“I could have been warmer to you, when we met in New York.”
She shrugged. “I don’t think warmth is your strong suit, Monsieur Mellow. I never expected it and…” She looked down.
And neither did Matthew. He glanced over her shoulder at the seventeenth-century facades of the hotels particular across the way, an unexceptional Parisian street yet exquisitely, painfully beautiful. Too beautiful. They should have met in the cold fluorescence of the airport.
“And what you’ve done since Matthew’s death has been extraordinary. Your money is all that is keeping the movement alive.”
“My money,” he muttered as the waiter placed cups of espresso and two croissants on the table. Matthew’s death had taught him the infinite value and terrible limitations of his money.
“Just knowing that you’re out there, thinking of us, this great capitalist, this world-famous businessman.” She touched his arm. “Everyone expresses themselves the way they can. This is your way.”
“No!” He flung off her arm. He would not be placated. He would not settle for absolution.
“Monsieur Mellow, please. Matthew’s death must stand for something,” she said in her gentlest voice. “If I thought it didn’t, I would, well…I would go insane.”
He nodded but looked away. The poor girl, she really thought that making a cause of Matthew would ease the pain of his loss. Matthew was worth twice that whole pathetic country, Kamalia. He was worth more than the entire continent of Africa. Did she think seizing power from a tin-pot dictator would balance the scales? Could she be that naïve? It would take more than regime change to fill the awful void of Matthew’s absence from this earth. To avoid saying something intemperate, something hurtful, he turned to the business at hand.
“I wanted to meet you because there has been a development,” he said. “I couldn’t take the chance of calling. Are you aware of Claude DuMarier?”
“The new minister of security.”
“He is a friend of mine. And now, of course, of yours.”
“DuMarier is a thug. His reward for a lifetime of brutality is handling personal security for Le Père. Do you know what that involved?”
“That really doesn’t interest me, I—”
“Friends of mine, men and women committed to nonviolent protest against this regime, simply vanish one day, never to be seen again. We think they are being held in prison, but we don’t know. We hear reports of torture and forced confessions that are later printed in the paper as evidence of our treason. DuMarier is the man responsible for this, all in the name of protecting a single person. How can you call him a friend?”
If smiling lent her face an unfashionable warmth and accessibility, anger brought out the sharp lines and shaded contours that photographers and advertisers had loved.
“You will never succeed in overturning the Boymond regime without help from inside the government.” When she started to speak he raised his hand. “That is reality. Once you have regained power, you can do with DuMarier what you please. For now, working with him represents your best chance of success.”
“How…”
He could sense her awe at the reach of his influence. DuMarier had been on his payroll since Mellow Partners acquired Amalgamated Cobalt. When the company needed something from the government—a permit, an export license, that sort of thing, DuMarier had been only too happy to arrange it, for a small fee. Matthew had known nothing of the arrangement. It would have offended his sense of propriety. Treating workers with dignity wasn’t nearly as productive as he had thought; inevitably, you had to grease the right palm. Matthew had died an innocent, in a way. Julian had kept DuMarier on the payroll since Matthew’s death, making regular deposits in Swiss accounts and communicating through diplomatic pouches routed through the French embassy.
“How is not important,” he said. “What is important is this. When you are ready, DuMarier will make sure that the government is not. He will tell you when it is safe to make your move.”
“He will tell us.”
“He will ensure your success.”
“I can’t meet with such a man.”
He stood up and placed several euros on the table.
“I thought you were realist enough to know what had to be done. Dreamers, idealists never succeed.”
“Is that why Matthew died?”
He could easily have reached across the table and strangled her for that. Instead he called his driver and gave his location.
“That was wrong, to use Matthew’s name like that,” she said. “But he was a dreamer, you know. An idealist. We both were. He thought he could use his incredible gifts—not his wealth but his intelligence and passion—to make the world better. I know that that sort of idealism is unfashionable, perhaps even embarrassing. But that was Matthew. He believed. And I know that you want the world to be a better place, too.”
He nodded, but the gesture was a lie. He wanted the world obliterated, sucked into a black hole along with every single human being who had lived while his son had died.
“I only want justice,” he forced himself to say. The words tasted sour on his tongue. “Will you meet with DuMarier?”
“In the interests of the cause, and only because—”
“Will you meet with him?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Fine, then you will be contacted. Do as he says, and trust him. Your interests are aligned, however unlikely that may seem from your perspective.”
His hired black Renault with tinted windows pulled up to the curb.
“Can I drive you somewhere?”
“No, thanks. I think I’ll walk around a while, just to put everything in perspective. A few minutes in the Faubourg should get my blood back to boiling.”
“I hadn’t noticed that you’d cooled down.”
He extended a hand but she leaned into him and hugged him.
“Merci, Monsieur Mellow,” she whispered moistly. “Vous êtes notre ange.”
An avenging angel, perhaps, he thought as he gently extricated himself from what he suspected would be an uncomfortably long embrace.
As his driver closed the back door of the Renault, she gave a small wave and said, “For Matthew.”
