He climbed into the back seat and was greeted by Peabody’s sneer. The officer slammed the door shut on Dromel, then hopped back into the front passenger seat.
“How have you been since our little chat?” Peabody’s voice was shot through with glee.
“What’s it to you?”
“Oh, are we a little hostile this afternoon?”
“I have things to do. I don’t have time for games. If you want to talk about something, let’s talk.” Dromel glared at Peabody. He didn’t even shift his eyes to the officers in the front seat to see how or if they reacted to his steely tone.
Peabody snorted. He looked away and straightened his tie.
“I understand you have a wife, a common-law wife, who’s off in Europe.” He fell silent to let his opening take effect. He sniffed the air and continued. “And I understand you’ve been quite a busy boy since she’s been away.”
Dromel’s heart pounded against his ribs. His mind immediately flashed to Cynthia and the morning’s abandonment. He clenched his teeth and glowered at Peabody.
The prime minister leaned over slightly toward him and said in a mock conspiratorial whisper, “Been mixing it up with the ladies, haven’t we?”
Dromel turned the word over in his mind. Ladies. Plural. So this was not just about this morning. What exactly did Peabody know? He flinched; he was sure Peabody saw it. And that enraged him.
“Who I sleep with is my own affair,” he said. “Keep the hell out of my private life.”
Peabody looked out the window. He slowly turned again to Dromel, as if wanting to stretch out and savor this moment for as long as he could.
“Ah,” he said, “but when the chairman of a CNRA panel starts sleeping with a party in a hearing over which he’s presiding, we then have a public matter, wouldn’t you say?”
So, that was that. Totally exposed.
He watched the grin broaden on Peabody’s face.
Dromel felt every muscle in his body tighten. It took every effort to restrain his right hand from flying up and smashing Peabody’s jaw.
“Couldn’t resist temptation couldn’t you?” the prime minister said. “Who could really blame you? What is she? Twenty-five, twenty-six? Must be a real rush to be with someone half your age. So you’re the type of man who likes a bit of variety, eh?”
Dromel could no longer bear to look at that face. He turned his head and stared blankly ahead.
“Problem with giving in to that sort of pleasure is that it almost always ends badly,” Peabody continued dryly. “Always leads to all sorts of trouble for those involved.”
They rode in silence. Peabody watched Dromel’s clenched jaw and smiled to himself.
“Of course, these things can always be swept under the carpet,” Peabody continued. “If everybody cooperates, do as they’re supposed to, then these sorts of problems can easily fade away, as if they never existed.”
This irritated Dromel. He narrowed his eyes and drew in a deep breath. So this was how they were trying to squeeze him out of his million dollars?
He could just imagine Peabody eagerly agreeing to be the company’s errand boy for such a task. Dromel would not allow Peabody to snatch his future right out of his hands this time.
With a sharp turn of the head, he faced Peabody.
“You want to make this public? Well go right ahead. Because the moment you do, I’m going to release a recording, made in this very vehicle not so long ago, of a prime minister threatening a commissioner of what’s supposed to be an independent agency to do the bidding of a private company whose fate the commissioner is deciding.”
Peabody’s face went a shade lighter.
“Oh, two can play at the spy game, you know.” Dromel didn’t know whether it was his anger or the lingering effects of the morning’s white pills that drove him, but he could not hold himself back. “That’s right. I got it all. I was wired and your guys didn’t catch it. If you don’t believe me, just go ahead and try calling my bluff. I think Canadians will be very interested in hearing how their prime minister acts as a lap dog for private companies.
“And oh, by the way, make that a private company that resorts to deliberately breaking tailings ponds and even to murder to get its business done.”
The blood drained away completely from Peabody’s face.
Dromel relished seeing how easily he caved. He felt wild enough to say anything to crush him further.
“That’s right, Prime Minister. That’s the kind of company you’re keeping these days. That dam that spilled the radioactive waste? Deliberately breached. By an employee of the mining company. For fifty grand.
The man confessed all to his nephew. And it’s all on video too, which he wisely had the boy film. Because you know what? After the company’s goons showed up to keep him in line, the man ends up dead. Thank goodness for cheap video cameras, though. Because they mean dead men do tell tales.”
Peabody reached up to his necktie and loosened it. He swallowed hard, as if gasping for air.
“So, go ahead, Prime Minister. Do whatever the hell you want with your info. Because if and when you do, you can be damn sure I’ll be more than happy to share mine with the world.”
Peabody turned away and stared wide-eyed without looking at anything in particular.
His hand slid alongside the armrest and felt for the button to communicate with his driver. His trembling fingers found it; it took all the energy he could muster just to press down.
The SUV slowed and stopped. He expected Dromel to know the drill. There was nothing more to be said. He heard the door open and, at the side of his eyes, he saw Dromel hop out.
As the vehicle moved off again, his shaking hand reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a Blackberry. He scanned the list for Verhoeven’s number. He wrenched his tie completely loose, blew out a sharp breath and dialed.
