voice said, “Right, boss.”

  Sherlock laughed. “I still can’t get used to that voice. You’re a sicko, Dillon. You’re going to have to change the voice when MAX has a sex change again to MAXINE.”

  “You want to audition?”

  “Do I strike you as a Maxine type?”

  He stared up at her face and just shook his head. “No, but don’t worry, I’ll think of something when the inevitable sex change happens. You should see Jimmy Maitland’s face when I ask MAX a prearranged question. The first time he nearly fainted. Now he sits forward, just like a kid waiting for a Spiderman cartoon to come on.” As a matter of fact, she had seen his boss’s face when MAX had come out with “Actually, Savich, I don’t think I wish to deal with this confusion anymore.” Maitland had run out of his office, shouting for everyone in the vicinity to come in and hear this.

  She poked him lightly on the shoulder and said, “We’ve got to get more information. Ramsey called you this morning from San Francisco to check in. Has he called since then?”

  “No. But at least we know where he is.”

  “Just imagine Ramsey Hunt—a federal judge—at Mason Lord’s house in Oak Park. It boggles the mind.”

  “Just to imagine that Molly’s his daughter. Now that’s got to be a real shock to Ramsey’s system, having to go to Mason Lord. At least the little girl should be safe now. I hear that place is a fortress.” He sighed. “Unfortunately, with Mason Lord’s resources, I don’t blame Ramsey a bit for not wanting to try his protection. I did try to talk him into calling the FBI, but he refused, said this was the safest way to go for the moment, and he’s probably right. He also wants the little girl protected from the cops asking her questions, psychologists all over her. At least until we find out who’s behind all this.” Savich sighed again. “You want to see some photos we just got from a military satellite?”

  She smiled at him. “Do you know something of interest, sir?”

  “A bit.” He punched buttons on MAX, waited a moment, and then the two of them watched photos of Mason Lord’s huge house come onto the screen. Dillon hit another button and the photo changed to another view, this one from east of the vast grounds. “These shots just came in. I counted six different men stationed around the grounds. Now on to the boss man himself.” He hit a key and Mason Lord’s lean, very handsome face appeared on the screen. “He ain’t bad, is he?”

  “No. Who’s that? His daughter?”

  “Nope, that’s his new wife. She’s younger than the daughter.”

  Sherlock made a rude noise. They looked at more photos. Finally, he hit a key and said, “This is Molly Santera and Emma, her daughter.”

  Sherlock was silent for several moments. Then she said, “We’ve got to do more, Dillon.”

  Special Agent Dillon Savich, chief of the Criminal Apprehension Unit at the FBI, tilted back his chair, looked up, and said, “What do you suggest, Sherlock?”

  “For starters I’d go see that farmer in Loveland, Colorado. You know, the one who said he’d sold the truck that later turned up being driven by the guys chasing Ramsey.”

  He felt a tingling down his spine. He sat forward, his eyes never leaving her face. “You think this guy knows who they are.”

  “Yes, it makes sense. I think we
should go there, talk to him, have a really serious talk. Besides, at the moment, there aren’t any other leads.”

  “Agreed. I’m with you on this one—that farmer knows. One of the guys from the field office in Denver can take a ride up there and talk to the farmer.”

  She was shaking her head. “No, Agent Anchor is already involved. I’ll bet he’s also already verified to his own satisfaction that the farmer didn’t have a clue that he’d sold his truck to the kidnappers. In other words, his mind is already made up and I doubt he’d change it unless something smashed him in the nose. The word about Agent Anchor is that he’s got an attitude problem. He brown-noses up the chain of command at the Bureau and tromps on local law enforcement. Nope, it’s got to be one of us who goes. We’re not on the FBI’s side. We’re on the kid’s side.”

  “And that makes a difference?”

  “Maybe this time it does,” she said thoughtfully, lightly stroking her fingers over two thick black strips that were MAX’s speakers. She remembered hearing Dillon hoot when MAX had made his first statement, which was, if she remembered correctly, “Hooray for the Redskins.”

  She said, “If it were a simple kidnapping, that would be different. But this is big, Dillon, and no one has a clue who’s behind it and what they want. Well, maybe Mason Lord does. You know, that’s got to be one of the reasons Ramsey’s there.”

  “All right. I’ll phone the field office and let Agent Anchor know we’re coming.” Savich swiveled his chair back, pulled out his directory, and punched out some numbers on his telephone. The phone rang busy. “Damned thing. I think e-mail should be mandatory for everybody in every department and in every field office in the FBI, maybe even everybody in the world.”

  She shook her head at him, picked up the phone, and punched in the same numbers. When it was answered, she asked to speak to Agent Anchor. She said to Dillon, “Phones hate you. It’s time to face up to it. Just let me do the dialing from now on. Oh yes, hello, Agent Anchor. Agent Sherlock here from the CAU in Washington. I’m fine, you? Good. I wanted to ask you about the Santera kidnapping. Un-huh. Now, about that farmer you interviewed who claimed he’d sold his truck after his wife had reported it stolen?” In an instant she was staring at the phone as if it had bitten her. “You’re kidding me.”