The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Still unsettled by the shoving incident and the destruction of her phone, she decided in favor of the comfort and privacy of a taxi. She stepped away from the boutique and started briskly toward the curb. Had she not been so intent on flagging down a cab, chances are she would have paid more attention to the skinny woman who was now following her to the curb.

  A squadron of yellow cabs charged down the street. Dru was about to raise her hand when the skinny woman sidled up to her. “I offered you help and you answered me as if I were the one who pushed you. That wasn’t nice,” the woman tut-tutted, shaking her head.

  Dru stiffened. She stared at the woman who, up close, was frighteningly emaciated. The finely tailored coatdress seemed to swallow her. Her blonde hair fell stringy and lifeless to her shoulders. Her eyes were huge and unblinking.

  Oh, hell! Not another psycho, Dru thought worriedly. There’s a lot of them wandering around these days. Nuts dressed to the nines. This one must be off her meds.

  The woman edged closer. Suddenly, her hands darted out toward Dru. In a flash, Dru realized that this was the individual who had pushed her. She jumped back, but the woman thrust herself forward, annihilating the space between them.

  Dru’s mouth tore open as she sucked in air, readying to hurl her most threatening “BACK OFF” at her assailant, but the words never saw life. Dru felt herself falling. The woman was falling, too, on top of her. Dru could not help marveling at the weight of the woman’s body. Its heaviness belied her wasted frame. She felt a stinging sensation in her chest. Time slowed. Brilliant white light splintered behind her eyes and pain exploded as her head smashed against the concrete sidewalk.

  The world was darkening. Dru welcomed the darkness, so great was the pain in her head. The last thing she heard were faint, frantic words that sounded like “women shot.”

  §

  The black Lincoln Town Car glided smoothly toward an intersection, half a block from where the two blood-soaked bodies lay on the ground. The light was green.

  Behind the Town car’s tinted windows, the man in the backseat placed a silencer and Beretta M9 pistol in the false bottom of a pigskin briefcase, secured the flap that hid the compartment, scattered around several legal-looking documents, then closed the briefcase and scrambled the numbers on the combination lock. He pressed a button and watched as the glass partition that separated him from Tony, his driver, slid up. He nested himself in the soft leather of the seat and closed his eyes, savoring the hot rush of another kill, proud of the initiative he had shown.

  He was a handsome, light-complexioned man of indeterminate ethnicity, thirtyish, fashionably bald, with the fastidiously maintained body of the boxing welterweight champion he once was. He had no visible tattoos or scars. Dressed in his favorite designer wear—Perry Ellis casual—he was, ostensibly, the kind of guy a girl could comfortably introduce to her brothers.

  He smiled as he reflected on how the kill went down.

  Under orders from his downlink—the guy must have just come off the friggin’ French boat! Ain’t red-blooded American contractors good enough no more?—he had been staking out the building where St. Cyr had his office when he spotted the Durane woman. He’d heard talk that she was a mouth to be shut, but she had disappeared. They’d circulated her picture. Then there she was, sashaying out of St. Cyr’s building like she was gonna live forever. So he followed her in the limo, waiting for the right moment to take the initiative. That’s what everyone kept telling him to do: show initiative, if he wanted to move up in the company.

  When he saw that fool junkie woman shove Durane, he instructed Tony to pull up across the street and keep the motor running. He watched the whole scene unfold between Durane and the junkie, waiting for an initiative moment to present itself. He knew one would. It was the perfect scenario of distraction and confusion.

  The two women were at the curb, people avoiding them like the plague. Then Durane jumped back from the junkie, just as the traffic eased. He couldn’t believe his luck. He had a clear line to Durane, but he knew it wouldn’t hold for long. He ordered Tony to roll out, quick but not too quick, enough to block oncoming traffic. It was a one-way street. And he got off his shot. It was beautiful.

  He looked back in time to see her fall to the ground, a dark red pool already creeping out on the sidewalk where she fell. Too bad about the other woman, whoever she was. She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Oh, well. Life was a bitch. It played nasty tricks on those who lived it. The woman was a junkie anyway. She was already dead.

