Although that very question had troubled Michael for weeks, he remained silent, watchful, wondering where Cain was taking this.
Cain shrugged. He stepped away from the window and started pacing the room. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe you did spend it all. Maybe you became so comfortable with your success, that you took all the books and all the films and all the money for granted. If that’s the case, Mr. Archer, then someone should teach you a lesson in handling money.”
There was a silence. Cain stopped pacing and removed from his jacket pocket a small box of matches and a pack of Gitanes cigarettes. He struck a match, lit the cigarette and shook out the flame. It wasn’t until he turned to look for a place to put the match that he stopped to look at the desk beside Michael’s bed. On it were several empty cans of Diet Coke, innumerable magazine and newspaper clippings, a typewriter and a small stack of neatly typed pages that resembled a manuscript.
Cain tossed the match to the floor, stepped on it. He picked up the stack of papers, thumbed through them and looked sideways at Michael. “This your new book?”
Michael didn’t answer. When he first learned what his father wanted in return for paying off Santiago, he started writing the book, knowing that if he gave his agent several chapters and a proposal, she would be able to sell it-and he himself could pay off Santiago.
Ninety pages were written. Before today’s event, he planned on finishing the proposal tomorrow morning, knowing that if his agent could sell it before week’s end, he would be rid of his father forever. And now this man held it in his hands-the only existing result of his hard work. As Cain began reading the novel’s first chapter out loud, Michael lowered his hand to his side. The gun was inches away.
Fifth Avenue
A novel by:
Michael Archer
Book One
First week
CHAPTER ONE
July
New York City
The bombs, placed high above Fifth Avenue on the roof of The Redman International Building, would explode in five minutes.
Now, with its mirrored walls of glass reflecting Fifth Avenue’s thick, late-morning traffic, the building itself seemed alive with movement.
On scaffolding at the building’s middle, men and women were hanging the enormous red velvet ribbon that would soon cover sixteen of Redman International’s seventy-nine stories. High above on the roof, a lighting crew was moving ten spotlights into position. And inside, fifty skilled decorators were turning the lobby into a festive ballroom.
Celina Redman, who was in charge of organizing the event, stood before the building with her arms folded. Streams of people were brushing past her on the sidewalk, some glancing up at the red ribbon, others stopping to glance in surprise at her. She tried to ignore them, tried to focus on her work and become one with the crowd, but it was difficult. Just that morning, her face and this building had been on the cover of every major paper in New York.
While Cain read, Michael glanced at the man standing in the doorway, saw that his attention was on Cain, and started to slide a hand under the mattress.
But it wouldn’t fit. The weight of his body was pressing the mattress and box spring together. He turned slightly, carefully, and shifted his weight onto one thigh. The mattress lifted an inch and he was able to force a hand inside. He could feel the cool butt of the revolver. His fingertips pressed against it. He looked up at Cain, saw that his concentration was still focused on the manuscript and knew that if he was going to do this, the time was now. At the same moment he wrapped his fingers around the gun, Cain finished reading the first chapter.
He looked at him. “What is this?” he asked. “Nonfiction?”
For a moment, Michael couldn’t move or speak. Cain was standing diagonally across from him, no more than ten feet away. Neither he nor the man in the doorway could see where his hand was. He leaned forward, using the action to pull out the gun. The bed creaked. Michael began to sweat.
“That’s debatable,” he said.
“It says here that it’s a novel. If that’s so, then how can you use these names? These events and these places?”
Michael shrugged. The gun was now pressed against his thigh, hidden from sight. “That’s a problem for my lawyers to figure out. If things get out of hand, maybe I’ll use a pseudonym for protection.”
“It’s a shame,” Cain said. “I bet this would have been a good read.”
Michael tightened his grip on the gun. Would have been?
“And I bet you would have made a bundle-probably even enough money to pay off Santiago.” He looked at Michael. “Isn’t that what this is for? These chapters, this letter of proposal? A last ditch effort to pay off Santiago? I’m not a stupid man, Mr. Archer. I can see right through you. The fear in your eyes is only slightly masked by your hatred of me. But I can understand that. I hold in my hand hours upon hours of your hard work. If I destroyed this, and if you were unable to pay off Santiago, he would rehire me and I would come back in a week to finish a job that I should have been allowed to finish today.”
He looked thoughtfully at the manuscript.
“Actually, I could use the extra money. There’s a little villa in Nice that I’d love to spend my winters at.”
Motionless, Michael watched Cain hold the manuscript over the metal waste basket at his feet. And then the man dropped the pages into the basket. The sound they made was like the rapid beating of wings.
Before Michael could react, Cain reached into his jacket pocket, removed the box of matches, struck one against the side of the box and dropped it into the can. There was a moment when Michael thought the match had gone out, but then a flickering yellow flower began to bloom.
And he knew it was time.
