The Guyana Contract

by Rosalind McLymont

  Theron shrugged. “Those are Bernat’s problems, not yours. You just collect a paycheck. Fifty percent or I tell my uncle to red-light Savoy.” Featherhorn wasn’t gambling. He couldn’t afford to. “Fifty,” he said sourly. Theron slid to a different line of questioning. “Is anyone at Savoy in on it?” Featherhorn looked at him with disgust. “Christ! What do you think this is? A tea party? Come one, come all? No! No one at Savoy is in on it!” Theron held up his hands in mock surrender. “Just asking. What about the Durane woman?”

  “What about her?”

  “How much does she know?”

  “She doesn’t know a damn thing.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.”

  “Not even an ounce of suspicion?”

  Featherhorn lied. “Not even an ounce. Her fealty to Pilgrim Boone is unassailable. She’d never believe that a Pilgrim Booner would…” Featherhorn’s face reddened. Instead of finishing the sentence, he shrugged and faced the window.

  The late-day sun hung low over the East River, a shimmering orange-yellow orb that splashed the sky with golden light. The river shimmered back in silver and white. A tugboat, painted red, white, and black and heading south toward Brooklyn, tooted proudly. Earlier in the day, it might have hauled a freight barge far north with containers stacked ten stories high. Featherhorn’s gaze settled on the middle-aged couple sitting close together in a two-seater Audi convertible in the next lane. The top of the convertible was down and Featherhorn could see that the couple wore the easy suburban chic many city professionals donned on the weekends. The man had one hand on the wheel and his free arm was thrown around the woman’s shoulders. They were laughing, set free for a few lazy, hazy, crazy summer days in the country. Featherhorn envied them. He, too, was heading into the country. But there would be no laughter in his three-day getaway; only worry, thanks to Tom Barry.

  Resentment coursed through him as Barry’s voice injected itself into his thoughts.

  “Where is she now, Grant? In Guyana?”

  Featherhorn kept his gaze on the middle-aged lovebirds. “How would I know?”

  “She works for you.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How come?”

  “Guyana stressed her out, I guess. She quit.”

  “You mean she left Pilgrim Boone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Just like that? In the middle of negotiating such a big contract? Why?”

  “She got too smart for her own good and took the only way out.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Featherhorn’s head swiveled away from the window. He rasped, “You ask a lot of goddamn questions.”

  Theron was silent for a moment, then he repeated, harshly, “So where is she?”

  Featherhorn sighed wearily. “You asked me that before. She’s wherever she wants to be. I have no idea and I don’t care to know.”

  “Perhaps she said something that scared you and you bumped her off.”

  “Killing people is not my thing, Mr. Barry. You’re confusing me with our Venezuelan friend. He’s the one who’s watching her. If she’s been keeping bad company he’ll know it and he’ll take appropriate action. But you should know all this if you’re so close to him. Anyway, why do you care about Durane?” Featherhorn squinted at Theron.

  Careful, Theron. Don’t blow it now. “I always care about the liabilities my investment partners carry.” He slid away again. “What about Pilgrim?”

  “One foot in the grave. Cancer.”

  Theron shook his head and uttered a sound that conveyed genuine sympathy. He said, “That’s too bad. But let’s get back to Miss Durane. I want to be clear. She’s no longer on the Pilgrim Boone payroll. And as far as you know, she’s de-stressing somewhere in blissful ignorance of Mr. B.’s plans.”

  “As far as I know, yes. She could be at a poolside somewhere, getting a tan.” He chuckled at his joke.

  Theron ignored it. Abruptly he said, “Okay. We’re done here. Tell your driver I’m getting out.”

  “What?”

  “I said tell your driver that I’m getting off here. He can unlock the doors.”

  “Are you crazy? We’re on the highway, for chrissakes! You can get killed.”

  “And I suppose that would make you sad. Sorry to disappoint. Take a look outside. It’s not like we’re moving.”

  Featherhorn glanced out the window. The holiday exodus was in full march. Traffic on the FDR had come to a standstill.

  He looked at Theron and shrugged. “Suit yourself. How do I get in touch with you?”

  “You don’t, Grant. I’ll get to you when the time is right.” Theron winked at him.

