by Gayle Lynds
Alarmed, he moved quickly alongside the mansion. And then he glanced into a small octagonal window that faced the elevators on the first floor.
Julia was staring at a painting on the wall—an oil of two elegant women from forty years ago. She seemed transfixed. Just as he started to turn and hurry ahead to the rear door he spotted Maya Stern. His chest tightened.
In a glance he took in Stern: She was striding through the hallway wearing a loose black evening suit and a black satin blouse, with a black comb in her high blond wig. She carried a beaded purse, and her right hand was hidden inside. Fear surged through Sam. He knew there had to be a gun in the purse, and that's why her hand was angled in there. But as she neared Julia, Julia didn't seem to notice. Julia seemed rooted to where she stood, completely focused on the painting. Oblivious.
Drenched in sweat, Sam ran toward the mansion's back door.
56
4:05 PM
Lyle Redmond's beloved retreat stood in a curve of the forest beyond the view of Arbor Knoll's mansion and other buildings. Creighton had instructed the Secret Service there was going to be a meeting here and they were to maintain watch but stop no one from entering. Already he sat in the old man's soft buttercream leather throne, smoking one of the old man's Cuban cigars. He nodded greetings as Vince finally appeared and closed the door.
"Join us, son. I was just bringing Brice and David up to speed. Now that you're here, I could almost call this a cabinet meeting. The new director of the Company, the new Secretary of Commerce, and of course the new head of the Federal Reserve." He smiled and let it sink in. "I'd say the future looks rather pleasant."
David and Brice were sitting on the leather sofa. Their legs were crossed, and their expensive tuxedos wrinkled fashionably. Both laughed with more satisfaction than humor. This meeting they were enjoying. Creighton had filled them in on the astounding success of his campaign and that, with Staffeld's death, the only direct link to them was about to be buried.
Creighton gestured to Vince. "Are Maya Stern and her people in place?"
Vince sat next to him and lighted a cigarette. "On the spot. It's only a matter of time."
Creighton waited until one of his brothers took the lure.
It was Brice. He frowned. "What's that mean? Isn't everything—?"
"I'm about to tell you." Creighton's smile disappeared. "I have news some of you won't like. But you have to hear it, because we must be of one mind on this."
David recrossed his legs. "I suppose it's going to cost a king's ransom."
Creighton nodded grimly. "It is. But the alternative is financial devastation and worse." He took his fine cigar from his thin mouth and studied the long gray ash. "As I told you, the old man's free. Vince and I believe he's heading here—"
"What?" Brice scowled.
Creighton's dark eyes flattened and hardened. "We'll find him, and we can throw him into the rest home again. But we have to face facts." He puffed on the Cohiba as if gathering his thoughts. All of life was presentation. "Once he's there, he won't stop until he escapes again. You know what a stubborn bastard he is." He paused. This part only he and Vince knew, and he couldn't be certain how they'd react. "It's about what was in his journals. He's decided—"
David frowned. "I told you, Creighton, I don't want to know a damn thing about journals or packages—"
Sudden fury enveloped Creighton. He slammed his fist onto the table. "I don't care what you want! You've benefited. Now you've got to accept responsibility, too, goddammit. I didn't intend to, but I had to kill Marguerite to protect us—"
David interrupted. "You killed Marguerite?"
Brice snapped, "His hired assassin killed her. He didn't expect it to happen, so forget Marguerite. What I want to know is what else was in the journals? What can that miserable old man tell?"
Creighton sat back and let his breathing calm. "He can tell a whole hell of a lot. So much that it'll put a hole the size of the Grand Canyon in our finances. His hot new idea is to come clean about where all the money originated and how we ended up so damned rich and powerful."
David growled, "What do you mean, where our money originated? Everyone knows Dan Austrian banked their partnership. Okay, so then they cut a series of maybe not so lily-white deals—"
Creighton told them flatly, "You're repeating their ass-covering story. In 1945, Dan didn't have two dimes to rub together, and neither did the old man. They were stone-cold broke. But just two years later they were rolling in dough and on their way."
