He knew, by the end, that he would never get his hands on Philip Parker. Four times, in the last ten pages, Parker had begged to die.
He closed the document.
“Marty Hennessy wants a body.”
”I know.”
“Will he get one?”
“He'll get the parts he needs.”
Michael stared, for a while, at the photo in the Ad-Chem brochure.
“We do this my way,” he said to the gangster. “Not yours.”
“Split the difference,” said Julie. “We do it Johnny's way.”
Fat Julie had brought Doyle's Priva-Fone with him. Julie handling the dialing. Fallon placed calls to each of the seven names on Arnie Aaronson's list. He spoke only to their secretaries. He left identical messages for each.
Five called him back within the hour. The sixth called him from an airplane en route to London. The seventh called from his vacation home on St. Croix. He read a prepared statement to each of the seven. Included were items from Johnny G.'s notebook and several from Parker's confession.
At its end, he asked that each of them meet with his respective chief executive. He would give them four hours. At the end of that time, he and the seven CEOs would meet by way of a conference call.
“Will they call you?” asked Julie Giordano.
“Sure.”
“Their lawyers will let them?”
Michael nodded. “The lawyers will be listening. They'll need to know how much we have.”
Fat Julie began pacing the ward. “Let me understand this,” he said. “These guys are all crooks?”
“Not at all. Not the way you mean.”
“How many ways are there?”
The answer Michael gave him was, he felt sure, essentially what Aaronson had told Doyle. They're trying to run companies. They're doing their best. They've all skirted the law, or built plants in countries where they could buy the law because that's how you get done what you're in business to do. Illegal is not the same as wrong. It's certainly not the same as evil.
“Michael ... are they all making counterfeit drugs or not?”
“Yes and no.”
They're not, he explained. At least not willfully. But in many if not all of their plants, there is theft of ingredients, theft of finished product, and massive product overruns that never show up on the books. These men, these seven CEOs, know that it's happening in each of their firms. Not on the scale of AdChem, perhaps, but it happens. As ` Aaronson said, they try to contain it. They'll try to contain this as well.
Julie left him alone. If it's going to be a four-hour wait, he said, he'll go upstairs and sit with Johnny.
The conference call took place after lunch. It took twenty minutes to make all the connections. Most had a hollow sound. Michael knew that they had him on speaker phones, some of which had been set up in boardrooms.
“First I’ll read a list of names,” Michael told them. “They're on your payroll but they've also been on Rast's. If they're listening to this, you might want to ask them to leave.”
He read the names. He heard gasps and denials and the shuffling of chairs. He heard “Out,” “Just go,” and “Go wait in my office.” He thought he heard the sound of a face being slapped.
Michael did his best to put the remaining listeners at ease. He blamed none of them, he said, for what happened to Arnie. It would also save time if they would put thoughts of extortion out of their minds. He had no wish to go public. He wanted nothing for himself.
All he wanted was this. One way or the other, they would undertake to buy AdChem out. He didn't care who bought what or how they would split it up. He didn't care whether they ran it or shut it down as long as they put their own managers in place within hours of AdChem agreeing to sell.
“Do you care what we offer?” asked one of the voices.
“Per share? The fifty-two-week high plus one dollar. Except for the shorts, I want nobody burned.”
“The family owns seventy percent,” said another. “Who says they'll sell?”
“They will. They'll want to be out of this,”
“When we tell them what you're threatening to publish?”
”Uh-huh.”
“That's illegal, Michael.”
“That's why you have lawyers.”
In fact, thought Michael, it's why most of these guys play golf. More deals like this are made on golf courses . . . because they're hard to bug . . . than in all the boardrooms put together.
“Michael . . . you're aware, are you not, that the FBI is already interested in AdChem?”
“They don't have what I have.”
“To say nothing,” someone added, “of the SEC, the New York police, and especially the FDA.”
“That's why you know senators. Just get it done, gentlemen.”
A long and hollow silence.
“But leave the FDA to me,” Michael added.
Parker, in his tortured deposition, had named more than that list of executives. He identified nearly a dozen men and women who were in the employ of the Food and Drug Administration. The few names he had given to Johnny— Turkel and a couple more—were only AdChem's first cracks in the door. Those few had recruited the others.
Michael would help the FDA clean house. It would be done quietly. In return, he would ask for certain changes in policy, in particular those that Johnny G. had found noxious. The agency would agree to pose no obstacle to the dismantling of AdChem. The current director would have to resign.
Johnny G. will have to be satisfied. This was not quite the nuking he probably had in mind but in the long run it was better. But let's hope, thought Michael, that it won't be Johnny's legacy.
“When these guys buy the stock,” asked Julie Giordano, “it goes up, right? Not down.”