  The man was soaring on the high of his initiative. Your turn next, monsoor Sint Sear, he muttered, his head lolling from side to side. I’m coming to take you out. Yeah, you stinkin’ snail eater. You think you can mess with Bernat? You’re in way over your head, buddy. This ain’t Yewrope. This is America. My turf. And nobody keeps it cleaner for Bernat than I do.

  He heard the sirens and opened his eyes dreamily. A grin cut slowly across his salon-pampered face. The sound of the sirens was music to his ears. It was a validation of his skill, the soundtrack to the drama his initiative had created.

  The sirens screamed louder. The man closed his eyes again and began to play his game of discerning the ambulances from the police cars in the wailing that filled the air, and determining the number of each of them that were rushing to the scene of the “incident.”

  His scene.

  Louder still the sirens wailed.

  Suddenly, the man sat forward. Playtime was over. Something was not right.

  Was the limo moving? Surely the limo was moving.

  He tilted his head this way and that, focusing his senses on the scene outside the limousine. And then he knew what was different. Behind the wail of the sirens, a horn blared relentlessly. It was the horn of a police car. How come the driver’s leaning on it? Why aren’t the sirens enough?

  The man swung his head to look outside and saw the police car as it advanced at full speed. His gut somersaulting, he saw that the Lincoln was in the middle of the intersection and it wasn’t moving.

  The man felt the Lincoln growl as it tried in vain to accelerate. Panicked, he banged on the partition, trying to get Tony’s attention. He heard Tony shout a string of curses; saw him let go of the steering wheel and fumble with the door.

  The man swung back to the sound of horn and sirens and knew that he was staring at his own death. He saw death rush at him, less than a second before the out-of-control police car slammed into the Lincoln, right where he was sitting, at ninety miles an hour.

  Goddamn tricky bitch! he thought bitterly as he died in the only vehicle accident he’d ever been in.

  35

  Theron pushed through the revolving door and stepped into the yawning marble and steel lobby of the building that housed the headquarters of Pilgrim Boone. He strode purposefully toward the bank of elevators that would take him up to the floors occupied by firm. When he was halfway across the floor, a security guard called out in the rhythmic lilt of an eastern Caribbean accent, “Would you mind stepping this way, suh?”

  Theron pretended not to hear the guard and kept on walking. The guard called out again. Gone was the polite request. This time it was a command. “This way, suh!”

  Theron glanced at him and the guard beckoned with a crooked finger and a jerk of his chin. Without breaking stride, Theron scowled at him and flashed what looked like an FBI badge. The guard immediately held up both hands, palms facing forward, and nodded him on.

  At the elevator bank Theron pressed the Up button several times with exaggerated impatience and kept looking at his watch and shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Every now and then he shot a nasty look at the security guard, who seemed determined to keep him in his sights, FBI or not.

  An elevator pinged. Its double doors slid apart. Theron stood aside to allow whoever might be inside to get off. Only one man was in the car. He alighted, nodded curtly at Theron, and moved quickly toward the lobby’s main exit. Theron stepped forward and was ab
out to enter the elevator when the man’s face registered in his brain.

  Grant Featherhorn. Theron recognized him from the picture in the electronic file he had read.

  This was not in the plan. The confrontation was supposed to take place in the privacy of Featherhorn’s office. With no security guards and a lobby full of people around.

  Think fast! Where would Featherhorn be going at this hour? Would there be privacy when he got there?

  Theron sprang back from the elevator and started after Featherhorn. Hearing the sudden movement, Featherhorn glanced over his shoulder, frowned at Theron, and continued walking toward the revolving doors.

  Theron hurried after him. “Grant Featherhorn, isn’t it? Just the man I was looking for,” he announced with a wide grin as he caught up with him.

  Featherhorn stopped abruptly and turned to face Theron, his eyebrows arched expectantly. Still grinning, Theron extended his hand. Featherhorn proffered his, hesitantly. Theron seized it and pumped it eagerly. Featherhorn allowed the assault on his hand to continue as he sized up Theron from shoes to haircut. Good-looking black man, confident, cultured, well groomed—must be a somebody, or a somebody’s son. Easing his hand gently from Theron’s grip, he gathered his face into a champion-of-civil-rights-and-affirmative-action smile. “Well now, young man. You’ll have to forgive me. It’s been one hell of a day. Remind me who you are,” he said genially.