  Featherhorn pressed a button beside the partition and spoke into a small microphone. As soon as he had finished speaking, the lock on Theron’s door clicked open and Theron got out. He slammed the door and watched the limo inch away before he climbed over the cement divide between the northbound and southbound traffic and skillfully began negotiating his way off the drive. The southbound traffic began to move just then. Horns blared at Theron. He waved at the cars, grinning.

  He made it safely to the west side of the drive and climbed into the grounds of an apartment complex. He sat down on the nearest bench to wait for word he hoped would come soon. In his breast pocket, the PDA had recorded the entire exchange with Featherhorn. Another feature in the PDA had simultaneously converted the voice recording to data, created a file, and transmitted it to the computer on the desk of the CEO of Savoy Aerospace on the West Coast. Arthur Bloomington had been following the conversation all along, in real time. At least, Theron hoped he had.

  Theron felt his PDA vibrate. A message was coming in. His hands trembled as he pulled the device from his pocket and read the screen: Got it all. Thank you. Arthur Bloomington.

  Theron folded his lips into a tight line and squeezed his eyes shut. He inhaled slowly and deeply, and then expelled the air in a long sigh of relief. Bloomington had kept his word. He had stayed glued to his computer as Theron had instructed him to do when he had made that phone call from The Millennium Hilton. The fate of Grant Featherhorn now rested in Bloomington’s hands. Theron wasn’t sure what Bloomington would do, but he knew that the CEO would not allow the information to leak out. The press would have a field day. No, Bloomington had his company’s reputation—and his own hide—to protect.

  Theron’s spirit sagged. The more he thought about it, the more it seemed likely that Featherhorn might get away with nothing graver than dismissal, most likely with a platinum parachute to keep him quiet. He had literally blackmailed his way to Bloomington, using information about Bloomington’s heroin-addicted son that he had dredged up from Sanspaix’s database to get past the CEO’s ferocious secretary. He didn’t go into details with the secretary. All he’d said to her was, “Please tell Mr. Bloomington that it’s an urgent family matter and that I was asked to speak with him directly.” He figured, correctly, that Bloomington, knowing the life his son led, would come to the phone. And indeed, he could hear the anxiety in Bloomington’s voice when he picked up the phone.

  Theron replayed their conversation in his mind. “This is Arthur Bloomington.”

  “Mr. Bloomington, forgive me for intruding—”

  “Please get to the point.”

  “It’s about your company’s negotiations in Guyana. I—”

  “You mean this has nothing to do with my family? Who the hell are you?”

  “Please let me explain, Sir. Savoy is on the verge of losing its bid in Guyana.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? What do you know about Guyana? That’s not public information!”

  Theron told him everything: from the phone call from Andrew Goodings to his arrival in Guyana and his conversation with Goodings, Goodings’ untimely death hours later, his brief conversation with Minister MacPherson, the visit by Dalrymple and Roopnaraine, Bernat and his background, Bernat’s possible connection to Featherhorn. He deliberately did
not mention Dru’s name.

  Bloomington listened, not saying a word. He was so quiet that Theron at times wondered if he were still on the line. Then he would hear a quick intake of breath, or a catch in the throat that told him that Bloomington was still listening.

  Seconds of silence ticked by after Theron finished his report. Bloomington broke the silence. He spoke slowly, articulating each word clearly as if addressing someone for whom he felt great pity. “I don’t know who you are, Mr. Barry, but what you just described sounds like someone’s very bad dream. Sheer fantasy. Moreover, nothing you said links Featherhorn to Bernat. Instead, what you gave me is pure conjecture. You’re wasting my time, Mr. Barry. Please do not call me again.” And he hung up, a soft click underscoring the finality of the gesture.

  Theron’s heart sank. He felt physically and mentally drained. He lowered his head into his hands and tried to think of his next move, but his mind refused to cooperate. It had shut down.

  He remained on the bench for what seemed an eternity, his shoulders hunched in despair, his spirit cowed. Then his cell phone rang, startling him out of his wretchedness. Fumbling, because his fingers suddenly felt thick and clumsy, he managed to extract the phone from his pocket without letting it fall. He glanced at the number and his heart lurched.

  Bloomington!

