The Protégé

by Stephen Frey

  “How can you possibly influence NFL owners?”

  “A favor here, a favor there. Make a woman who’s about to file a palimony suit disappear, help a father when his kid gets into drug trouble. There’s all kinds of ways, Christian. Everybody has their problems. As long as you know about them, you can make things go your way.”

  “How long have you been working with the Carbones?” Gillette asked.

  “All right, that’s enough. Give me the fucking drive.”

  Gillette stared at Boyd hard. “Is that what my father really uncovered, Norman? That you were working with the Mafia? Is that why you killed him? There wasn’t any plot to kill the president. You were the plot.”

  Boyd’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s. “What?” An odd expression came over his face.

  “Is that why you killed my father?” Gillette repeated, louder this time.

  “Are you out of your mind? What kind of question is that?”

  “I have pictures of you and Lana sitting on the patio at the house in Bel Air just weeks before my father was killed. That’s when Lana gave you the names of the women my father had children with. You tried to extort my father, telling him you were going to leak the details of his affairs to the newspapers so he’d have to resign his Senate seat. But it didn’t work, did it? He was going to expose you no matter what. Expose your relationship to the Carbones, all the things you’d stolen from the government, then sold. Like you’re trying to steal the nanotechnology now. You’ve murdered innocent people in the name of national security, but it has nothing to do with national security. It’s all about you. All about making you and your pals rich.”

  Boyd’s face went blank.

  Gillette moved closer, until their faces were just inches apart. “Tell me if I’m right, Norman. I have to know.” He nodded slowly, submissively. “I know you can take me down. I know you can nail me for Becky Rouse’s murder. I’m sure you’ve done a lot worse to people who’ve done a lot less.”

  “You’re damn right I have.”

  “So tell me if I’m right. Then you get your drive.”

  Boyd’s mouth slowly broke into a slight grin, then he chuckled. “You’re a smart man, Christian. Brave, too. You could have worked for me.” He took a deep breath. “Now, give me my goddamn drive.”

  Gillette spotted two men emerging from the Hallmark store. He slammed Boyd’s chin with a right cross, then turned and raced toward the escalator, leaping four steps at a time, bowling over two men in front of him. As he reached the second floor, two more men came at him from Bebe, a woman’s clothing store. One of them hit him high and the other low, and the three of them tumbled to the ground, knocking over a young woman who shrieked as she rolled away. Gillette felt them forcing his hands behind his back roughly.

  Then suddenly a stream of agents poured out of several stores, wrestled the two men off Gillette, lifted them to their feet, and slammed them up against the wall facefirst.

  As soon as he was free, Gillette jumped to his feet and sprinted down the concourse to the entrance to the Ritz. He raced inside it and through the main lobby to the elevators that would take him to the hotel’s arrival lobby.

  BOYD TOUCHED his chin and moaned. Gillette’s punch had knocked him out, and he was just getting his senses back. He made it to his hands and knees groggily, then stood up slowly. As his vision cleared, he noticed a man standing in front of him.

  “Hello, Mr. Boyd. I’m Ted Casey. I’m with the Central Intelligence Agency.” Casey signaled to several men behind him. “Take him away.”

  GILLETTE MOVED through the main entrance of the Ritz-Carlton and trotted across the courtyard toward the ground floor of the office building to the right of the hotel. Once inside the revolving glass door, he turned left toward the Palm restaurant.

  “Tim.”

  The host looked up from behind the stand. “Yes?”

  “I’m Christian. I was here about an hour ago. I rented a wine box.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  “I need to get in there.”

  “Sure, follow me.”

  Tim led Christian to the wine boxes—ten across and ten high, available for personal wines people wanted to have on hand for a special meal. “Which one is yours?”

  “Twelve.”

  Tim handed Gillette a key.

  Gillette unlocked the small door and reached inside for the flash drive. It was there, exactly where he’d left it. “Thanks.”