For a long moment the two younger brothers stared at Creighton, trying to understand. At last David said, "Okay, Creighton. How in hell did they do it?"
Creighton described the story in the journals of how the two penniless soldiers worked their daring theft of the Second Himmler Treasure. How they smuggled it back into the States. How they turned most of it into the millions that established the business on which the family's billions, prestige, and influence were based.
He concluded, "They grew wealthy on stolen Nazi loot. Twice stolen, even three times. First from the Soviets, then Himmler, and finally Selvester Maas, whom they murdered. They sold most to start their company, and then they divided what was left. Apparently Dan kept the Amber Room for a while, but for how long and where it ended up only God knows. Dad's share of the paintings are hanging in the mansion right now."
David and Brice were stunned. Creighton let the silence stretch. This was the most crucial moment. How threatened would they feel? How much would they want this sordid history kept secret?
Brice breathed, "That wily sonofabitch. Besides all the times he bent and fractured the law in business, he's a god-damned art thief."
"There's no legitimate paperwork on the paintings," David realized. "Unless we manufacture some, they're useless. Worth a fortune, and we can't sell them."
Creighton repressed a smile. His brothers were, after all, Redmonds and predictable. Money came first. Now he had to hammer it home so they'd agree to his solution: "If the old man goes public, he'll have to make full restitution, pay fines, and maybe go to jail. If he claims we knew what he did, the State Department will come after us, too. But that's not the worst." He fixed them with his cold judicial gaze. "We've had the old man declared senile. We control his money. So it's us they'll come after. We could lose his wealth and who knows how much of our own. Or if he gets control back, he'll pay fines and give the rest away. We don't get a penny. We lose Arbor Knoll. We lose goodwill, reputation—"
"Enough," David interrupted. "I get the point like a Mack truck in the gut. I won't begin to say how pissed I am—" he looked at Brice's scowling face "—we are that you didn't tell us all this one hell of a lot sooner. I told you all along what we had to do about him. Now, he's loose, coming here, and we can't trust him to keep quiet and not escape again. There's nothing else we can do. We've got to kill him."
Creighton inhaled his cigar. David had said it first. "Yes, we do."
"All of us? Share good and bad?" David pressed. In the past, Creighton had told him that if he was all that serious about getting rid of their father, that the death taxes would have to come out of his share.
"All equal," Creighton agreed.
A heavy silence filled the room. Brice stared, blinking slowly. They'd all suffered under the old man, and once in business they'd made their own deals with the devil. Later they'd made the tough decision to take control of the old man's assets. As Creighton waited, he watched their reflective faces. After the first few outbursts, they'd settled into a businesslike exchange of information and opinion. He glanced at Vince and saw his son was wise enough to stay out of it until asked.
At last Creighton spoke again, this time directly to Brice, his voice low and almost mesmerizing. "It's not just Julia and Keeline. It's Dad, too. We can't have any loose cannons. The stakes are too high. If my plan had failed, the impetus would be less. But now we've all got futures more sweeping than we'd ever imagined. We have to do whatever's necessary to protect that."
Brice felt a sense of dread. "I don't like it. It reeks of problems. Even if we kill him, who's to say what he and Dan did won't come out some other way?"
"No one else knows. Just us. It's that simple." Creighton turned to Vince. "What do you think?"
Vince gave his rehearsed calm nod of approval. He'd never liked the old man anyway, and his father wanted this. "It's the cleanest way."
David sighed. He'd been busy toting up numbers. "It's going to cost us a fucking fortune in inheritance taxes."
Creighton smiled. David had given him the final opening. Time to clinch it by making them feel better about it. "Remember, Dan Austrian and Dad committed murder. I don't know what Swiss law is, but there's no statute of limitations on murder in this country. This whole thing would make a circus of the family." He paused. "Of course, it wouldn't stop my being president. Nothing could now. But to be effective in office, I must hold on to the moral high ground. I'll be under a magnifying glass. We'd lose most of the advantages to the family. We'd get away with nothing. In fact, I couldn't even appoint any of you."
