Behind Davis was her personal bodyguard, the one that looked so much like her. Her arm was in a sling, but she appeared to be just as dangerous as always. After that came another wheelchair, this one pushed by Castillo. Margaurethe’s leg jutted straight out ahead of her.
“So she was injured,” Nijmege said. “Sad she survived. It would have made for a wonderful opportunity.”
Her voice was loud enough to carry to others around them. McCall glanced about, seeing scowls and calculating expressions directed Nijmege’s way. Margaurethe O’Toole was a powerful woman from an affluent family. Her demise would have caused sorrow for many despite her association with Davis. Rosenberg and Bentoncourt didn’t deign to react to the crude statement, but Cassadie gave her a withering look. Turning to his companion, McCall saw a wicked gleam in her eye. And so the insults begin. He observed as the wheelchairs and guards entered the elevator.
The applause faded as the elevator doors closed. A gentle murmur began to fill the air, cutting off as the herald made another announcement. “Hear me! Hear me! Ninsumgal Davis will entertain visitors this afternoon and throughout her convalescence. Please contact the main security desk in the lobby to arrange an appointment.” The herald gave a smart bow and ducked back into the clinic to avoid further questioning.
Around McCall the crowd noisily broke ranks. Guards remained stationed at the various doors, but the elevators now began brisk business as representatives standing on the floor headed for the lobby to arrange their appointments. The stairs cleared off with equal alacrity. He shook his head at the delegates’ zeal. Chances were that a rudimentary schedule had already been penciled out. All these fools would be doing was confirming an appointment Davis’s people had already put into place. Besides, it was doubtful she’d be accepting visitors within the hour.
Bentoncourt seemed to believe the same as he stood aside to allow other more excitable envoys to stampede past. The grim expression he’d held since the accident hadn’t changed despite visual evidence that Davis was recuperating from her injuries. Once the last people passed them, he lifted his gaze to stare at Nijmege. “Sad she survived?” he repeated.
Nijmege flushed but tucked her chin in defiance. “I certainly do not wish Ki’an Gasan Margaurethe ill, but her demise would have created a wonderful opportunity.”
“For what? The pain and suffering of her family would outweigh any ‘opportunity’ you could have used, don’t you think?” Cassadie grunted in disgust. “Aren’t the O’Tooles allies of yours? If I recall correctly, you and Tireachan go back several centuries.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want to cause him or Orlaith such pain, but I can’t deny that such a tragedy could have opened up avenues which we could have exploited for our benefit.” Nijmege stared down at Cassadie, imperious. “And neither can you.”
“Perhaps the Sweet Butcher has returned,” he responded with uncharacteristic venom, giving Nijmege a scathing once-over. “You’ve come to embody everything that was horrible about her.”
McCall watched as Nijmege’s blush drained from her face, her expression slack with shock before anger twisted it into something more familiar. She bared her teeth, hissing. He briefly wondered if he should intercede when Rosenberg stepped up beside her, grabbing her upper arm.
“Aiden is not your enemy, Bertrada.”
She struggled with her fury, visibly trembling with the force of it as she panted. Several long moments passed before she jerked her chin upright in resignation. She looked away, drawing a deep breath to bolster herself, yanking her arm out of Rosenberg’s grip. Without another word, she whisked up the stairs and away from her colleagues.
“You’re with her, then?”
McCall returned his attention to Cassadie, seeing he was speaking to Rosenberg. Intrigued, he wondered when Rosenberg had changed his stance on Nijmege’s plans for revenge.
“This is something she has strived for since Nahib’s death. If we do not allow her the opportunity to complete this attempt, she will be worthless as a sanari.”
Cassadie cursed as McCall’s eyebrows rose. “If she completes this attempt, our people may never survive.”
Rosenberg remained stoic. “She will go forward with this whether we agree with her or not. I have seen nothing yet that would assure me that Ms. Davis won’t become a duplicate of her predecessor. How she handles this personal misfortune will say much about her.”