Chapter 74
Firestone and Peabody sat alone in the prime minister’s office. The mood was as heavy as the thick, ancient wood paneling that enclosed them.
Peabody leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He scrapped the leather armrests with his fingernails. It was the only sound in the room.
“Do you believe these recordings really exist?” Firestone said eventually.
“I don’t think he’s bluffing.” Peabody didn’t open his eyes, nor did he move an inch. His head was throbbing and each breath seemed to lack sufficient oxygen.
“CISIS said he got on a flight to Grenada after speaking with you. Should they send someone down there?”
“Oh God, no.” Peabody opened his eyes and sat up. “They must pull back immediately. Call off the surveillance.”
“You want to call them off now? John, this is when you need them the most.”
“No.” Peabody slapped the armrest. “I want them to back off now. And all traces of the operation must be erased. There must be no hint that I was in any way even remotely linked to any of this.”
He stood up and walked to the shuttered window. He stared blankly ahead. “I spoke to Verhoeven. I called at a bad time. He was in London attending some function so we couldn’t talk for long. I’m going to have to call him back. But he was furious. He was quite clear that I should wash my hands of the whole thing.”
He turned to Firestone. “I only got involved as a favor to him. I hold no candle for this Syron Lake company.” He shrugged.
Firestone knitted his brows. “But if any of Dromel’s recordings leak out, or if he decides to go to the press with this….”
“Well, it hasn’t and he hasn’t so far. I mean, he’s had this material for a while now, and it only came out because…wel
l, because I pushed him.”
Peabody walked over to his seat and sat again, noisily rocking back and forth. “I think Verhoeven’s right. I need to back off. Get myself out of this. Make as if I was never involved.”
“Easier said than done, John,” Firestone said. The creaking of Peabody’s chair irritated him.
Peabody planted his feet and came to a stop. His face was drawn. “This is serious, Angus. I must be shielded completely from this. I don’t want to go down in history as another Nixon.”
Chapter 75
Surrounded by three bodyguards, Hans Verhoeven marched through the packed, cavernous hall. Blinding strobe lights flashed in unison with techno music turned up to a deafening volume.
The small phalanx forced a path through the gyrating mass of bodies pressed close together. They entered a long passageway that was lit by dim floor lights and lined with clubbers in various stages of stupor induced by alcohol and God only knew what else.
The bodyguards led the way up three flights of stairs. They stopped at the door marked “Passion’s Gate.” This was the room where the girl at Greene’s apartment said he would be found. A fourth heavy was still with her at Greene’s place to ensure she didn’t call him to warn him.
One of the bodyguards tried the knob. It didn’t budge. He looked at Verhoeven, who nodded. Two of the men, who were built like oxen, slammed their shoulders against the door. It yielded with a terrific crash.
“Daniel Greene,” Verhoeven roared as he entered.
Two barely-clad women ran past him, screaming.
Greene, wearing just a tie and boxers, rolled over on the bed and sat up, stunned. In the midst of his disorientation, he recognized the leader of the men who invaded his room as Kees Verhoeven’s youngest son.
Verhoeven kicked past empty wine bottles on the floor and grabbed hold of Greene’s tie. He yanked him off the bed and slammed him against the wall.
Greene doubled over, holding his throat and gasping for breath as he crumpled to the ground.
“You punk!” Verhoeven shouted. He turned to the bodyguards and nodded.
Two of them lifted Greene by either arm and dragged him back to the bed. The third man rammed his fists into Greene’s ribs over and over again.
Greene fell back onto the mattress, howling in pain.
The men backed off.
Verhoeven paced in front of the bed.
“You bastard!” he said. “What the hell do you think you’ve you been doing?”
Greene curled into a ball and clutched his ribs. But he was done with letting Verhoeven see him cower. He clenched his jaw and breathed fiercely to get past the pain.
“How dare you get my father mixed up in your crazy, messed-up business?” the Dutchman yelled. “Breaking a dam and releasing radioactive waste? In Canada? Seriously? What makes you think you’re so smart that you could get away with that? And then committing murder to cover it up?”
Greene mustered all his strength to sit up.
“Where are you getting all this?”
Verhoeven paced back and forth in front of Greene, recounting everything Peabody had related. Without warning, he swung at Greene.
Crack!
The back of Verhoeven’s hand smacked Greene’s jaw. Greene felt his head fly in the opposite direction, as if it would detach from his neck. With his eyes closed, he swallowed the pain.
Verhoeven grabbed Greene’s tie and yanked him forward. He spoke so close to Greene’s face he could feel his own breath ricochet off Greene’s cheek.
“If those tapes get out and sully my father’s name, you’re a dead man. I swear, I’ll kill you with my own bare hands.”
Verhoeven rammed a fist into Greene’s nose and watched him topple off the bed and crash onto the floor.
