Bates signaled Felt to follow him, and the two walked out through teak French doors — real doors, not digital — onto the top of five levels of deck that descended elegantly toward the lake, Bates grabbing two putters from the Ming Dynasty urn that he used as an umbrella stand. Deck level two housed a lap pool, level three, courtyard dining off the third of the home’s three full kitchens, but this top deck laid claim to a seven-hundred-square-foot Bermuda grass putting green complete with a pin in the hole, the flag of which bore the logo of the Bates software empire. Bates dropped a ball, sighted the putt, and sank a twenty-footer.
Felt had tried to learn the game for the sake of his corporate standing, but the lessons never really paid off. He missed a five-foot putt and kicked the ball out to a greater distance where missing would be more understandable. He didn’t mind the game so much. Hitting a white “duck egg” around a manicured lawn wasn’t so bad; it was the time requirement that ate into him. Nine holes meant an hour and a half to two hours of his life gone to trying to sink a very small ball into a very small hole somewhere a long way from where one started. Eighteen holes was three hours or better. Bates played thirty-six holes most Sundays and expected his executives to join him if he couldn’t drum up Michael Jordan or Jack Nicholson. Nicholson, fresh out of a stay at the Samantha Forbes Clinic, had shot a sixty-four their last round out together, and Bates wasn’t too fond of looking so bad. Nonetheless, Jack was on the list for Scotland.
“Let’s talk about Scotland for a minute,” Bates said, sinking another sixteen-footer. The guy was as good as the Golden Bear on the greens. He sucked from the tees.
That was the other thing: Bates liked to do most of his serious business on the golf course. It had started in a garage fifteen years ago. Then it was the conference room. Then it was the private 707. Now it was the third fairway. Felt attempted a twelve-footer and missed the hole by two feet. Bates looked over at him like he was from Mars.
“The board is firmly behind this Scotland thing,” Felt said, immediately regretting his tone.
“‘Thing’?” Bates quoted.
“This world conference, or whatever.”
“It is a world conference.”
“It’s a weekend golf tournament, Phillip,” Felt reminded. “One that is costing this company’s shareholders twelve million dollars. I have no idea what you personally have into the facility. Twenty? Thirty? Eighty? Nor how much you are personally putting into this party. The airfare, the pro fees, the private train from London?”
“It’s publicity. It’s the launch of the new operating system. It’s the opening of the course. It’s a chance to make some real headway toward world peace. Do they have religion in common? Hell no. Economies? No. Women? Food? Cultures? No. But every one of these guys plays golf. Every one of them! Qaddafi, Arafat, Multzunu, our own president. You’re thinking in terms of dollars, Roger? You’ve got to think bigger.”
“Twelve million is an expensive party, Phillip.”
“We get a million back for the network coverage of the last round. ESPN went half a million for the first two rounds. When all is said and done you’re out ten million. That’s like five spots on the Super Bowl, for Christ’s sakes! You realize the bang for the buck we’re getting here? We’ll be on every front page around the world for three days. Every evening news report in seventy-three languages. I gave both NPR and the BBC suites in the castle. World leaders will be talking about this party for the next six months. Every time there’s a goddamn G7 meeting, the first thing off their lips will be how much fun they had in Scotland. And that’s us. That’s brand identification, brand loyalty. It’s cheap at twice the price.” He dropped an eighteen-footer. The guy couldn’t miss. In anything.
Ned Gorman’s office cubicle sat between two women, both Special Agents, both of whom wore such different perfumes that just to breathe normally brought on fits of nausea. He had finally resorted to a small Brookstone fan that he’d clipped to the cubicle’s only shelf and aimed back at his face like a mini-hurricane so that his fine and sparse hair danced around and tickled his worried forehead. At thirty-four, Gorman was not only the oldest field operative assigned to the counterterrorism squad — the most “senior,” as it was politely termed — but was currently the only Caucasian. Hillary Rodriguez, to his right, she of the orange musk, was twenty-nine, single, and built like a brick shithouse. He had the luxury of looking at her body in profile most every day. Despite the two large moles beneath her lower lip, he wanted badly to ask her out, and for the last two years had been debating a line of attack to that end. Vicky Chew, to his left, of gardenia fame, looked like something from the cover of Vogue — petite, shapely, and head-spinningly gorgeous. Vicky claimed to be engaged, though Ned had never met her fiancé, and if true it was one of the longest-running engagements in marital history — approaching eighteen months now. Ned was guessing it was a ruse to keep suitors like himself from even thinking about it. Vicky tended to wear clingy clothing, silk mostly, and not much underneath it, so that most days she looked spray painted rather than dressed. Ned Gorman liked his job.