“So this is just a psychological experiment for you? See if Davis can withstand personal loss without reverting to the Sweet Butcher’s tactics?” Cassadie took a step backward, putting distance between them. “I have to go before I say or do something I’ll regret.” Without another word, he spun about and headed for the now clear elevator landing below.
“Remember our meeting tomorrow,” Bentoncourt called after him. Cassadie raised a negligent hand, not turning back as he waited for the next conveyance. Bentoncourt turned his attention back to McCall and Rosenberg. “I believe I shall head to the lobby and see to an appointment. I doubt you’ll be coming with me…?” At their negative response, he nodded. “Good day. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
McCall watched him go. A moment later, Rosenberg followed him without a word, leaving McCall alone on the stairs. He turned to scan the foyer below, seeing that the guards had cleared out during the Agrun Nam’s rather public spat. He replayed the scene in his head as he walked to the base of the steps. The political ramifications of anyone having overheard Cassadie’s tantrum would be minimal. He pushed the call button. It was more likely that Rosenberg’s stance on the issue would create more havoc than balance. Something like that could stir the pot in some political circles, give McCall some meat and bone upon which to chew, some weapons to use in his ultimate goal.
An elevator car opened for him. In the mirror on the back wall, he thought he saw movement behind his shoulder. Startled, he whirled to look into the presumably empty foyer. The doors began to close and he held out one hand to stop them. Reaching out with his mind, he scanned the area. A number of Sanguire essences could be found—sensations and smells of amber, steel, snow upon the skin, sea air, and a half-dozen others—but none close enough for him to assume they were in the room with him. He jumped when the elevator alarm began to buzz incessantly.
Pulling back, he allowed the door to slowly close, pushing the button for the third floor. Not for the first time he wished he knew what Dorst felt like. For all he knew, Davis’s chief spy had been lurking in the shadows under the stairs and had heard the entire argument.
He stared up at the blue numbers changing on the digital readout. Nothing to be done for it now.
Chapter Twenty
Bentoncourt stood as the double doors leading to Davis’s apartment opened, his personal guard in position beside him. He’d arrived on the sixteenth floor several minutes ago, making himself comfortable on a padded bench near the security desk. A pair of Mayans emerged from Davis’s sanctum, speaking quietly to one another as two of the six guards in the corridor moved into escort positions behind them. Bentoncourt recognized, from previous political functions over the decades, one of the visitors as the Mayan’s chief delegate. His companion was also familiar, and it took a moment to place him. Ah, Pacal, Davis’s martial arts instructor. Unobtrusive, Bentoncourt studied the most virile of the pair. This was the man in charge of training Davis in hand-to-hand combat. The elevator arrived and they entered without their guards. Bentoncourt mused on the differences between European and Mayan fighting capabilities as the elevator closed on them. The attention of the two guards turned toward him, and he set aside his wandering thoughts.
The double doors had remained open, and Valmont strolled into the hall with a wicked smile on his dark face. “Lionel! Are you ready to see her?”
He nodded. “I am.”
Valmont made a show of looking beyond Bentoncourt’s shoulder, ignoring the Agrun Nam guard standing there. “No one else wished to visit? I thought for certain that Aiden would jump at the chance to fawn.
He does love the pretty ladies.”
In normal circumstances Valmont would have been correct, though more for the social-political reason rather than romanticism, but Nijmege’s ill-spoken words mere hours ago had infuriated Cassadie beyond even his evenhanded ways. Bentoncourt studied Valmont’s sardonic grin, unable to discern whether or not Davis’s security had picked up the Agrun Nam’s public disaffection with one another. “Unfortunately, he had prior business.”
Clicking his tongue in feigned regret, Valmont attempted a contrite expression. “That’s too bad. Perhaps another time.” He turned toward the double doors, sweeping his left arm out in a gesture of welcome. “After you.”
Bentoncourt indicated his personal guard was to remain behind, the aga’gída shifting into the vacated place. Valmont winked as he passed. The double doors opened onto a small vestibule with two doors. Davis’s personal bodyguard stood by the open right door, nodding him inside. Bentoncourt followed her instruction and stepped into a shallow but long chamber stretching to his right. Traditional American living room furniture filled this end of it, couches and armchairs clustered before a massive television screen and a cabinet of electronic gear. Several younglings from Davis’s pack gathered here, apparently playing a game. Though having not spent any time with them, Bentoncourt knew them on sight from intelligence dossiers. Two were missing, the two volatile and colorful brothers rumored to have perched beneath Dorst’s wing.