  Theron slipped into unaccented American. “Tom Barry is the name. We haven’t met before, but you’ll get to know me soon enough.”

  Featherhorn was amused. “Oh? And why is that?” His tone was patronizing.

  The young man’s generation of job seekers was known to be audacious. Theron saw the precipice and approached it decisively. “You were heading to your car, weren’t you, Grant? Why don’t I ride with you? We can discuss our relationship along the way.” The smile remained glued to his face, but his voice had gone flat.

  Featherhorn’s geniality evaporated. Grant? Ride with me? Our relationship? This guy was downright insolent. “I seriously doubt that will happen. Now why don’t you write me a let—” he began coldly.

  “I said let’s go to your car, Grant. You really have no choice.” Featherhorn’s head jerked back in surprise but he recovered quickly. He raised his voice to attract the attention of the security guard who, he had noticed out of the corner of his eye, was watching them with interest. “Are you threatening me?”

  The security guard snapped to attention. Without waiting to hear more, he strode meaningfully toward Featherhorn and Theron, his expression grim. Theron’s smile broadened.”Send him away, Grant,”he said between his teeth. And then he leapt off the precipice. “Alejandro would be very unhappy if he found out that your actions caused the Savoy deal to fall through.” Featherhorn gaped at him. Theron’s eyes glinted above his smile. Inwardly, his stomach churned. Doubt assaulted him once more. Was it the right thing to say? What if Featherhorn wasn’t mixed up with Bernat at all? And even if he were, would he fall for what Theron had implied? What if he refused to go along, to admit that he knew who “Alejandro” was? What if—“Is everything all right heah, Mistah Feathahohn?” The security guard stood at a respectful distance from the two men. He seemed to ignore Theron, but Theron knew that the guard was aware of his slightest move and would act with dispatch if Featherhorn gave him the right signal.

  Featherhorn hadn’t gotten this far in life without the benefit of a strong perceptual ability. He sensed rather than saw the tension in “Tom Barry.” That raised questions: Was Barry really who he implied he was? Did he really know Bernat? Or was he fishing?

  But Featherhorn was no fool either. Painfully mindful of the consequences of crossing Bernat, he would never dream of gambling with the man’s wishes. But this Tom Barry should know that, yet he was tense. Why? He let the security guard’s question hang in the air for a long moment, his eyes fastened on Theron. If the tiniest bead of sweat shows up on his face, I’ll crucify his ass.

  Theron fought down the churning in his stomach. He looked at his watch, scrunched up his face, and said to Featherhorn, “We’re wasting time, Grant. You know how ugly it can get with Mr. B. You really don’t have much time to get this show on the road.”

  There would be no crucifixion. Featherhorn turned to the security guard. “Yes, Jason. All’s well. We were just heading to my car. You have a good holiday now.”

  “Why, thank you, Mistah Feathahohn. And the same to you.”Jason touched his hat with a frugal smile, but did not move. He stared after Featherhorn, shaking his head. Cheap bastahd! I bring myself ovah heah to defend him if need be, FBI or no FBI, and he can’t find it in himself to point a lickle somet’ing my way for a holiday drink. Never mind, Jason boy. Poor-people day will come. De Bible say, de las’ shall be fus’ and de fus’ shall be las’.

  §

  “I want in,”Theron said blandly as Featherhorn’s Cadillac limousine pulled away from the curb and swung onto Water Street, toward the ramp for the northbound FDR Drive.

  The two men sat well away from each other, each in his corner, up against the door. Featherhorn stared straight ahead, his face frigid with disdain. Theron angled himself toward him, regarding him with intensity. He had read that Featherhorn had an aversion to cell phones and never carried one, but Theron wasn’t taking any chances. He remained vigilant, watching Featherhorn’s hands closely in case he had acquired one and tried to dial Bernat’s number surreptitiously. He seriously doubted Featherhorn would try it, but prudence cost nothing. All he needed was fifteen minutes of Featherhorn answering his questions.