He leapt to his feet, revealed the gun and aimed it at a surprised Ethan Cain. He glanced over at the man standing at the door and saw that his gun was drawn and pointed directly at him. “You shoot, and so do I,” Michael said. He turned back to Cain. “Put out the fire. Now.”
Cain backed away from the basket, his hands at his sides, the fire reflected in the glass of his spectacles. “No,” he said.
“Do it!” Michael shouted.
“No.”
The fire grew in intensity. He didn’t have much time. He kicked the metal basket in an attempt to tip it over and knock out the fire, but the basket spun across the hardwood floor like a fiery comet, stopping with a metallic clank beneath the open window, where the curtains moved in the air.
There was a sudden burst of orange as the curtains ignited. With fresh air coming into the room, the fire had its fuel and it used it to roar and churn. It tasted the dry, cheap fabric and it twisted with surprising speed toward the stained ceiling, not stopping until that, too, was alight with fire.
And still the fire grew, creeping along the walls and ceiling, destroying everything it touched. Michael turned to Cain, who was staring at him, his gaze unwavering, daring. There was a bitter smile on his lips. Bits of fire and sparks were falling all around him from the ceiling. The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable.
Michael lifted the gun to the man’s head, cocked the trigger and heard a similar sound from across the room. He knew that if he pulled the trigger, his life also would end. After all he had been through, he wondered if that was such a bad thing.
“You don’t have the guts to do it, do you?” Cain said.
Michael’s eyes began to water. He wasn’t sure if it was from the smoke filling the room, or from the fact that he was facing certain death. He wondered if his father ever really loved him. And then he realized it didn’t matter.
He pulled the trigger.
There were two explosions.
Cain’s face erupted in a cloud of blood and he went down like a tenpin. Michael collapsed to his knees and fell to one side. As he lay there, his breathing slowing, the heat from the fire warming his already paling face, he knew he was dying. As bright as the room was, Michael was losing sight of it.
Breathing wasn’t an option.
He choked on his last few breaths and swore his father to hell.
He was floating now, lifting, no longer a part of his body. He saw his mother’s face but couldn’t hear her voice.
And then there was a flash of bright light and a sudden, terrible darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“There’s this little party tonight,” Celina said, steeling herself while she leaned through the doorway of Jack Douglas’ office at Redman International. “It’s in honor of two events-the work Countess Castellani has done for HIV research, and the recent discovery of twelve Monet paintings in the attic of a famous Parisian brothel. Now, look. I know you dislike these types of events, but it’s being held on Anastassios Fondaras’ yacht, which is the largest private yacht in the world, so that alone should be interesting. I was wondering if you’d like to join me.”
Jack grinned. “Did you just say, Countess Castellani?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Is she a real person or a reality star?”
“I don’t know how to answer that-parts of her are real. And she’s very nice in a complicated way.”
He groaned.
“It’s for a good cause.”
“Agreed.”
“And you’ll like Anastassios.”
“What is it with these names?”
“They’re the international set.”
“Oh,” he said. “Well, I’m the American set.”
“They’re good people. They just have titles.”
“How much did they pay for those titles.”
“Depends on the method of payment. Are we talking cash or something else?”
“Let’s not go there.”
She cracked a smile. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but it is what it is. I don’t want to go either, but I have no choice.”
He was seated at the desk that used to belong to Eric Parker, feet up and crossed on the shiny wood surface. Empty coffee cups and paperwork concerning the takeover of WestTex surrounded him. “If I go, can I borrow your father’s dinner jacket again?”
“Only if your car breaks down and it rains.”
“Then I’d better start praying for both,” he said. “Everything I own is at the cleaner’s.” He lifted his feet from the desk and stood. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“If you hate these events so much, why do you go to them?”
“Because it makes my father happy,” she said, stepping into the room. “And it's smart business. He always said you never know when or where you’ll strike a deal. And these are the sorts of events where deals are made.”
“All right,” Jack said. “I can see that. But something tells me you want more out of life than just striking a deal.” There was a silence while he glanced out the windows before him. Even at this height, the buzz and activity of midtown was noticeable.
“Have you ever been bungee jumping?” he asked.
“Excuse me?”
“Bungee jumping. Don't tell me you haven't heard of it. You strap a heavy elastic cord around your ankles, dive off a cliff or a bridge, and plummet to a body of water, usually a river or stream. It’s fun. Just when you think you’re about to hit the water, the bungee slows your fall and you snap away from it, bouncing back into mid-air, where you start to fall again.”
Celina looked at him. “You do this?”
“I sky dive too.”
“What are you, Indiana Jones?”
“I was thinking more of a Jason Bourne.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“I just like to live.”
“Sounds to me like a good way to die.”