  Gillette moved out of the restaurant and turned left, past the elevators toward the parking garage. Casey was to have left him a car on the third level. He moved out the back door, then headed up the steps.

  “Stop right there.”

  Gillette’s eyes snapped up from the steps. Daniel Ganze stood in front of him on the first landing, gun drawn.

  “Give me the drive, Christian.”

  Gillette stopped short, shocked, glancing from the gun to Ganze’s eyes. Finally, he shook his head. “It’s over, Ganze. Boyd’s in custody by now.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass about Boyd.”

  Gillette shook his head. Ganze didn’t understand. “You don’t have to go down, too. It’s Boyd they want.”

  “And it’s the drive I want. We have to make sure it’s protected.”

  “There was no spy, Ganze,” Gillette assured him, “no terrorist outfit. That was all part of Boyd’s cover.”

  Ganze smiled. “Perfect, wasn’t it?”

  Gillette’s eyes narrowed. “Huh?”

  “I can assure you that there absolutely is a terrorist connection,” Ganze snapped. “And it’s about to pay off.” He stepped forward and grabbed the flash drive from Gillette’s shirt pocket, then stepped back, raised the gun, and aimed it at Gillette.

  The explosion was deafening in the stairwell. Gillette dropped to his knees, bracing for excruciating pain. But there was nothing. Nothing but the sound of Ganze falling to the ground and his gun clattering down several steps.

  Gillette opened his eyes and looked up the stairway. Quentin Stiles was looking back.

  23

  GILLETTE AND STILES sat on a courtyard bench in front of the Ritz-Carlton. It had been three hours since Stiles had shot Daniel Ganze dead. Ted Casey’s men had removed the body, and the flash drive was back in Gillette’s pocket.

  “Okay, thanks,” Gillette said, ending the call.

  “Who was that?” Stiles asked.

  “Casey,” Gillette replied curtly.

  “Oh, yeah? What did he say?”

  Gillette bit his lip. He was overjoyed that his best friend was alive, but torn up by what he’d been put through. Made to think Stiles was dead. “His people just finished interrogating one of the Carbone guys they shot at the mall.”

  “They find out anything good?”

  Gillette stretched. In a few minutes, he was getting a room at the Ritz and sleeping for two days. “David Wright killed a woman in a West Village sex shop a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “The Carbones knew about it. That’s how Celino got Wright to do what he wanted. They had pictures and a tape of Wright doing it.”

  “What’s going to happen to him? They gonna prosecute?”

  “Casey’s already turned everything over to the New York Police Department. He doesn’t know anything more than that. But I’m sure David will end up behind bars.”

  “What about Miles Whitman?” Stiles asked.

  “The Carbones killed Whitman in France at Boyd’s direction. Tortured him until he told them how to find Tom McGuire. Whitman was feeding McGuire money once a month from the forty million the CIA helped him stash away before he ran last year.”

  “Why was the CIA helping Whitman?”

  “He let them use North America Guaranty as a cutout for years. Basically helped them spy on a lot of individuals in this country, especially high net worth people.”

  Stiles spat. “Nice world we live in, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But w
hy would the CIA tell Boyd where Whitman was?”

  “Agencies cooperate. But the CIA brass obviously didn’t know Boyd was working with the Carbones.”

  “What about Allison Wallace?” Stiles wanted to know. “Was she working with the Carbones like Wright told you?”

  “No,” Gillette answered. “That was Celino disinformation. He was just trying to manipulate Wright with that one. She’s straight. Turns out her assistant, Hamid, is okay, too.” He held up his hand. “Oh, wait a minute, you don’t know about Hamid. You’ve been dead for a week.”

  Stiles chuckled. “Derrick Walker told me about that. How Allison was out in the lobby and my guys wouldn’t let him in.” He laughed louder.

  “It isn’t funny, Quentin.”

  “Come on, Chris, ease up.”

  “Fuck you,” Gillette snapped. He’d been wanting to say that for three hours.

