by Seeley James
He put his foot on the pedal and exploded down the road with the force of a dam breaking.
“Where did … get this car?” I asked.
“Sabel Gardens, Cousin Elmer.” He glanced at me in the mirror. “Pia doesn’t like SUVs. She drives only two-seaters with six hundred horses, so they let me take this home once in a while.”
Nice.
I saved her life twice and she gave me a Volkswagen. Miguel stands like a statue, says nothing, and gets the world’s fastest—and ugliest—SUV. Maybe I should ask for a spare four-seater. Maybe the Porsche Panamera would be available from time to time.
Then I remembered: Last time I drove that car, I brought it back so shot up it looked like a colander full of green beans.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked. All I could see were the street lights flying by as we drove through neighborhoods at excessive speeds.
He flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Pia told me to take you to Sabel Gardens. Doc Günter’s waiting for you.”
Pain raced through my chest. I squeezed a hand under the armor. Dry. That was good. The bullet didn’t penetrate.
“Wait! She’s in Germany.”
“She called,” Miguel said. “Told me to go to some house off Chain Bridge Road.” He honked and swerved and flipped somebody off. “She said you were going to be hurt and would need help. But I went there and some lady answered the door with a couple toddlers at her feet. Then I heard the shots. Had to be you.”
Mercury sat in the passenger seat, staring at Miguel. Dude, why do you hang with this guy? Have you ever seen the Navajo gods? Scary as hell.
I said, Am I going to die?
Mercury leaned back and checked me out. No such luck, homie. That body armor works better than a Roman scutum.
I said, How did Ms. Sabel know I was hurt and needed help?
Mercury said, Aw Brutha. After all these years, you still don’t get it? You’re working with the Messenger of the Gods, bay-bay!
CHAPTER 18
Pia strode through the guest wing at Sabel Gardens wearing yoga pants and a wine-colored pullover. One sniff had her wondering how a doctor could make such a large space smell like a hospital overnight.
Tania trotted a few steps behind.
“It’s hard for me,” Tania said. “Look what gangs did to my sister.”
Pia glanced over her shoulder. “People who don’t engage in the redemption of others are engaging hopelessness.”
“You’re taking his redemption too far. I know it’s been a while since you’ve had a boyfriend—and since the last one tried to kill you, I’m not surprised you haven’t jumped back into the dating pool—but this guy is not the boy-toy you deserve, girlfriend.”
Pia shot her friend a withering glare.
Tania turned her gaze to the floor. “Just stating the obvious.”
“For the record, my boyfriend did not try to kill me, he set me up for assassins. Don’t worry about me. I never date employees.” Pia stopped walking and glanced around. “Where is Carlos, anyway?”
“I gave him a day to catch up on his sleep. No one can keep your schedule. Especially the new guys.”
Doc Günter stepped out of a door across the open space. “Now is not a good time, Pia.”
“I thought Jacob was improving,” she said.
“No serious injuries, just some cracked and bruised ribs, soreness. But…” Doc looked at the floor and rubbed his neck. “He rested last night on heavy medication and I’ve just given him a bit more.”
“He’s awake then?” Pia started for the door. “I need to speak to him.”
Doc Günter put out a hand to stop her. “Have you been around patients on pain medication? Are you familiar with their inappropriate comments and romantic inclinations?”
“We’re more like siblings. Jacob has no romantic feelings for me.”
“Right now,” Doc Günter said, “he would have feelings for Angela Merkel.”
Tania said, “Jacob has the hots for anyone in a skirt—when he’s not medicated.”
Miguel’s laughter roared from inside the room. “Oh yeah, I remember her. Whoo. She was fine. How’d you blow it with her, anyway?”
“I’ll check back this evening.” Pia squeezed Doc’s arm. “Hopefully he’ll be dealing with the pain on his own terms by then.”
Doc nodded. “I think that would be best.”
They turned and left.
Emily Lunger called from the Post. “FNC, Hummingbird, and the Chronicle have you fleeing the scene of a murder in Dresden, care to comment?”
“No.”
“Aw, c’mon, Pia,” Emily said. “Give me something. Or let me release the stuff you sent me. What’s with those pictures, anyway?”
“When it’s time, I’ll explain.”
Emily whined some more before clicking off.
Tania’s phone chirped. “You wanted to meet Daryl Koven? He says he will clear his calendar for you anytime.”
There was the opportunity for job satisfaction Pia relished. She couldn’t wait to drill into Koven’s twisted mind and get answers to her many questions. Just as her euphoria rose, she remembered her father’s advice to keep a lid on what she knows until her adversaries played their hand. It took the fun out of it, but it made sense.
Once the arrangements were finalized, they hopped in Pia’s burgundy Aston Martin Vanquish and raced downtown. Minutes later, she walked into the offices of Duncan, Hyde and Koven.
Daryl Koven greeted her in the middle of his spacious office. Tania took up a position by the door and stood at parade rest.
Koven nosed toward Pia’s constant guard. “Perhaps she’d be more comfortable in the lobby.”
“I’m fine right here,” Tania said, and fixed her eyes on a distant horizon.
