by J. B. Turner
Wilson loved the way his son hugged and cuddled his children, unlike how he himself had treated Marshall, with a disciplined and more old-fashioned style of parenting.
His cell phone vibrated again. He checked the caller ID and saw it was Richard Stanton.
“Richard, it’ll have to be brief,” Wilson said. “I’m meeting my son for lunch.”
“I’d been hoping to hear that we had concluded matters.”
Wilson turned away from the bartender, lowering his voice. “You’re not the only one. I expected word last night. The last time I spoke to him, it was imminent. Those were his words.”
Stanton went quiet for a few moments. “Do you think everything is OK?”
“I suspect there’s been some change of plan, probably fine-tuning preparations to get it done.”
Stanton said nothing.
“You’re not convinced?”
“I know the handler, our point man. He’s the best there is.” A ringing sounded in the background. “That’s a call I need to take. We’ll speak later tonight.”
Wilson finished his drink and left a twenty-dollar tip for the bartender.
“Enjoy your day, sir,” the man said as Wilson left.
Wilson left the premises and walked to the French brasserie. He was shown to his usual table, tucked away in a discreet corner far from prying eyes. His seat was facing the wall, the way he liked it. He ordered a bottle of still mineral water and a glass of Sancerre.
The waiter returned with the glass of wine and he took a large gulp.
“Very good,” he said.
The waiter smiled, gave a respectful bow, and left Wilson alone with his thoughts.
Over the years, as he had watched Marshall become a father, the more he had begun to realize what he’d missed all those decades earlier. But it was a different time then. A different way for men to behave.
His job, he’d been told by his authoritarian father, was to provide and protect. And he had done this. But the natural way his son had bonded with his own children was something to behold. Wilson felt oddly envious.
He sipped some more of the Sancerre, savoring the subtle flavors.
There was a tap on his shoulder and he turned around.
Staring down at him was Nathan Stone, grinning like a madman.
Thirty-Six
Nathan sat down and ordered a glass of “whatever he’s having twice, please” and smiled across the table at the corpulent figure of Wilson. “I love this place, Clayton. I can see why you like it.”
Wilson looked at Nathan as if he’d seen a ghost, his face turning a sickly shade of gray.
“The thing is, being away from New York for so long, it’s great to see a nice part of the city. They say downtown’s where it’s at these days. But I don’t know. This is pretty good, right?”
Wilson leaned in close. “What the fuck is this?”
Nathan grinned. “Always liked the feel of the old-money side of town. Great access to Central Park, right?”
“I asked you a question.”
“Clayton,” Nathan said, his voice now a whisper, “here’s how it’s going to work. I’m going to talk and you’re going to listen.”
“I have no idea what this is all about, but you need to get out of here before I call the cops.”
“Really? And say what exactly, Clayton? ‘Yeah, there’s this guy, we hire him to kill people for us, and he seems like he’s ready to go fucking rogue again. Can you help me?’”
Wilson stared at him.
“So are we good?”
“What do you want?”
Nathan felt seriously crazy. “Why does everyone think I want something? I don’t understand.”
The waiter arrived at the table with two glasses. “Are we expecting your son for lunch, Mr. Wilson?”
Wilson looked up with hooded eyes. “He’s running late.”
The waiter gave a polite nod and left them alone.
Nathan put the glass of Sancerre to his lips and breathed in the fragrant bouquet. “Fine wines at lunch, Clayton, huh? What a great way to live. Bet they didn’t serve that at the Langley cafeteria. It’s a bitch trying to get executive chefs with top-level security clearance. But hey, someone’s got to do it, right?” He took a small gulp and savored the cool wine as it slid down his throat.
Wilson’s face flushed with anger. “What do you want? Do you want to get the conversation started?”
Nathan grinned and shook his head. “Do I want to get the conversation started? Is that the bullshit terminology that’s in vogue just now? I mean, Clayton, really, language like that!”
Wilson began to grind his teeth.
“Have we become, as a species,” Nathan continued, “so afraid to call a spade a spade that our language is now too warm, fuzzy, nonthreatening? Politically correct speech as opposed to free speech. You know what I’m talking about?”
“Sounds like you’ve been reading up on cultural Marxism.”
“Indeed I have. What a revelation that the Frankfurt School had such an impact on America via our once-great colleges and universities. Gender. Race. Ethnicity. Sexuality. We’re supposed to care about shit like that. Changing our actions and thoughts to make us afraid. Afraid to say what we think. What we want.”
Clayton sneered. “I want you to tell me what the fuck you want.”
“That’s better. That’s a whole lot better, Clayton. I like that.” Nathan knocked back the rest of the white wine and sighed. “What do I want? I want my sister back.”
Wilson just sat and stared, his gray-blue eyes unblinking.
“Do you want to know why?”
Wilson said nothing, like he was still in shock.
“She’s family. The only family I’ve got. And you had no right encroaching on her life.”
“How did you find me?”
Nathan just smiled.
“You’ve crossed the line.”
“I’ve crossed the line? Are you kidding me?”