  “Hey, I just saved your life,” Stiles shot back. “You could at least be a little grateful.”

  “You put a lot of people through a lot of pain.”

  “I had to. It was the only way.”

  Gillette gritted his teeth. “Why? Why’d you do it?”

  Stiles looked out over the courtyard. “My guys swept the yacht the morning of the cruise and we found a rifle in the bunkroom. We figured out pretty quick it was the mate’s. We took him downstairs before you got there, did a little influencing. He came clean about how he’d agreed to kill me for the Mob, so we decided to use it. Put the guy into ‘protective custody’ so the Mob figured he’d run because he thought they’d knock him off. I told you, I was working something in Philly with my contacts, and I figured I might be able to find out more quickly if the guys I was investigating thought they’d killed me. What I was on to was basically what you figured out. That the Carbones were working with the government. I just didn’t know which agency. Like I said, Walker kept me up to speed about was going on. He called me from Chatham right before they put him in jail. That’s how I caught up with you.”

  Gillette shook his head and stood up. He’d heard enough, and he could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m going to bed.”

  “You better take a shower first,” Stiles said, standing up, too. “You need one.”

  Gillette started to walk off without answering.

  “Yo, Chris!” Stiles called.

  Gillette turned around. “What is it?”

  Stiles moved slowly to where Gillette stood, hesitated a moment, then embraced him. “I’m sorry, man. I’m sorry I did that to you. I was just trying to help.”

  Gillette took a deep breath, then hugged Stiles back. Life was too short to be angry at your best friend for long. “I know.”

  After a few moments, they stepped back.

  Gillette swallowed hard. “Quentin, I um . . . I, well . . .” He could feel his heart pounding. He wanted to say it, but he didn’t know how. “You know I—”

  “Yeah, I know,” Stiles interrupted, grinning.

  “Thanks,” Gillette said quietly, letting out a long breath. “Hey, where you going?” Stiles was heading off across the grass.

  “Chatham. I gotta get Walker out of jail.”

  24

  FAITH AND GILLETTE sat outside the Everest building on Park Avenue in the back of a limousine, saying good-bye. She was leaving on a two-week tour to promote her new album, which had just hit stores and was racing to the top of the charts. He was going back to Everest for the first time since facing off against Norman Boyd in northern Virginia.

  He’d been wearing a wire that day, so everything Boyd had said was on tape. Ted Casey had more than enough to go to the Justice Department with. Casey had called to tell Gillette that Boyd was probably going to prison for the rest of his life—even with all his high-level connections. That Ganze was in the ICU of a hospital close to the mall, almost certain to follow Boyd to prison if he recovered. And that Gillette now had friends at the CIA, for life.

  “I had such a wonderful time,” Faith said quietly, stroking Gillette’s arm as she nestled against him on the comfortable seat. They’d spent the last week together at a cozy resort in Antigua.

  “Me too.” He smiled down at her.

  “I’ll miss you. It’ll be so hard not seeing you for the next couple of weeks.”

  “I know.”

  She gathered herself up on the seat so her face was close to his. “Christian?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry for how I acted. Not calling you back those times. I was just jealous.” A frustrated expression crossed her face. “I’m so embarrassed. I wanted to tell you in Antigua, but, well . . . There won’t be any more episodes like that. I promise.”

  He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let Allison come out on the boat like that. That was—”

  Faith touched her fingers to his lips. “Stop. She’s your business partner. I understand that now, I really do. I’m just glad you’re safe. That this thing with the people in Washington is over.”

  Gillette grinned wryly. “You’re glad?”

  “And it’s so wonderful that Quentin’s okay.”

  “Yeah.” It was much more than wonderful, but he appreciated her saying that.

  “I’m glad you have closure on your father, too.”

  He nodded. After sixteen years, he finally knew what had happened to his father. He thought knowing would make it easier. Make the hollow feeling go away. But it hadn’t. “Thanks.”

  She stroked his arm a little longer. “I have to go.”

  “Right.”