A total of six field operatives worked the FBI’s counterterrorism desk in the new Washington Metropolitan Field Office building. Telephone work for the most part. Informants, international contacts, computer hackers, and the Bureau’s own diplomatically immune adjuncts who were legally attached to various embassies throughout the world. When Ned Gorman’s phone rang, he didn’t know who or what to expect. It was part of what kept life interesting. On that July day, it was Charlie Roxbury calling, the adjunct responsible for all of Great Britain.
“Ned, Charlie here,” the American said, with a tinge of British creeping in — Charlie had been posted to London for over three years.
“What can I do you for, stranger?”
“I’m set for a two-week holiday. My first break since that Chunnel bombing. One of these Nordic cruises. All paid up in full. In advance, you see. Can’t get a nickel back if I don’t go on the damn thing.”
“What’s the problem, Charlie?” As Ned said this man’s name, Vicky looked over, eavesdropping. Vicky knew everybody’s business.
“Wondering if you could take the helm for a fortnight, old friend. Goose the Lizzy for me.” Lizzy Wainwright, Roxbury’s name for his vintage Jaguar coupe. Charlie was well aware of Ned’s love of a fast car. The offer of the loan of the cherished car made Ned suddenly cautious.
“Adjunct to London?” Gorman inquired. “You’re joking, right?”
“It’s all been cleared with the brass. All you need to do is say yes.”
“Yes!” Gorman crowed.
“You may want to know that it’s not all fun and games. Word on the street here is that military plastics have gone missing. Semtex. We’re verifying as we speak, but if true, you have your work cut out for you. The case would be yours.”
“Until you got back.”
“The case is yours, Neddie, not mine. You would stay on indefinitely. Until we recover or account for the missing explosives.”
“Indefinitely? You’re answering my dreams here.”
“It might run the two weeks. It might run a month or more. Dog work, I’m afraid. Serious shit, missing explosives. But I’d play Watson once I’m back.”
“How long have you had these tickets, Charlie?” Ned Gorman smelled a rat. It seemed entirely possible that the cruise had been arranged after word of the missing explosives had reached Roxbury’s desk. Any such investigation would remain open until cleared, and if the explosives were to do any damage in the meantime, the Special Agent in charge of the investigation would bear the brunt of the responsibility. Gorman saw this coming, but the lure of a foreign desk remained a strong temptation.
“I’ve had this planned for months, Ned. I’m not dumping a black hole on you.”
“How do I know that?”
“Ned, it’s me.”
“Nashville is still quite present in my mind, Charlie, old boy. Why don’t you fax me some proof you’ve h
ad these tickets for several months. Okay? I get that fax, and you’re on board ship.”
“On its way to you,” Roxbury said. Had he been expecting this request?
“Your flat in Hampstead?” Gorman requested.
“Of course.”
“And Lizzy.”
“She’s all yours.”
“Why does this sound too good to be true?” Ned Gorman asked.
“Because she is. Her name is Melanie, my friend. The passage is for two. Premier cabin. Eleven days at sea with a twenty-four-year-old with legs to the ceiling and insatiable appetites. She’s MI5, so we can even speak the same language. Would you pass up that opportunity?”
“To whom do I speak on this end?” Gorman asked.
“The Vulture has the papers. She signed off on it, Neddie. It’s all yours, I’m telling you.”
The pooled fax machine hummed with an arrival. Gorman knew it was from Roxbury. The guy never wasted a minute. “Have a nice cruise.”
“Double-clutch when you’re downshifting.”
“Of course.”
“And Neddie . . . Maybe I’ll see you when I get back.”
Gorman hung up the phone, but again his stomach churned. In his job nothing was ever as it seemed. Part of the fun. Part of the problem.