Pia waited until Koven’s gaze came back to her. “You’re losing employees and clients at an alarming rate. What dark crimes are you committing that lead to so many murders?”
Koven’s head snapped back. “You have a lot nerve.”
They glared at each other for a moment.
Then Koven said, “You were in Dresden while I was thirty thousand feet over the Atlantic. David Gottleib died at your agent’s house. And you were every bit as near Tom Duncan as I. Maybe you’re the one behind the ‘dark crimes’.”
Pia’s scowl tightened. “Are you the one feeding that line to the Three Blondes?”
Koven relaxed and turned away. “You’ll never make it in business with that attitude—or those outfits. They’ll eat you alive. You’re a prime example of why young women fail in business: too impetuous. Maybe when you’re older and more mature you’ll act and dress like Carly Fiorina or Christine Lagarde.”
Pia’s gaze shifted left for a split second. She’s worn athletic outfits her whole life. Suits were for old people. Or so she used to think. Being vulnerable to fashion insults wasn’t fun. Maybe it was time to reconsider.
“But that’s not why you wanted to see me,” Koven said. “Flinging accusations only proves how weak your investigative skills are. If you had any evidence, you’d go to the police. Now, why did you really want this meeting?”
“Your firm overpaid the Oman contract by $20 million then refused the transfer when we wired it back. Why?”
“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Koven motioned to the leather sofa. He sat near one end and stretched an arm across the back. He gestured to the other half with his free hand.
“I prefer to stand.” Pia put a foot on the coffee table between them and rested her forearms across her knee.
Koven coughed and palmed his legs. “It’s understandable—and reassuring—that you were alarmed by that unexplained bonus. A bonus often seems questionable if you’re unaccustomed to the nuances of international business. You can rest assured, the intent is absolutely ethical and honorable. Provided you live up to Prince Taimur’s expectations.”
“Bonuses are spelled out in the contract. It’s not a bonus.”
“Is that righ
t?” Koven gave her a tight smile. “I’ll check with the team and get clarification.”
After a moment’s silence, Koven said, “As long as you’re here, there is another matter I’d like to discuss.”
Pia waited.
“There are a great number of people in Congress who would like to know you better.” He rose and paced his office. “They could do great favors for Sabel Industries.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Tell them to meet me at the shelter for homeless families, any Tuesday. Wear work clothes.”
He held up his index finger as if he were going to make a point but then wagged it and decided not to provoke her. He walked around her in a circle while she stared out the window.
“Politicians have to be careful with charities. They tend to support those with a large presence in their districts. And, I think it’s best to keep some relationships professional. Don’t you?”
Pia didn’t react.
Koven glanced up at her as he paced.
“These people are in a position to help you,” he said. “For example, the Mercenary Restrictions Act is gathering steam despite Jeff Smith’s feeble attempts on your behalf. We can do much more than a well-intentioned senator on his own. The point is, like you, there are others who find Congress rather troublesome. There are people who could benefit from your resources, your influence, your celebrity to help them.”
Koven circled to her front side.
Pia stood up straight and folded her arms. “Tell me about these unfortunate people.”
“You’re being snarky.” Koven smiled. “I understand your skepticism, but not everyone lives in the USA. In many countries, the powerful prey on the weak and in some they simply annihilate their rivals. Some of my clients live in constant danger.”
“Like Prince Taimur of Oman?”
“He’s one example.” Koven smiled and rubbed his chin. “There are many others. I know a woman dangerously close to the Russian oligarchy, a man who said the wrong thing in China, a business woman in Saudi Arabia. The list is long.”
“I like to help people,” Pia said.
“These people need advocates in the US to help them escape repression.” Koven resumed his pacing. “A couple representatives and a senator will work sometimes. A business advocate also helps. But a combination smooths the application process should the political landscape shift suddenly in their home country.”
“And that’s where I come in,” Pia said. “How can I help?”
“Your father always stayed within the bounds of the old campaign limits. Our venerable politicians could point to his donation and say, ‘See, Alan Sabel supports me!’ But there is an opportunity to help on a much larger scale and without alienating your friends who may support the other candidate in any given race. At the same time, you can be seen in the international community as a supporter of dissenters. The powerless and repressed will know they can count on you.”
“Why would my friends feel alienated?”
“I’m sure you have friends on both sides of various issues—abortion, deficits, tax breaks, that kind of thing—and you don’t want to get drawn into arguments with them over who you support and why. With social welfare groups, you can contribute to any cause you want without anyone knowing how you stand on the issues—”
“Why?” Pia asked. “Are my beliefs so awful I should keep them secret?”
“You’re quite the idealist.” He frowned and wagged his finger again. “When you played soccer, your stand on any issue was your own. Now that you’re in business, you can alienate customers, which can hurt revenue, which costs jobs. On the other hand, when you’re known—in discreet circles—to help repressed citizens achieve their goals, your business will flourish. You’ll find many powerful people in other countries lining up to hire Sabel Security and Sabel Technologies and Sabel Satellites—any division of Sabel Industries.”