Chapter 76
They spared no expense to follow him. They were not spending their own money after all; and they expected to be handsomely rewarded for stalking their prey.
The boss had not flinched when told they’d need to charter a plane to catch up with Dromel’s flight to the Caribbean. When he landed and promptly headed for the marina to set sail for who knew where, they were thrown into a mad scramble and only scored a vessel by getting the captain of an already booked yacht to bail on his passengers for three times his regular fee.
In the darkness of an insanely early hour of the morning, they had landed into another scramble, this time for a taxi to track him down. Now they found themselves in the midst of some kind of wild, manic revelry, as Dromel and his sole companion from the yacht plowed through a crowd and into a bar.
From a distance, they followed, jostling with crowds, making sure he never slipped from their sight.
Chapter 77
Monday, March 07
Dromel leaned against a wall of the jam-packed bar to steady himself. His head was throbbing, and it was not just from the heart-racing calypso music that blasted from the dozens of speaker boxes stacked to shoulder-height outside the front door.
He’d got no sleep on the cramped, red eye flight to Grenada. The turbulence the aircraft met could hardly compare with the torture he endured as the memory of his last exchange with Peabody played over and over again on the screen of his mind.
Setting sail for Trinidad so soon after he’d landed had not been such a good idea. The first whiff of the bracing, salty air had revived him somewhat, but what little benefit it brought was quickly eroded as the small yacht was tossed about by choppy seas.
Jet lag, lack of sleep, missed meals, too-strong rum, and now strange music turned up at a level beyond deafening, all should have made him miserable. But he leaned against the wall, groggy with tiredness, and delirious, despite himself.
He was intoxicated with the infectious abandon around him.
Inside the bar, hundreds of locals and a sprinkling of what looked to him to be foreigners, like himself, milled about, drinks in hand. Men and women connected in sultry gyrations, at random, it seemed. Everywhere, faces were smiling or laughing; bodies pressed close. People hugged, with gaiety and such ease. The whole mass of humans seemed out to enjoy the moment, without even the slightest hint of inhibition.
The captain of the yacht, a grizzled old Brit with skin wrinkled and reddened by too much sun exposure, huddled nearby with a group of locals who had greeted the old seaman with much back slapping and play-fighting.
Dromel could hardly understand a word any of the locals spoke, so he remained out of the circle. Yet he stuck close and shuffled behind them as the sway and rhythm of the crowd caused the group to shift as one mass. Before they landed, the captain had laughed and warned him of how easy it was to get separated and swept away in a Carnival crowd.
His head was spinning at the abundant feast before him. Everywhere he turned, exotic, nubile beauties writhed seductively. He even allowed himself to believe some of them, by their glances in his direction and their suggestive laughter, were extending an open invitation to him to join them in this sultry ritual that eliminated the boundaries of personal space between absolute strangers.
The idea excited and frightened him. He shrugged off the temptation and waited for a lull in the captain’s conversation.
“Got to call my friend,” Dromel shouted in the captain’s ear.
The seaman pulled out a cell phone and handed it over. He nodded toward a dingy, black door. “The loo,” he shouted. “Quieter there. Not much, though.”
Dromel elbowed his way through the crowd and slid into the toilet. All the stalls, and urinals, and sinks were in use. He was overwhelmed by the stench of urine, and by the wet, muddy floor.
It was hardly romantic.
He pull
ed out the piece of paper from his wallet on which he’d scribbled the phone number she had given him.
Someone, whose voice he didn’t recognize, answered and said she was handing the cell over to Stella.
“Hello?” Her voice was shot through with excitement.
“Hey, Stella. I made it.”
“Where are you?”
“Some bar called Tall Boy’s, I think.”
“Great. I know it. I’m actually not far. I’m at a party with friends at the Hilton.”
“So you can meet me here? I’ll be at the back, near the washrooms.”
“Be there in fifteen, twenty minutes.”
He thought it sounded as if she was about to hang up. He shouted quickly into the phone as he left the washroom, “It’ll be just you, right? No friends?”
“Yes, just me.”
Her parting words had been significantly less enthusiastic than the greeting. But he would not relent on the point.
He jostled his way out of the bathroom. As he slipped the phone back to the captain and returned to his place against the wall, it occurred to him that Stella had invited him to Trinidad, not so much for the Carnival, but to introduce him to her friends; to take whatever connection she thought they had to a deeper level.
That was definitely not in the cards.
In fact, he was questioning his sanity in even going through with the plans to be there.
Why had he rushed to the airport after that meeting in the prime minister’s SUV? Oh, yes, the trip had already been bought and paid for. And he was so pissed at Peabody, he needed to get away.
After the encounter, there was no way he would return to his condo to look out at the bleak wintry scene and mope or cringe in fear as he imagined the weasel might have expected him to. He was sure Peabody knew about the trip, and if he didn’t go, he would come off as the weaker one in this game of dare.
Run, Girl, Run: A Thriller Page 30