  “Chris?”

  “Yes?”

  Faith hesitated. “I’m ready.”

  “For what?”

  She sat up and slipped her hands around his neck. “To be yours. I want us to be committed to each other. Completely.”

  “WELL, IT’S GOOD to have you back, old man,” Faraday said, beaming from the chair on the other side of Gillette’s desk. Gillette had been giving him a blow-by-blow of the mall scene with Boyd and the Carbone people. “That’s all I know.”

  Gillette glanced around the office. “It’s good to be back.” After a few days in Antigua, he’d started to miss the pace. It was great to be back in it again. “Give me a quick update, will you?” Faith hadn’t allowed him to have contact with anyone from Everest while they were in the Caribbean.

  “Sure. Well, I assigned Hush-Hush to Blair Johnson. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Blair’s doing a great job. Maddox and Hobbs love him. They haven’t missed Wright at all. And,” Faraday said, looking up from his notepad, “the French are bugging me every day for more info. We’re going to make a killing on this one. Fast. Just like you thought.”

  Gillette liked the sound of that.

  “Not much has happened as far as Vegas goes,” Faraday continued. “You’ll keep that one, I assume.”

  “Yup.”

  “As far as Apex is concerned, the Strazzi estate is still very committed to selling.”

  “Good. I was worried they might have second thoughts.”

  “And Morgan Stanley is working hard on the Laurel Energy sell-side book. They’re pretty cocky about getting us a big payday.”

  “Have you spoken to Wright’s father?”

  “Yeah. He didn’t bring up David at all.”

  Gillette nodded somberly.

  “Christian.” Debbie’s voice blared through the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  “Allison wants to see you.”

  Faraday rolled his eyes and rose from the chair. “We still on for lunch today?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’m not going to be preempted by Miss Wallace, am I?”

  Gillette shook his head. “Never, Nigel. You’re my right-hand man.”

  “Yeah, yeah, heard that one before.”

  “Well, well,” Allison spoke up as she replaced Faraday in the doorway. “The conquering hero returns.”

  Gillette tried to hide a grin.

 
“Pretty proud of yourself, huh?”

  “Just glad to be here.”

  Allison sat in the chair and sniffed. “Thought I was working with the Mob, did you?” she asked, her tone turning edgy.

  “After sleeping outside for two nights, I wasn’t really sure what to think,” he replied, catching her quick glance at his left hand. “I was just trying to stay alive. And no, I didn’t go do anything stupid in Antigua.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I didn’t get married.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You were looking at my ring finger,” he said. “I saw you.”

  Allison grinned. “Oh, you did, did you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, why would getting married be stupid?”

  Gillette shrugged. “Ah, I meant impulsive.”

  “Why weren’t you impulsive?” Allison wanted to know. “Don’t you love her?”

  Gillette hesitated. “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “You should. A lot of guys all over the country do right now. I got a load of her on the new album cover yesterday.” Allison held out her hand and shook it slowly. “Whew. She’s hot.”

  “She does look good.”

  “Of course, they can do a lot of things with those digital photos now. You know, to hide the flaws.”

  Gillette grinned. “Well, Allison Wallace, I never would have thought you’d—”

  “I want to give you a quick update,” she interrupted. “Veramax is moving forward fast. Rothchild is into the Racquet Club, and what do you know? The company’s products are on the fast track at the FDA.”

  “Yeah, what do you know?”

  “We’ve got a meeting with this guy who owns the leasing company in Pittsburgh on Wednesday,” she continued. “Here. Ten A.M.”

  “Okay.”

  “And I’ve got two other deals going. No need to go over the details with you yet. Probably another few days until we do that.”

  He watched her tick quickly down the list. She was such a natural-born rainmaker. “Just let me know.”

  Allison stood up. “That’s it. Maybe we can have lunch at some point.”

  “Hey,” Gillette called as she neared the door.

  “What?”

  “What about those conditions?” he asked, standing and coming out from behind the desk.