He nodded. She was right: in different ways, with very different goals in mind, they were both working for Matthew.
Chapter 34
Senator Harry Lightstone stepped behind a podium at the front of a meeting room in the Nashua Crowne Plaza and addressed a crowd of reporters—and through them, the country.
“First, I would like to extend my sincerest support to Stephen Delsiner and his family at this very difficult moment in their lives. I have known Steve for almost a decade and I am confident that with the help of Sally and the children, he’ll pull through.”
Marcella, almost lost in the crowd of video cameras, had worked with Michael Steers to draft the opening, and she thought it worked. Harry always came off best when expressing regret or conveying comfort; he was a kind of national uncle, always there with a steady, consoling hand on the shoulder, a proffered tissue. If he came off a bit wimpy, well, in times of peace, his avuncular qualities played well.
“I am sorry to see Steve leave the ticket,” Harry said. “He added a note of vigor and a new voice to the contest. Marcella and I wish him well on this next journey of his.”
Delsiner had not only resigned from Gabe Rooney’s ticket, he had left his Senate seat as well, succumbing to the uproar from voters in Missouri, who had elected him precisely because he’d put his drug problem behind him and campaigned so fiercely as a born-again crusader against the evils of narcotics. But had he slipped? He looked as vigorous as ever, on TV at least, and his denials struck her as plausible. However, the polls, which had magically appeared moments after the scandal erupted, the way they always did, like rainbows after a storm, showed that Americans didn’t believe him, by a margin of almost two to one. He almost certainly would have survived the cocaine in the letter sent to his off
ice, but not the video. Though the provenance of both the letter and the video were rather fuzzy, one seemed to support the veracity of the other. In any case, Delsiner was damaged goods and had to go, that much was clear.
Marcella listened closely as the all-important segue to the top of the ticket arrived.
“But even as we wish Steve well, we have no choice but to question the judgment of Gabe Rooney in selecting him as his running mate. This is the most important decision a candidate makes, perhaps the most important he’ll ever make, whether he wins office or not. There is no margin for error. With so much information coming to light about Stephen Delsiner’s background, we must ask: how thoroughly was he vetted? Did political considerations trump concern for national security? What did Senator Rooney know, when did he know it, and when was he planning on sharing this information with the American people?”
The not very subtle echo of Watergate had been her idea. Harry needed to find his edge, at least in public, and feeding him time-tested barbs like “What did he know and when did he know it?” seemed like as good a way as any. She’d have to talk to Julian about the Kamalia nonsense. No one could get worked up over a small African country that fewer than 10 percent of the population could find on a map. All that talk about human rights abuses in Kamalia made Harry sound a little potty, and bored his audiences half to death in the bargain. Since Iraq and the rash of homegrown terrorist incidents, the country had become Fortress America; no one cared what went on over the walls. It was too bad about the son dying in Kamalia—or had he been murdered?—but a campaign for president was no place to work out personal grievances. Whenever Harry called for more stringent antiterror measures his numbers trended up. President Nessin’s obligatory (some said deeply felt) references to civil liberties made America nervous, and him appear weak.
Suddenly, with Delsiner’s fall, what had begun as a quixotic shot in the dark was looking like a horse race. Rooney’s numbers had plummeted, according to a private poll commissioned by Fred Moran. Rooney and Lightstone were in a dead heat, and all the momentum was on Harry’s side. For the first time since this strange journey began, she would find herself imagining, in the rare quiet moment, life in the White House, wondering if she’d find it comfortable. It had always struck her, during the occasional state dinner or luncheon, as sort of cheesily down-to-earth, everything resolutely American, with no real personality or point of view, a least-common-denominator of a house. She’d worked with the greatest interior designers in the world, acquiring masterpieces of furniture and art, regardless of where they came from or whose sensibilities they might offend. French antiques from the eighteenth century were her favorites, but she doubted she’d be able to bring them with her to Washington. People were still so stupid about the French, she doubted she’d—
“Mrs. Lightstone?”
Her mind required a few moments to travel back to New Hampshire from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Yes?” she managed to say with a smile. Harry had finished, apparently, and was talking to a small group of reporters.
“Do you have any comment on the Delsiner situation?” a reporter asked her as several others listened in. Microphones were thrust into her face like ugly bouquets from scruffy suitors.
Well, you might be interested to know that it was probably all set up—somehow, miraculously, incredibly—by Julian Mellow, the financier. You might want to look into that! And while you’re at it, check out Senator Lightstone’s proclivities for very tall women. There are scoops here for all of you!
“My heart is with the Delsiner family,” she said, forcing her lips into a sympathetic frown. “My heart and my prayers.”
• • •
“Mr. Mellow, there was a message. The caller said it’s urgent. He didn’t leave a number.”
Julian’s housekeeper, Inez, handed him a piece of paper in the foyer of the apartment on Fifth Avenue. He’d just returned from Paris and felt more unsettled than tired. Private jet travel had that effect. It spared such inconveniences as check-in and baggage claim but its very seamlessness induced a sense of disorientation. He placed the Holbein, swathed in bubble wrap and encased in stiff cardboard, against a wall and read the note.