  He raised the phone to his ear. “Yes?” He said it loudly, afraid that the thudding of his heart would drown out his voice.

  Bloomington answered, angry and resigned.”I just had a chat with Lawton Pilgrim. What do you want me to do?”

  Now, as he tapped on the phone’s miniscule keyboard, Theron’s fingers trembled with excitement. He had one more critical e-mail to send. He prayed it would go through.

  Signing on with his real name—he had programmed a Tom Barry origination for all of his communications with Bloomington—he uploaded the file of his conversation with Featherhorn to MacPherson in Guyana. A full minute later, the words “Message sent” appeared on the screen.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, Theron tucked away the PDA and stood up. Featherhorn said Bernat was having Dru followed. He had to find her before Bernat’s tail acted.

  36

  The young woman ran into the building wringing her hands. She rushed into an empty elevator, hit the button for the fifteenth floor, and crushed herself into a corner, shivering. She wrapped her arms around herself, tight, as if to stop the shivering, but to no avail. She continued to tremble violently.

  “Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God! It can’t be. I talked to her this morning. Just this morning,” she moaned.

  She stumbled from the elevator as soon as the door opened and ran down the corridor. The carpet erased her frantic steps. She came to a halt at a door with a brass plate marked TRANS-GLOBAL SOLUTIONS in black lettering and jammed her key into the lock. She was trembling so much that it took her several minutes to unlock the door. When she finally got the door open, she plunged into the room and hurled herself into the chair behind the reception desk. The door swung shut and locked itself with a dull click. Still distraught, the young woman covered her face with her hands again and began to rock back and forth, making a keening sound. “She was here. I talked to her. Oh, I’m so sorry I was cold to her. I’m so very, very sorry,” she sobbed.

  There was no one to hear her; no one to comfort her. She was alone in the office. Everyone had left early.

  Through her sobbing, she heard the faint groan of the elevator. She lifted her head and cocked her ear, listening for footsteps. Mr. St. Cyr had called back to say he would be at the office late in the day. She didn’t have to wait, he had told her. Go home early and enjoy the long weekend. She had locked up and left.

  On her way to the train station, she had come upon a crime scene and stopped, curious. Yellow tape cordoned off a section of the sidewalk, close to the curb. On the ground were the chalk outlines of two bodies. The lines intersected, as if one of the people had fallen across the other. There were bloodstains inside the lines. Two policemen guarded the scene. Timidly, she had approached them and asked what had happened. One of the policemen had turned away, ignoring her. The other one had told her, gruffly, that two women had been shot. She remembered how her hand flew to her mouth and she exclaimed, “How horrible. Did they die?”

  “One of them did,” the policeman had said.

  She had wanted to know if they had caught the killer, but a small crowd had gathered to listen and the policeman got nervous and said, “No more questions. Keep moving.”

  She had moved away, continuing to walk toward the subway. But as she passed a newsstand further down the block, her eyes fell on the front page of the evening edition of the new, fast-growing tabloid City News with an above-the-fold headline in three-inch block letters:

  TWO WOMEN SHOT. ONE DEAD.

  Beneath the headline was a picture, in full color, of the dead woman on the ground. The body was covered with a white sheet, but one hand was sticking out and it clutched a purse that she recognized instantly. The woman who had come to see Mr. St. Cyr earlier that day had been carrying the same purse. She remembered it because it was the new Hermès design she liked so much.

  She’d snatched the paper from its rack and read the article. She remembered how her knees had buckled and she dropped the paper when she read the sentence: “The dead woman was identified as Drucilla Durane.” They buckled again as the door opened and Theron walked in. She held on to the reception desk to steady herself.

  “You’re still here? I thought I told you that you could leave early.”

  “Oh, Mr. St. Cyr! Oh, Mr. St. Cyr! It’s just awful!”

  Theron’s shoulders slumped. He was exhausted and in no mood to listen to another one of Celine’s dramas. Still, she seemed genuinely upset. “What’s awful, Celine?” he said wearily.

  “The woman who came here to see you. She had no appointment. She said her name was Drucilla Dur—”

  “Dru? Dru was here? Where is she? Why didn’t you tell her to wait for me?” Theron crossed the room in three long strides and stood in front of the distraught girl. He wanted to seize her by the shoulders and shake her.