“You said I can contribute without anyone knowing.”
“That,” Koven smiled, “is where I come in.”
“And where the bonus comes in?” Pia asked.
“Yes and no.” Koven crossed his arms. “They are not connected. Let me be absolutely clear about that. Think of it this way—when you’re having dinner and the waiter compliments your shoes, you tend to tip more. When the waiter mentions he gives all his tips to … what is your favorite charity?”
“Family Promise.”
“If the waiter says he donates his tips to Family Promise, you’d tip more. It’s natural. Bonuses often work in the same way. When a Russian billionaire worries about running afoul of Vladimir Putin, and he knows you help people immigrate to the US, then he’s inclined to hire Sabel Security.”
Koven gave Pia a sad look. “There are so many business people in the world, risking everything they have to improve economic conditions in their countries—and yet they find themselves tossed about in the typhoons of political whim.”
“That’s terrible,” Pia said. “It’s easy to forget how fortunate we are in America.”
“And how treacherous other countries are.”
“What can I do with the $20 million to help your friends?”
Koven chuckled. “North Carolina and Colorado Senate races ran over $100 million in the last election. With costs soaring, every politician is looking for generous sources. But, no matter how much you spend in a big race, you only have the ear of one senator. I recommend we look at the smaller races with the more agreeable candidates.”
“They’ll be more willing to help with the Prince’s immigration status?”
“Let me reiterate, those two things are not linked together.” Koven winked. “We want candidates who are willing to help Sabel Securities with difficult things like the Mercenary Restrictions Act. Once a candidate takes our money, it’s perfectly acceptable to ask them for help on other matters.”
“Like the Prince’s immigration status.”
Koven’s face pinched, he moved between Pia and the door. “It is illegal for a foreign national to contribute to an American political campaign. You don’t want foreign money influencing American political campaigns any more than I. But yours is an international corporation with many clients in many different countries. I’m sure you’ll keep those funds separate. There is no connection between the bonus Oman may or may not choose to award Sabel Security and any money Sabel Security may choose to allocate to federal elections. Those two things are, and must always remain, separate in the accounting, in memos, and all communications. Are we clear?”
“Crystal,” Pia smiled and squeezed his shoulder. “My father told me I’m naïve. This is good; I need to learn how things work. Thank you, Mr. Koven. I appreciate how you cleared this up for me.”
Koven nodded.
“Be sure to send instructions on which candidates are the right ones to stop the Mercenary Restrictions Act.” She smiled and headed for the door. “How quickly can we get that resolved?”
“These things take time,” Koven said. “I’ll send you a letter of engagement and we’ll find the right people.”
They shook hands. Tania led the way out and Koven closed the door behind them.
Winding through the maze of cubicles, a familiar and unpleasant face caught her eye. Pia stopped in her tracks. “Kasey Earl? What are you doing here?”
“They’s our client.” He pulled up his unshaven chin to look at her.
“Are you serious?” Pia squinted. “They didn’t fire Velox after Duncan’s death?”
He tilted his head. “We didn’t do nothing.”
“That would be the problem.”
“We’re expanding.” Kasey tipped up on his toes to match her height.
“You’re going to make more suicide vests for terrorists?”
“Them things just fell into the wrong hands is all that happened there. My design was good.”
Pia shook her head. “I won’t ask whose are the right hands for explosive outerwear.”
“You get the Shiite radicals to blow
up the Sunni radicals, and then the Sunnis will go blow up the Shiites. Win-win.”
“Those kindergartners who died in the blast weren’t radicals. Too bad you didn’t test the vests yourself.”
“Whatever.” Kasey tilted his nose up higher. “We’re gonna be bigger than Sabel in no time.”
“How will that happen?” Pia leaned toward him. “Did Satan hire you for the apocalypse?”
Kasey backed up a step. “Shane’s taking this company global. Real big time. He’s doing a ‘buy local’ campaign.” Kasey paused for effect. “Instead of bringing in mental health problems.”
“Where do I apply?” Pia planted her palm on his chest and pushed him against the wall. She marched past him to the lobby.
She pushed the down button as hard as she could and waited with her arms crossed.
When the elevator doors opened, Senator Jeff Smith looked up and stared with his mouth open for an awkward, motionless second.
Pia stepped into the small space, turning him by the elbow. “Talk to me, Jeff.”
“I have an appointment,” he said.
“That’s what worries me.”
Tania joined them, blocking the elevator’s exit. The senator’s bodyguard backed up to give her space. The doors closed. Pia pushed the button for the parking garage.
“Who’s backing the Mercenary Restrictions Act, Jeff?” Pia asked.
“There are eighteen congressmen involved.”
“Koven funded them?”
“That was my first thought,” Jeff said. “I sat down with seven of them and heard the same story each time. They’re responding to a spike in constituent concerns in their districts. It’s the strangest thing I’ve ever seen.”
Pia scowled. “Where are these districts?”
“They’re all over the country. All of them are hotly contested seats. North Dakota, Detroit suburbs, a slice of Brooklyn, a part of Nevada I’ve never heard of, places with demographically divergent voter rolls.”