Mr. Franklin needs to see you. Four o’clock.
He checked his watch—three forty-five. He closed his eyes for a moment, shook the fatigue from his body, and took two long, deep breaths. Then he left the apartment.
Chapter 35
Though Central Park was just across Fifth Avenue from his apartment, Julian rarely ventured into it, content with the view from eight floors up, where it looked as orderly and peaceful as a Dutch landscape. But as he headed to the bandshell for his appointment he regretted not taking advantage of the park more often. The sense of oasis, especially in winter, when the walks were nearly deserted, was almost palpable.
He arrived at the bandshell at noon. He’d read somewhere recently that the Parks Commission wanted to tear it down, but that the family that had donated it and whose name was etched in the limestone structure was asking the courts to prevent such a desecration. Sic transit gloria—those should be the only words etched in building walls. Or perhaps, Vanity of vanities, vanity, all is vanity. Attempts at immortality were all futile, for even granite buildings eventually outlived their usefulness. He gave tens of millions of dollars away every year, to museums and hospitals and universities and medical research organizations, yet Julian Mellow’s name was found above no door or gallery or hospital wing, was never listed in event programs. He’d allowed Matthew’s name to grace a building of the private school he’d attended, and a wing at that kid’s nursing facility in New Jersey—he wanted Billy Sandifer to have an unmissable reminder of who was keeping his daughter out of a state institution each time he visited her. But it would have depressed him to see his own name etched in granite, for he didn’t care what he left behind, and attempts at immortality struck him as pitiful and small and ultimately, of course, pointless. After he died the world could stop spinning for all he cared; he would leave nothing behind that meant anything to him.
“Mr. Mellow?”
He turned and for a few moments didn’t recognize Billy Sandifer. They’d met only once, just after Sandifer’s release from Williston. Warden Verbraski had set up the meeting once Julian had begun to form his plan and realized that he’d need a front man, as it were. He’d already proven himself useful during the prison takeover. Back then, Sandifer had looked sickly, his skin sallow, shoulders hunched, eyelids drooping with defeat. He hadn’t yet shaken the aura of confinement. The man before him looked far more robust. His hair was longer, and he seemed to have added weight and confidence along with it; even his voice sounded deeper than Julian remembered. Sandifer, wearing a gray sweatshirt over black jeans, was a good-looking man in his forties, athletic and healthy.
“Let’s walk,” Julian said, and immediately headed west, toward the carousel.
“I was afraid you hadn’t gotten my message.”
“Clearly I did get it.” They’d arranged a while ago that a request for a meeting with “Mr. Franklin” meant the bandshell in Central Park. This was the first such request.
“It looks like the Rooney-Delsiner ticket is over,” Sandifer said. “Mission accomplished.”
“Yes.”
“I saw a poll this morning on the news. Lightstone pulled ahead by a few points. An upset in New Hampshire would mean the nomination is basically his. It’s all about expectations these days.”
The last thing Julian wanted was a political discussion with Billy Sandifer. With anyone, for that matter. Getting to the point was a sacred policy of his, and any endeavor in which doublespeak and obfuscation and the endless repetition of platitudes held sway—politics, religion, much of business—made his head ache with restless contempt.
“You wanted to see me?”
“I checked out Zach Springer. I entered his apartment when he was out. He has these folders, all about you.”
In retrospect, he
shouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Zach was doggedly following him. He’d been almost obsessively thorough in checking out acquisition targets, not content until every aspect of a company had been vetted, from the market share trends of its least important product to the peccadilloes of its chief executive officer. It had been Zach who’d kept him out of the superficially appealing but ultimately worthless technology stocks, sparing Mellow Partners billions in losses. Now he’d turned his zeal for due diligence to his former employer.
“He and I had a falling out. I’m not surprised that he’s keeping track of me.”
“These files? They have labels like ‘Mellow and Lightstone,’ ‘Mellow and Sandifer.’”
Instinctively, he looked around, reacting to a sudden chill of vulnerability. Was Zach out there, following them? Was there someone else?
“Do you think he told anyone?”
“Can’t say. He lives with a chick…”
Julian had met the chick a few times, a public school teacher. He’d always assumed that Zach offloaded his residual idealism onto her so he could help his employer gobble up half of corporate America, and implement the inevitable layoffs and benefits cutting, with a free conscience. If Zach suspected that he was involved in something, especially something that involved politics, he would certainly share it with the schoolteacher.
“Did you take the files?”
“That would have tipped him off. You want me to go back in and copy them?”
“It doesn’t matter what’s in them.” Just the names, together: Lightstone. Sandifer. Mellow.
“You want me to take care of him?”
Julian felt himself gripped by something new and disturbing: indecision. The correct thing to do was never a mystery to him. Then why the hesitation? He’d done so many things in the past month, or authorized them to be done. But he did not want Zach Springer killed. Why? He would slaughter an army, level a city, to get what he wanted. Was it because he owed Zach so much, he who owed nothing to anyone?
Presidents' Day Page 17