  “Yes! Yes! She was here. This morning. I didn’t know you were coming in. It was before you called. She left. And now she’s dead. Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God! She’s dead, Mr. St. Cyr! They said she was shot with another woman. Didn’t you see the police and the yellow tape and the blood? They—”

  Theron held up a hand to stop her. He didn’t want her to continue.

  He felt faint. He hauled himself to the chair Celine had vacated and sank into it. He had seen the yellow tape and the policemen shooing away curious pedestrians, but he had been too tired and too anxious about Dru to stop to find out what was going on. He had kept on walking.

  “Which hospital?” His voice was a croak. “What did you say, Mr. St. Cyr?”

  “Hospital. Which one? Where did they take the body?”

  “I don’t know. Oh, Mr. St. Cyr, I’m so sorry. She looked so crestfallen when I told her you weren’t here.”

  It was a mistake, Theron told himself, shaking his head. A cruel mistake. Dru was not dead. She couldn’t be.

  He stood up, fighting back the tears that had begun to sting his eyes. He would find out where they took the dead woman’s body and prove to everyone that it was not Dru.

  §

  It wasn’t hard for Theron to find out that Dru and the other woman had been taken to St. Vincent’s Hospital on Twelfth Street.

  He showed his private investigator badge, and a nurse confirmed that two women had been brought in earlier and that one of them had died. The other one was not wounded at all, only a slight concussion. The nurse said it looked like the one who was shot dead fell against her as she went down. “Is she still here?” Theron asked hopefully.

  “No, she’s not at the hospital any more. We offered to keep her overnight for observation, but she didn’t want to stay. She didn’t have any ID on her. Said she’d lost her purse. She
didn’t want to give us her name. She was anxious to leave, and since we really didn’t need any information from her we didn’t press her. We’re overworked as it is. She slipped out even before the police had a chance to question her. You can see how crazy this place is.”

  “What about the dead woman?”

  “The deceased? Yes, we have her name. The ID she carried said Drucilla Durane.”

  Theron’s bowels sank to his heels. His face turned gray. The nurse caught his hand and steadied him.

  “Are you all right, Sir? Here, you’d better sit down for a while. Are you related to the deceased? Sir, I really think you should sit for a while.” Theron shook himself free and ran. Outside, he vomited on the sidewalk. Somehow he made it home.

  After that, he was aware only that sometimes it was day and sometimes it was night. He had no knowledge of what he did between the two and he did not care to know. He wanted to feel nothing, to hear nothing, to do nothing, to see no one.

  Except Dru.

  He wanted to see Dru, but Dru was dead. He didn’t want her to be dead, so he put himself in a place where she was alive and he could touch her. And when he touched her, he told her over and over that he would always protect her.

  Sometimes Tabatha came to visit him in that place. Tabatha liked Dru. He knew she would. They would talk and laugh and talk some more and laugh some more. They were so happy, the three of them—he, Dru, and Tabatha—in his dream place.

  37

  At precisely 8:00 A.M., a Savoy Aerospace executive jet touched down at Teterboro Airport in New Jersey, just twelve miles across the Hudson River from midtown Manhattan.

  The oldest operating airport in the New York-New Jersey metropolitan area, Teterboro has been the airport of choice for private jets and corporate aircraft wishing to avoid the commercial congestion of JFK, Newark Liberty International, and LaGuardia. Its 827 acres had been in the service of aviation since 1917, when Walter C. Teter, a New York City investment banker, peevishly sold off the property to an aircraft company after New Jersey’s Racing Commission rejected his plans to turn it into a racetrack. An attractive black flight attendant opened the door of the Savoy jet, an action that simultaneously lowered the staircase. Arthur Bloomington, a strikingly tall, trim seventy-two-year-old, ran down the stairs, buttoning his jacket. He was followed closely by two men, both about ten years his junior, carrying bulging, attorney-style briefcases. They were Jack Steiglitz and Myers Pearl, partners at the West Coast law firm that handled the affairs of Savoy. The three men exuded power and wealth. They wore custom-tailored summer-weight wool suits and handmade shoes of Russian reindeer-calf leather.