Valmont passed Bentoncourt, easing around the back of one couch to settle a hip there, arms crossed over his chest and a smug grin upon his lips. The blond bodyguard also walked past, slipping to the far end of the room, and Bentoncourt followed. Multiple sliding doors on his left displayed a terrace, the glass tinted a deep brown to ward off excessive sunlight. Not that such was a problem here during the winter months with the near constant clouds. An armchair from the gaming area had been positioned to accommodate the American Indian, Chano. He sat with his carved walking stick propped horizontally across its arms, his face a craggy stone. Several wooden chairs lined the patio doors, evidently from an absent dining set. Dikeledi sat in one of these, her back as ramrod straight as her chair, a teacup in one hand. Beside her was the American Indian woman who had wheeled Davis out of the clinic, Davis’s grandmother.
“Lionel, thank you for coming.” Where a dining table would naturally fit into the floor plan stood a hospital bed. Davis rested there, Margaurethe beside her in a wheelchair with one leg extended. Behind them, Castillo perched on a barstool near another door. The pale bodyguard had taken a position near him.
Bentoncourt finished scanning the room, noting a built-in bar to his right with a guard lurking inside near another door. “Thank you for inviting me, Ms. Davis.” He gave a respectful bow, carefully calculated to not offend nor indicate that she held the higher social standing between them. “I’m sure you’d much rather be resting.” And grieving.
She looked healthier than she had a right to after such a horrible accident. The resilience of youth, he supposed. A day and a half after emergency internal surgery and Davis sat abed without support. Her color was good and her eyes clear as they regarded him. For a brief moment, he entertained the notion that Nijmege was right, that despite apparent evidence to the contrary this youngling held Elisibet Vasillas’s barbarous soul and hid it behind a carefully constructed facade of naiveté and sympathy. In that split second, he imagined the flash of pique, the cruel curl of lip, and the narrowing of those eyes in fury before they pronounced bloody judgment upon him. The superimposed image caused his heart to stumble and trip, and he blinked the vision away. Davis’s gaze was indeed a narrow one, her brow furrowed with the grief she couldn’t publicly express during this dog and pony show.
A faint smile crossed Davis’s face. “Eventually I’d go stir-crazy. This might be tiring, but the entertainment factor is pretty high.”
He echoed her smile, slightly relaxing as he set aside his nightmare fears. “Such is the burden of leaders, I’m sorry to say. Especially one as prominent as yourself.”
She grimaced, indicating her belief regarding her importance. “I wanted to say that I’m sorry our talks will have to be postponed a few days. There’s no way Daniel will allow me to continue negotiations.” She glanced beyond Bentoncourt to her pack. “It was difficult enough to get him to agree to this.”
Bentoncourt lifted his chin in agreement. “You need to recuperate from your injuries.” His gaze flickered around the room, catching all the members of Davis’s board, ignoring the children with long ears in the conversation area. “As well as observe proper mourning for your family. You have the Agrun Nam’s condolences, Ms. Davis.” This time he bowed much lower than before, including the American Indians in his obeisance.
A bleak expression flickered across Davis’s face. “Thank you, Lionel.” She glanced away, lifting her chin not to concede a point to him but to prohibit an emotional outburst.
He politely looked elsewhere, allowing her the chance to regain her equilibrium. The adults in the room were more focused on Davis than him with the exception of Valmont who smirked back. When Davis cleared her throat, Bentoncourt returned his attention to her.
“I’m sorry you’ll be gone by the time we resume our dialogue.”
“Oh, I’ve made the decision to remain for the time being.” He held up both hands in supplication. “With your permission, of course. Aiden and I feel that we should remain available after this tragedy, at least for a few days longer.” Castillo, oddly enough, seemed pleased with the statement. He probably understood that Bentoncourt felt too uncomfortable leaving Nijmege behind. Bentoncourt restrained a public sigh and roll of the eyes, once again marveling at his masochistic desire to delve into politics all those centuries ago. All this posing and postulating gave him migraines.