  The glass partition that separated them from the driver was closed, keeping their conversation private. Theron decided to stick to unaccented America. His natural French accent might make Featherhorn more uncomfortable than he already was. Americans were Americans. They didn’t like people with foreign accents telling them what to do or backing them into a corner. “Want in on what?” Featherhorn said scornfully.

  “Don’t be cute, Grant. The deal you made with Bernat.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Theron sighed. “Grant, Grant! You’re going to make me lose my patience. We both know that you and Bernat stand to make millions moving drugs through Guyana once Savoy builds the air infrastructure. And we both know that MacPherson is antsy about the whole thing. Andrew Goodings, whom you and Bernat arranged to have killed, put a bug in his ear and he can’t seem to shake it loose. In fact, the word is MacPherson’s about to thumbs-down the whole thing. Shall I go on, Grant?”

  “Suit yourself.”

  Theron leaned closer to Featherhorn, resting a forearm on the leather divide between them. “What if I told you that I could get MacPherson to okay the contract for Savoy?”

  Grant slowly twisted himself to face Theron. “What do you mean you can get MacPherson to okay the contract?”

  Theron’s eyes twinkled as he drew back from Featherhorn. “Aha! Finally got your attention, didn’t I? You’ll talk to me now, eh?”

  “Cut the games and answer me, Barry! Can you get MacPherson to greenlight the contract for Savoy?”

  “I sure can. For the right amount of equity in your part of the enterprise with Alejandro.”

  Featherhorn’s mouth went slack. Theron stared mutely back at him. Featherhorn finally spoke, his voice just above a whisper. “You’re not kidding, are you?”

  Theron leaned in again. “No.”

  Featherhorn took quick stock of his options. This Barry, whoever he was, wasn’t kidding. And he wasn’t fishing either. He knew too much. He clearly had a damn good source of information. Who the source was didn’t matter. It could be Alejandro himself. Featherhorn wouldn’t put it past Bernat to try to force his hand this way—get him to turn up the pressure on the Guyanese government. What Barry said was true. MacPherson was leaning toward a “No.” It was the last bit of intelligence those two pussies Roopnaraine and Dalrymple had given him before they pulled out of
their contract with Pilgrim Boone, bleating in their letter about not wanting their reputation to be “sullied by association as the investigation into the sudden demise of Andrew Goodings moves forward.” Arrogant sonsabitches. He would deal with them later, once he took over as CEO.

  In the meantime, he had to get that contract signed for Savoy. He had assured Bernat that it was a done deal, and Bernat had proceeded with his plans accordingly, locking in new distributors in North America in anticipation of higher export volumes. The Venezuelan had invested so much in a positive outcome for Savoy that he would literally obliterate any threat to that outcome. He’d already proven that point. Twice, in fact. Barry was right again. If Bernat didn’t get his way—

  Featherhorn shuddered. Failure in the Savoy negotiations simply was not an option. He said to Theron, “What guarantee do I have that you could swing MacPherson to our side?”

  “MacPherson happens to be my uncle and he worships the ground I walk on.”

  Featherhorn snorted. “You expect me to believe that?”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  Featherhorn ruminated on this for a moment. “Let’s say I take it,” he said finally.

  “Spell out what I get in return.”

  “You get 10 percent of my share.”

  “Fifty.”

  Featherhorn laughed mirthlessly. “Look, Barry, there’s no fifty-fifty partnership between Bernat and me and there’s not going to be one between you and me. Bernat gets the lion’s share. For bringing in the route, I get one-fifth of the transshipment profits. That’s profits. Guys like you only see the gross numbers. You have no idea what it costs to put together an operation of the magnitude we envision and keep it going. There’s all the equipment to procure to beat the competition and to stay two, three steps ahead of enforcement. Surveillance, testing, marketing, transportation, banking, you name it. State-of-the-art technology’s not cheap. Then there’s all the bloodsuckers who show up throughout the whole goddamn pipeline,” he ended pointedly.