“Up.”
“So I lose my ass? That's my end in this?”
“You and Doyle both. Let that be a lesson, you prick. You were going to go into the business.”
“That was . . . that was only a flight of fancy.”
Fallon couldn't help smiling. ”A flight of fancy? Fat Julie Giordano says he has flights of fancy?”
Julie reddened. “You want another kind of flight? I'll throw you out that fucking window.”
''Ah...I might have another idea.”
“I'm listening.”
“Later. Let's get this rolling first.”
“Mike ... we haven't talked about Rast.”
“You had Parker. Rast is mine.”
“Except he's gone. He's back in Germany behind some moat.”
”I know.”
“So you'll do what? By over there with a Louisville Slugger?”
No answer.
“You thought about that, didn't you. You give me crap about flights of fancy and, meanwhile, you been laying there dreaming how you're gonna pound some old man into dog shit.”
Michael had to look away.
“Forget it, Mike. It just isn't in you.”
Another week passed. The bandages on his hands had been removed. Two-a-day sessions with a therapist were quickly restoring their function. The arm and shoulder were healing nicely. The bullet near his kidney had not been removed. The surgeon had decided it could wait. The knee might not need surgery after all. Dr. Berman found Michael in the day room. He told him that he could go home.
Myra Lovelace came with a change of clothing. A nurse helped Michael dress. His right arm was in a sling. He told Myra that he'd take a cab later. He wanted to go sit with Johnny for a while. He found Brendan Doyle already there. Doyle had come unannounced.
“He knows me,” said Doyle, excited. “He knows who I am.”
“You're sure? How can you tell?”
“Look at his right hand.”
Fallon did. Johnny G., no mistake, was giving him the finger.
“Say you're sorry,” said Doyle.
They had walked back to Michael's room.
Michael knew this was coming. “We should give Julie a call. Tell him what Jo
hnny just did.”
“After you say you're sorry.”
He took a breath. “‘Brendan, I am. I thought the worst of you, I was wrong. I won't ever doubt you again.”
“Let's not go crazy here, Michael.”
Doyle said nothing more as Michael, using his one good arm, gathered up his belongings. Doyle stood at the window, staring out.
“Something else on your mind?” asked Michael.
”I got a phone call. I've been deciding whether to tell you.”
A knot tightened in his stomach. “Megan?”
Doyle shook his head. “It's Rast's wife. The Countess.”
He could breathe again. “What about her?”
“She asked to see you. She wants you to come to Munich.”
Chapter 47
Moon was on the telephone when Michael arrived at the Taylor House. He was asking for flight information. Doyle had told him.
Lena Mayfield stood in the doorway, her arms folded.
“You'll go,” she said to Moon, “over my dead body.”
The Countess had sent a driver. He met them at the Munich-Reim airport.
He was an older man. He said his name was Manfred. He came alone.
“That's so we let down our guard,” whispered Lena.
Moon doubted that there was much danger for now. He saw no loitering muscle at the airport, no pursuit cars waiting outside. All the same, he checked the front seat before letting Manfred climb back behind the wheel. He found no hidden weapons. Nor did the chauffeur seem to care whether Moon or Michael might be armed. He did call ahead, however, as the limousine reached the gates of Schloss Scharnhorst.
Schloss Scharnhorst was not what Michael had expected. There wasn't any moat. Just a big house of stucco and stone. The style was German Baroque. The stucco was painted in a soft rose color. It seemed a woman's sort of house.
“This place have a dungeon?” asked a sour Lena Mayfield.
He didn't answer. He was scanning the curtained windows, half expecting to see Rast peering out from behind the folds. Old man or not, he knew what he would do if he got close to him.
“This is dumb, Michael,” said Lena. “This is major league dumb.”
Moon grumbled quietly. She had hardly let up since they drove out of Edgartown. On the plane coming over, he tried pretending to sleep. That did no good either. Every ten minutes, Lena would nudge him just to make sure he wasn't dead.
The Countess, alerted by Manfred, stood waiting on the steps of her home. Michael recognized her at once. Doyle had given him a copy of her profile. She was tall, quite thin, about seventy years old, but her face was largely unlined. She was dressed in a business suit and wore a choker of pearls. She offered no greeting. Only a look of mild surprise on seeing Lena and a small nod of acceptance. She turned and walked up toward her door, which opened to admit her by an unseen hand. Moon and Michael exchanged glances but they followed.
The room off to the left was a library. Several men, mostly older, sat staring at the visitors through doors that had been left fully open.
“Our board of directors,” said the Countess. Michael recognized all of them. Most of them were family. The Countess made no move to enter.