Margaurethe nodded. “We’ll be glad to have you here, you need not ask permission.”
“Our door is always open to you, Lionel,” Davis added.
He studied Davis closely. Was there the slightest inflection on the word “you,” or did she refer to the entire Agrun Nam? Did her words suggest a hidden meaning beyond the statement? He reminded himself once again that while she might not be the Sweet Butcher he feared in his nightmares, Davis did have Elisibet’s depth of political cunning and experience. How much she actually used that information was the question. “Thank you.”
There wasn’t much else to say. These encounters had been arranged to allay everyone’s fears about Whiskey’s ability to continue her business and nothing else. She most certainly had dozens more appointments to see to before the end and her much needed respite. Before Bentoncourt could excuse himself, Castillo stood and approached. Taking the hint, Bentoncourt bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, Ms. Davis.”
“Of course. I’ll have Margaurethe contact you when we can resume our negotiations.”
“Thank you.”
Castillo gestured for Bentoncourt to precede him out of the room, followed by the blond bodyguard. The younglings were still engaged in their digital destruction, but the African and the doctor both had time to scrutinize him as he passed. The young woman was Dikeledi’s daughter, and the young man nearing the age when he should set aside childhood. As Bentoncourt stepped out into the vestibule and corridor, he idly wondered how much sway they held over their much younger leader.
Two members of the Chinese delegation stood stiff and proud in the hall. Bentoncourt nodded a greeting and entered the elevator he was shown to, somewhat surprised when Castillo joined him and his personal guard. The doors closed. “Making certain I reach my destination, Father?”
Castillo chuckled. “Nothing so sinister, Nam Lugal Bentoncourt. We realized that you may have more questions or comments than would be prudent to bring up in such an informal setting. I’m here to offer any assistance I can.”
Bentoncourt arched one eyebrow. “Do you have any further comment, Father?”
The priest seemed to debate a moment, glancing briefly at Bentoncourt’
s guard. “We are aware of what occurred downstairs this afternoon with the Agrun Nam,” he finally said. Before Bentoncourt could remark, he held up a hand. “Whiskey is not. She’s not yet well enough for this information.”
Bentoncourt contemplated their reflection in the mirror-like surface of the elevator doors. Having no witnesses to Nijmege’s vicious words had been too much for which to hope. “Then you’re the one with the questions.”
“Yes.”
The door opened on the third floor, but Bentoncourt refrained from stepping out. If anyone knew where in this entire building they could speak without concern for eavesdroppers it would be Castillo. Though Bentoncourt hadn’t been able to detect listening devices in his appointed quarters, that didn’t mean the sly Dorst hadn’t found some way to incorporate them. “Then I am at your disposal, Father.”
Castillo lifted a chin in concession and pressed the button for the lobby level. “Thank you.” Exiting into the lobby, Castillo turned left, stepping past a security desk to a frosted glass door. “My office is in here, if you don’t mind?”
“That will be fine.” He ordered his guard to remain posted outside, and was led past an innocuous reception area with the usual accoutrements. There were also six closed doors branching off the foyer, and Castillo went to the first one upon his immediate right.
“Eventually all these offices will be occupied,” Castillo explained as he opened the first door. “Right now, only Dikeledi and I are here.” He flicked on the light, revealing a long and narrow room crammed with shelves.
Bentoncourt scanned the office as he closed the door behind him. Though there was no window, he didn’t feel the usual claustrophobia he might have experienced. The ceiling was at least four-and-a-half meters high. Books filled the entire far wall, a brass rail bisecting it two-thirds of the way up to accommodate a library ladder. He knew from intelligence reports that Castillo was a history buff and archivist, but he’d had no idea the extent of the priest’s collection. Astonished, he recognized the Sanguire script on a ribbon protruding from a pile of scrolls. “You have a copy of the Katsushika Proxy?”
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