Wilson took a sip of his wine and flashed a fake smile at the waiter. Then he leaned in close to Nathan. “You better not be here when my son arrives.”
“Why not?”
“He’s a friend of the mayor. The cops love my son. He invests their hard-earned money in emerging markets and tech firms for them. One call and they’ll blow you to pieces. And I mean they shoot first, then ask questions.”
“You really don’t get it. It’s like you and your kind are impervious to what’s going on in the real world. Content to play little games. Is that what this is about? Playing geopolitical games. I wonder what the cops will think when I tell them you and your gang—because that’s what you are—got Senator Brad Crichton deleted.”
Wilson looked long and hard at Nathan, as if studying him. “I don’t think this is the right place or time to discuss such matters, do you?”
“Quite the contrary. This is the perfect place.”
“Do you think this is going to end well?”
“Depends who we’re talking about, Clayton. Where I’m sitting, I’m not worried, let me tell you that. How about you?”
“Do you think this will end well for your sister, Nathan?”
“I guess we’ll find out soon enough. What about you?”
“What about me?”
“How do you think things will end up for you?”
Wilson edged a couple inches closer. His breath smelled of cigars and booze. “Don’t fuck with me.”
“But I am fucking with you. Question is, How are you going to respond?”
Wilson was breathing hard. “You were supposed to carry out a job for us.”
“You haven’t answered my question. How are you going to respond?”
“You need to keep your side of the deal.”
“Thing is, Clayton, there was no deal. A deal requires mutual agreement. This is a one-way street, isn’t it?”
“You need to finish the job. And then we’ll talk.”
“You don’t seem to have figured out th
at your position is weaker than you think.”
“Anything happens to me, your sister . . .” His words trailed off as he finished his glass of Sancerre. The waiter approached and refilled his glass and Nathan’s before leaving them in peace again.
“You’re going to kill her anyway, aren’t you?”
Wilson’s cheeks flushed.
“I’ve already factored that into my calculations. So you see, Clayton, I have absolutely nothing to lose.”
“She’s still alive. And she’ll stay that way.”
Nathan smiled. “As long as I proceed with the request?”
“Yes, the request needs to be fulfilled, and then, and only then, will you two be reunited.”
“Where is she? And no bullshit.”
“She’s safe.”
“Where exactly?”
“And why would I tell you that?”
Nathan smiled, enjoying the verbal joust. He looked over at the other diners in the brasserie. “Nice crowd.” He faced Wilson. “Just to be clear, are you refusing to tell me where my sister is being kept?”
Wilson said nothing, sipping his second glass of wine. “You need to choose, Nathan. Do you want this charade to continue, or do you want to move on with your life? I’m giving you the opportunity to move on. Your actions in Scotland were . . . somewhat erratic, shall we say. And they cost people I know, good people, an awful lot of money. It was extremely troubling. I thought you’d see the opportunity to redeem yourself as the act of kindness it was intended to be.”
Nathan mimicked Wilson’s mannerisms and voice. “I never had you figured as a humanitarian, Clayton.”
“You know nothing about me, son.”
“I knew you were going to be here for lunch, didn’t I? How would I know that?”
The waiter approached slowly, and a silence hung over the table. The man cleared his throat. “Apologies for interrupting, gentlemen, but are we still waiting for the younger Mr. Wilson?”
Wilson said, “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll have my usual. Veal with caramelized onions. And a bottle of Sancerre and two fresh glasses for the table.”
The waiter nodded. “Very good, sir.” He turned to Nathan. “And you, sir?”
“The same as my gracious host, thank you so much.”
The waiter smiled. “Very good choice, sir.”
He took the menus off the table. A few moments later, he returned with the bottle of wine and refilled their glasses.
Wilson toyed with his glass of wine before taking a large sip. “Very nice.”
Nathan’s gaze wandered around the room. “So this is what it’s all about, right? The freedom to choose. The freedom to sit in restaurants. The opportunity to live as free men and women. You gotta love this country.”
“I do. From the very depths of my soul. And that’s why we do so much to protect it, don’t we?”
The minutes dragged until the food arrived. Nathan was devising a plan in his head as he ate the delicious food.
“This is great, Clayton. Knockout.”
Wilson was chewing hard on the succulent veal. He leaned in close. “I know what you’re going to do.”
“And what’s that?”
Wilson pointed the fork at him. “You’re going to threaten me. Maybe harm me. As leverage.”
“I love your imagination, Clayton. Really refreshing.”
“Listen here, son, I’ve been all over. You don’t fucking scare me. Nothing scares me.”
“Is that your final word?”
“What the fuck do you want? Be reasonable!”
“My sister returned unharmed to me.”
“That could happen. But we need business to be taken care of. That’s not up for negotiation.”
Nathan sensed that Wilson might be slightly more amenable after the drinks. “You need to do me a favor.”
“What?”
“I need to know where she is.”
“Why do you need to know that?”
“Put yourself in my position. Wouldn’t you want to know?”
Wilson paused from eating and was quiet for a couple of minutes. “I was wondering why I hadn’t heard from the handler.”