“My family is an old one, Mr. Fallon,” she said. “It has known defeat. It has never known disgrace. On my honor, no person in that room was aware of my husband's activities.”
Fallon only looked at her.
“Up these stairs,” said the Countess. “Follow me, if you will.”
She paused near a room at the top. A man was standing guard.
“This is Heinrich, my nephew,” said the Countess. “The Baron has been ill. Heinrich has been attending to him. It is time, in fact, for the Baron's medication.”
Heinrich reached to open the door. Fallon saw the Baron at once. He was seated in a chair, a blanket wrapped around him, his chin against his chest. Both hands were visible. They were trembling as with palsy. One cheek bore a large fading bruise. His lower lip had been split although that too was healing. He seemed unaware of their presence.
“My husband has given an account of himself,” said the Countess. “It was not well received. You speak German, I believe, Mr. Fallon?”
“My friends do not.”
She made a gesture with her hand. It said that conversing in German was not her intention! “Do you know the word Verrater?
“It's . . . one who betrays.”
“And of course you know the word for ‘bigamy.’ It is exactly the same in English.”
Michael did not understand the reference. Moon cleared his throat.
“Rasmussen had an American wife,” Moon told him. ”I don't think he ever divorced her.”
“Just so,” said the Countess. “Heinrich? His medicine, please?”
Heinrich reached into his pocket. He produced a velvet box of the type used for bracelets. The Countess opened it. It contained a syringe. She approached her husband. She knelt before his chair and spoke over her shoulder to Fallon.
”I do hope I have the right medication. He's been taking so many, you know.”
She shook the Baron's leg.
“Herr Baron? Franzy? Mr. Fallon is here to see you.”
The words penetrated, but slowly.
“And Mr. Moon as well. And a Mrs. . . .”
“Mayfield. Don't mind me.”
Rast's chin came up. His eyes began to widen. He now seemed so terribly old to Michael. That this man could have defeated Jake Fallon ...
The Countess waited until she saw recognition in her husband's eyes. Now, satisfied that she did, and that she saw the beginnings of terror, she slid the needle into his thigh. She pressed the plunger with her thumb.
The Baron's mouth, and eyes, opened wide. One leg went into spasm, then the other. And now his whole body went rigid as if struck by an electrical charge. He slid to the floor. His body relaxed, slightly, then went rigid again. His lips peeled back from his teeth. His mouth formed a frozen grin. He made mewing sounds.
“What's German for ‘strychnine’?” Moon asked the Countess.
“One word for it is Scheidung, Mr. Moon.”
The Baron began to squeal. It took him ten minutes to die.
“Will you be staying for lunch?” asked the Countess.
Michael had declined. The Countess had walked with them back to the car. Only then, and only slightly, had her composure begun to abandon her. She reached to touch his arm. Her lower lip quivered. But she said not a word. Manfred drove them back to the airport.
”I think that was an apology,” said Moon.
Lena Mayfield shook her head.
“Then what was it?” he asked.
“It was more like . . . she wanted to say why she married him. She just couldn't.”
“Why did she?”
“Rich folks get lonely too,” said Lena.
As they waited for their flight, Lena found a German-English dictionary.
”Scheidung doesn't mean ‘strychnine,’ ” she said to Moon. “It means 'divorce.'”
”I think that was the lady's point,” said Moon.
AdChem would be divided seven ways. Some companies bought more of it than others. It would be some months before a deal of this magnitude could be completed in all particulars but the management change was immediate.
The new owners agreed, at Michael's suggestion, on the need for a common security system. He knew just the firm to handle it. A contract was signed with Giordano Security Services, Inc. Fat Julie Giordano was chairman of the board. Mohammed Yahya was senior vice president for intelligence. He was terribly proud of his new business cards.
The presidency would remain vacant until such time as Mr. John Anthony Giordano was well enough to assume that office. Brendan Doyle, Esquire, was named executive, vice president for legal affairs.
In the long run the firm would be funded by the seven. The source of immediate funding, however, would be through fines to be levied against a list of executives who were formerly in
the employ of both AdChem and Lehman-Stone. The fines were in the amount of their total net worth. Fat Julie was charged with collecting.
Frampton Childress was under indictment already. The FBI claimed that it had broken the case. Two agents named Mowbray and Phipps were singled out for their diligence. The charges against Childress, however, involved only the smuggling of veterinary medicines and evasion of taxes. Evidence relating to human medicines would never reach the public.
On a jogging path near the Jefferson Memorial, Avery Bellows put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Victor Turkel had indeed left the country. He first flew to Panama where he kept his money, then worked his way north to Costa Rica. Two weeks later, in the town of Limon, he was murdered by two children who wanted his watch.
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