Brice grimaced. He pursed his lips. "For all the god-damned trouble this is turning out to be, I should've insisted on being secretary of state."
David said, "It's cheaper to kill the old man than let him run berserk."
Creighton chuckled. They all laughed. The Redmonds had come through intact again. It was, after all, only good
Creighton stood and headed for the bar. "Brandy anyone?"
"I'll have one." Vince rose. His father was unbeatable. "David? Brice?"
They nodded, and Vince brought them glasses of the fifty-year-old brandy.
"You know," David said soberly, "banking was never this exciting." Then he smiled. "I think I'm going to enjoy politics." He stood.
Creighton turned at the bar and studied his son and brothers. He raised his glass in a toast. David and Vince raised theirs.
Brice shrugged and climbed to his feet, too. "Oh, what the hell."
The four men stood looking at one another for a long moment, each a reflection of the other. The old man had made them. He'd personally raised three of them. He'd financed, belittled, challenged, advised, and opened doors for them. Like it or not, they were his descendants, the inheritors of all he had and all he was. Good and bad.
"To Tokugawa's Fist." They drank. Their father was already fading from their memories.
57
4:06 PM
In the mansion, the darkness rolled closer, sweeping away Julia's sight. She had to stop it. Now. Quickly she inhaled. She breathed deeply. With intense focus, she called Brahms's "Lullaby" to her again. She forced herself to listen to the soothing music. She deliberately focused her gaze on her grandmother's ring in the painting, and as she made herself stare at it she summoned all her willpower and told herself she no longer needed to be blind.
I am not blind. I can see!
She didn't need to know what had caused her blindness.
She could face whatever she had to face—
She breathed slowly, deeply. The odor edged away. She concentrated on the lulling music, still staring at the spectacular ring.
Why had her grandmother's ring become the trigger for her blindness?—
And then with an abrupt pain, a sharp blow jabbed cruelly into her back.
"Don't move." The voice of Maya Stern was tight and close in her ear. "Don't turn around." A burst of hot pleasure swept through Stern. Her analysis had been correct—Austrian was dressed as a nun. Now she could kill the troublesome woman.
Julia's heart seemed to stop. Her throat tightened. The dark, black wall was disappearing from her sight. She'd successfully fought back the blindness, but her senses had missed Maya Stern. She'd won the battle and lost the war. In her intense concentration she'd dropped her guard, and Stern had captured her.
The hard voice spoke again in Julia's ear. "We're just two friends who've been looking at a beautiful painting. Start walking."
All Julia could think about was the Beretta in her pocket. She didn't want Stern to discover it. If she reached for it now, Stern would be instantly suspicious. But somehow she had to get free enough to shoot.
She could feel the warmth of Stern's body, and with that she could see it in her mind: Stern was standing behind and slightly to Julia's left. The gun was pressed into Julia's lower right back to the side of the pillow, and because of Stern's relaxed stance it would appear to a casual observer that Stern was giving an overweight, unfortunately plain nun an affectionate half-hug.
Julia started to turn.
The gun dug deeper. "Don't even think about it. I should've killed you in London when I had the chance. Walk slowly to your right."
"I don't think so." Julia's feet didn't move. If she couldn't immediately escape, maybe she could learn something. "How long have you been working for Creighton? Who have you killed for him?"
Maya ignored her. "We're going out that door. Move."
"Sam says you're ex CIA. We'll stop you—" She looked frantically to her left and right. The elevator was in a wide part of the hall between the front door and the door into the staff facilities—kitchens, pantries, the plant and flower porch.
Stern said, "If you think I won't shoot, please give me an excuse to prove your error. This gun has a silencer, and there's more than enough noise around here to cover the sound. I'll catch you when you drop. I'll tell everyone you fainted, but you'll be dead before anyone—Keeline included—knows we've even met. Walk through the servant's door. Now."
There are moments to fight, and moments to run. This was neither. Terror shook Julia. She believed Maya Stern. She turned and walked through the door into the staff corridor.