“So was I. I thought the whole thing had gone south.”
“And you decided to try and find me.”
“I haven’t heard from him in thirty-six hours.”
Wilson turned and looked around as the restaurant door opened. “My son is running late.” He turned to face Nathan. “Listen, I don’t want you meeting him.”
“Why not?”
Wilson shook his head. “I just don’t.”
“Well, you need to call them. Right now. And say you want her moved.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“No call, no deal. I’ll just hang around until your son turns up.”
Wilson pulled out his cell phone and dialed a number.
“Tell them it’s only a text message from you that can change this decision.”
“Trent? Yes, I’d like the patient moved to the original residence.” He frowned and nodded. “With immediate effect. The decision is final, unless I contact you by text.” He sighed. “Got it?”
“I want to speak to her,” Nathan said.
“Get the girl on the line.”
Wilson handed him the phone, and he pressed it tight to his ear.
“Hello?” The shaking voice of his sister.
“Hey, sis, guess who?”
“Nathan, they say we might be going somewhere.”
“Ask them where.” His sister repeated his request. A man’s voice said, “Back to your room at the hospital.”
Nathan said, “See, I told you it was going to be fine. Just do as the men say and you’ll be fine. I love you.” He ended the call and knocked the cell phone against a glass, seeming to drop the device under the table. “Damn.” He reached under, pulled the syringe that contained the depolarizing agent from his pocket. Then he gently jabbed it into Wilson’s right knee. There was a sound of moaning. He took the syringe out of Wilson’s leg and placed it carefully back in his inside pocket.
Nathan sat back in his seat, Wilson’s cell phone in his pocket, and saw Wilson—his back to the rest of the diners—drooling, face dark red, clutching his chest, eyes wide open.
He took a few moments to savor the horror in the man’s eyes.
Nathan slowly got up from the table and calmly walked out of the restaurant, past the other diners. The drug, sux, which he had decided not to use on Mahoney, had paralyzed Wilson, inducing a massive heart attack.
Nathan headed down the East Side street and dropped the syringe into a storm drain, knowing that in less than ninety seconds Wilson would be dead. He hailed a cab.
“Where to, pal?” the driver asked.
“Chelsea. West Twenty-Fourth Street.”
The driver pulled away.
Nathan was on the move again. He looked back and saw the waiter standing outside looking around, as if they’d suddenly discovered Wilson gasping for breath. Nathan took out Wilson’s cell phone and scrolled through the emails. He saw invites to a “members only” meeting at an island in Florida. He scrolled further back, ten months earlier, and saw an invite from Wilson to the rest of the Commission to another “emergency members only” meeting in New York. It listed an address. The code for the entrance to the townhouse in the Upper East Side used exclusively for “our business meetings.”
He copied and pasted the exact wording of the email, changing the date to the following evening at nine. Then he wrote a one-sentence addition:
A situation has arisen and we need to meet to discuss our options in NY, usual address.
Then he sent it to the other four men.
Thirty-Seven
Mark Mahoney was forcing himself to put on a brave face in the kitchen of his Chelsea loft apartment on West Twenty-Fourth Street as his wife made him coffee. The kids were playing games noisily on the PS4 in the next room.
Mahoney looked out the windo
w, the world going on around him as usual.
“Honey,” his wife said, handing him a cup of coffee, “I’m worried about you.”
Mahoney snapped back to reality. “No, I’m fine. Like I said, just been at it too long.”
“I’m wondering if this assignment, and being away for so long, is hurting our relationship.”
Mahoney nodded and gulped some of the fresh coffee. “I don’t know. My mind’s racing a bit. My heart’s pounding.”
“I think we should get you checked out. Dr. Merton will see you whenever it’s convenient, you know that. Remember when you had that spell about a year ago?”
“That was just low blood sugar. I’m fine.”
“Did you eat the banana I gave you?”
Mahoney rolled his eyes. “Yes, I ate my banana.”
His wife looked hurt at his snappish response.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to bite your head off.”
“I know.” She sighed. “How long do you think you’ll be back for?”
“Not sure. I thought I was locked on to this story, but now I’m not so sure.”
“What’s changed?”
“I’ve changed.”
His wife nodded empathetically.
“It doesn’t seem so important. I want to be with you and the kids. All the time. Every day. I want to work from home. How does that sound?”
“My God, Mark, that’s great. Unexpected but great. Are you sure? What about money?”
“I’ve just got to clear my head.”
His wife sipped some of her coffee, cradling the mug in her hands. “Do you need some time to think?”
“I’ve got so much to think about.”
“Go outside and get some fresh air. Go for a walk. You’re back in New York. Go enjoy it.”
Mahoney gulped down the rest of his coffee. “I just wanted you to know I love you. I hope you know that.”
“I want you to be happy, Mark. If work isn’t making you happy for whatever reason, leave.”
“We’ve got commitments, though. Private school fees aren’t cheap. And that’s before we talk about the rent for this apartment.”
“Hey, if necessary, we take the kids out of school, put them in public school, or I’ll teach them here.”
“You’d do that?”