“Oh, come on,” he said. “It’s completely safe. Where’s your sense of adventure? Look-I’ll tell you what. I’ll go to this party with you tonight if you go bungee jumping with me tomorrow morning. There’s this place in Upstate New York that I go to with friends. Very peaceful. Just trees and birds and mosquitoes-not a building or a takeover in sight. And I can guarantee you that after the jump, you’ll never look at life the same way again. You game?”
Celina saw the challenge in his eyes and nodded. “I’m game,” she said. “But we do it blindfolded.”
Jack laughed. “Lady, you got yourself a deal.”
When Celina returned to her office, she found her father there, near her desk, arms folded. “I just got off the phone with Ted Frostman,” he said.
Celina remained in the doorway. They had waited days to hear back from him. “And?”
“We’ve got them,” he said. “Ted called a few minutes ago to say that Chase has run its due diligence, and that the right people are impressed. They want to back us.”
Celina felt as though a weight had been lifted from her. They were coming down to the wire. Within a week, the exact date of the Navy’s move into the Gulf would become public. If WestTex wasn’t theirs by then, the deal with Iran would collapse and they would have to call off everything. And lose billions in the process.
She went to her desk and sat. “Tell me what you know. Do we have a commitment from Chase?”
George started to pace, energy coming off him in waves. “Not yet. First, they want to discuss fees, our deal with management, the possibility of outside investors, etcetera.”
“How comfortable are they with Iran?”
“That’s the sticking point,” George said. “Big surprise there. Some feel the deal is too shaky. A few nearly backed out because of it.”
Celina understood that. Even she was concerned with the verbal agreement her father had secured with Iran. On more than one occasion, she wondered what would happen if, on the day WestTex became theirs, Iran decided to back out. We would lose everything, she thought.
“The good news is that they know I’d never risk Redman International if I didn’t feel this deal was going to fly. I’m meeting with Ted and a few select members of Chase today.”
“Want me to come along?”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You’ve got enough work to keep you busy here.”
Celina looked at the files stacked on her desk, at the reports she had yet to read. That, she thought, is an understatement.
“I’ll tell you what happened later,” he said. “You’re going to the Fondaras party?”
“Jack’s coming with me.”
George lifted an eyebrow. “Really…?” he said.
“It’s not what you think. We’re just friends.”
“Of course.”
“I didn’t want to go alone.”
“Who would?”
A beat of silence passed. The moment stretched.
“But he is kind of cute, isn’t he?” Celina said.
There was a mischievous look in George’s eyes when he started toward the door. “Wait until I tell your mother,” he said.
Clouds were moving in from the west when Celina and Jack left the limousine and started up the ramp to the Crystal Princess. Jack was in black dinner jacket, Celina was in a simple white evening dress. A river-cooled breeze that smelled faintly of salt was in the air, as were the light sounds of an orchestra.
A group of reporters were gathered along each side of the red-carpeted ramp. Cameras flashing, microphones raised, the paparazzi called out to them as they passed.
“You’re looking great, Celina. Would you turn this way, please?”
“Word’s out you’re leaving for Iran soon. Where does the takeover of WestTex stand now?”
“Can you at least give us your reaction on what happened to Eric Parker.”
That got her. Celina squeezed Jack’s hand and put a smile on her face as he handed an elegantly uniformed butler the invitation for Celina Redman and Guest.
As they stood there, she became aware of people looking at her. She heard Eric Parker’s name mentioned more than once and though she tried to ignore it, she couldn’t. She was beginning to wonder if coming to this party was a good idea when the butl
er led them to the reception line and called out their names.
Anastassios Fondaras, the Greek shipping tycoon and their billionaire host, held out his arms to Celina as she and Jack approached.
“Celina,” he said, enveloping her in a hug. “It’s been what? A year? Two?”
A camera flashed as Fondaras kissed Celina’s cheek.
“Two, I think,” Celina said. She pulled back so they stood at arm's length. “And look at you,” she said. “I’ve never seen you so tan. Retirement is suiting you, Anastassios.”
“Retirement?” Anastassios Fondaras said with a shrug. “Retirement is a term I use so I can sleep an extra hour each morning without feeling guilty. You don’t think I’d give up control of my ships just because I’ve passed the golden age of sixty-five, do you?”
“I hope not.”
“Your parents are here somewhere,” Fondaras said with a glance around the deck. “Haven’t seen either of them in years. They looked wonderful. Your mother looks better each time I see her.” When his gaze settled back on Celina, something in his eyes darkened. “Rumor has it that your father’s planning a move into the shipping business.”
It’s more than just a rumor, Celina thought. And you know it. She nodded, and hated that she was made to feel somewhat guarded. Although Fondaras was a friend, he was cunning when it came to discussing business and she never trusted him because of it.
“Tough business,” Anastassios said. “Lots of competition out there-including me.”
“I think there’s enough trade to go around, don’t you?”
“I’ve never thought there was enough trade to go around.”
“It’s a big world, Anastassios.”
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