4:07 PM
Sweat beaded on Sam's forehead as he pounded toward the back door. He wasn't sure what exactly he felt for Julia, but he knew he'd spent every minute they'd been apart thinking of her. Whenever he considered her dying, an enormous hollow opened in his gut and radiated with pain. But when he remembered what it was like being with her—
Nothing else mattered.
He pulled out his Browning and opened the first door at the rear of the mansion. Inside was an old-fashioned porch and flower-preparation room with a deep metal sink and a zinc-covered counter. The enclosed porch smelled of earth and plants, and its shutters were closed against the sun. Controlling his breathing, he slipped inside.
4:08 PM
Julia looked frantically all around as she and Stern walked through a storage hallway. They edged around a cavernous kitchen where chefs, kitchen help, and waiters bustled in orderly pandemonium. As they passed, Julia hoped someone would notice. That someone would distract Stern so Julia could yank out her Beretta.
She slowed, trying to delay. Her mind frantically searched for some way—
"Faster," Stern ordered.
Julia could feel from the movement of air behind her that Stern was constantly looking from left to right for anyone too interested. Julia's senses felt sensitive as fine sandpaper, but despite them and her Beretta, she was helpless. Then she saw a quick movement to her left through a window, away from the kitchen. Her heart speeded up. She'd had a fleeting glimpse of a tall, pot-bellied priest with a misshapen face. Sam.
Maya Stern had reached another door that led out onto an enclosed porch. As Stern opened it, Julia stopped. She had to give Sam time—
"Move." Stern's voice was harsh.
"Why should I? You'll shoot me anyway."
Stern viciously jammed the gun into her ribs again. Pain sped to her brain. It didn't matter. She wasn't going to give Stern the satisfaction of knowing she hurt or that she was afraid.
She said calmly, "Since you insist." She pressed open the door. She could feel Sam like a warm totem to her right as she took a step onto the shadowy porch. Quickly she jerked her head to the left as if she'd seen hope, a miracle.
She gasped. "Sam!"
Stern reacted from instinct. For a split second she glanced left. She recovered almost imm
ediately, but it was too late.
From his place flattened against the right wall, Sam slashed his hand down onto Stern's wrist. The purse with the gun fell to the floor.
Stern instantly slammed her foot right in a blind sokutō sword foot.
Sam jumped back, and the karate blow glanced along his hip. He'd learned his lesson with Maya Stern. Like a muscled sylph, she was coiled to attack again. He wouldn't let her. He crushed his forearm around her throat, yanked her away from Julia, and rammed his Browning against her blond wig.
But he'd underestimated Stern. She was a street fighter. Instantly she reached back, slammed the Browning loose, grabbed his ears, and pulled.
Pain screeched in blue streaks straight to Sam's cortex. Still he wrenched his head back and forth. When the angle was right, he sank his teeth into her left hand. Blood spurted into his mouth, hot and nauseating.
Stern's grip weakened. Sam bit down to bone.
She grunted. Her hands fell away.
As Sam and Stern struggled, Julia yanked her Beretta from her nun's habit. Exhilaration flooded her. They had Maya Stern.
But just then the door from the house opened. A man's foot crashed into Sam's head and sent him sprawling to the stone floor.
Stern never hesitated. She'd seen that Julia had a Beretta. Blood pouring from her bitten hand, she whirled and kicked a sokutō sword foot into Julia's chest. The Beretta dropped, and Julia fell back, immobilized, her lungs raw as she gasped air.
Instantly the man leaned over Sam, a gun pointed between Sam's eyes. He'd been following Stern and Julia.
Her beautiful face furious, Maya Stern snatched up her beaded purse and punched the gun into Julia's ribs. The pain cut like a knife as Julia fought to breathe.
"Get up!" Stern ordered.
A second man stepped in through the back door. Taller than the one who still pointed his pistol at Sam, he also wore a tuxedo. The two men had the slick, made-up look of those who could walk in many worlds. Julia recognized them from Hell's Kitchen. They were both Janitors, assassins. The new man grabbed her Beretta and Sam's Browning. The other hauled Sam to his feet, the gun steady on his face.