Billy Sprague offered his blue blazer to the flight attendant in Virgin Atlantic’s Upper Class cabin, hesitating a moment to allow the woman sitting in the aisle seat to realize he needed to get past her. The woman was a blonde. Shoulder length. Sun bleached. She wore a set of stereo headphones provided by the carrier, nodding her head to a loud beat that trailed out the plastic ear cups. A tomato cocktail — a Bloody Mary? — sat half empty on the center armrest that separated the seats. As the blonde finally looked up, Sprague recognized her as Rita Shaughnessy, from the ladies’ tour. She spent more time in the supermarket tabloids than she did on the tour, more of a celebrity than a golfer, but at one time the longest driver to wear a skirt. Excluding the Scottish men, he realized, trying to adapt to the culture of his destination.
“Window seat,” Sprague said.
“What are you drinking?” Rita asked.
“Beer,” Sprague told the flight attendant, who immediately began to prattle on about the various brews on board. “Bud,” he said, cutting her short.
Rita slipped off the headphones and scooted up in the seat, not sitting but not standing, forcing Sprague to slip past her and making sure he experienced her anatomically as he did. Sprague excused himself with the contact. Rita told him, “No problem.” The guy was tan, tall, and his eyebrows were nearly white. She could have taken a bite of him if he’d offered. Maybe she’d encourage a membership in the Mile High Club before the flight was over, depending on how the Valium mixed with the Bloody Marys. Too much Valium and she couldn’t get herself in the mood for anything but TV. Upper Class offered each passenger his or her own small TV with an enormous selection of free movies. If need be, she’d just slug out for the flight and take in the free flicks.
“Dos Lagos Open,” Sprague said. “Four years ago. You reached the green in one on eighteen. I’ve never seen anything like it. Not before. Not since.”
“What a charmer!” Rita said, hoisting her drink. Not waiting for his to arrive, she took a long pull. A double, it burned just right going down. She added, “Four years is a long time.”
“Billy Sprague,” he said, offering her his hand.
She juggled the drink and they shook hands. She let hers be just a little limp, loving the firmness with which he took it. The way she gripped a club she could have squeezed the stainless out of stainless steel, and they both knew it. “Do you play?” She hated hearing the golf stories. It was all anyone ever talked to her about. There could have been an earthquake an hour earlier, and yet it would never be mentioned. Only the dogleg third and that awful sand trap.
His beer was delivered. A partially empty can and a tall beer glass bearing the airline’s logo.
“If we get into that,” Sprague said, “it’ll be a busman’s holiday for both of us.”
“You play professionally then,” she said, not knowing why she continued something she had no desire to discuss.
“Not in your league. A club pro is all. My afternoons are middle-aged housewives who will never drive more than a hundred and twenty and always three-putt. They’d rather have me help them with their grip than their game, if you follow me.”
“Oh, I’d follow you, all right. Wherever you led. Count on it.” She drained the glass and hoisted it over her head, from where it was immediately whisked away by one of the half dozen flight attendants in the cabin.
Sprague said, “Did that lady say something about a free massage? Did I get that right?”
“They provide sleeping attire — gray sweats that you get to keep — a five-course dinner, free movies, a manicure or a neck and foot massage, champagne, an amazing selection of wines, and that little flight kit there in your pouch.”
“But massage? Really?”
“I’ve flown Upper Class once before, and I’m telling you, it’s better than most of the private jets I’ve been on.” Her drink was returned, as if on cue.
“Isn’t that Zamora over there?” Sprague whispered. “The window seat?”
“And the aisle is his caddy. Can you believe that shit? A fucking caddy in Upper Class. There ought to be rules or something.”
“The Phillip Bates tournament?” Sprague asked.
She gave him a look. “You too?”
Sprague shrugged. “I’m as surprised as you are.”
She thought for a moment. “There was a Bill Sprague who won the National Amateur one year, wasn’t there? . . .”
“That was a while ago,” he said.
“You never tried the Tour?” She was truly puzzled now.
“It’s a long story.”
“So now you hustle fat cats at some posh little club.”
“Something like that,” he said.
She shrugged. “You don’t want to talk about it, it’s okay with me.” She raised her drink to him. “We all have our skeletons.”
He lifted his beer in return. “Here’s to Phillip Bates.”
She nodded. “Do you know anything about this tournament?”
“Nothing whatsoever. Just the invite and the check and what I’ve seen on ESPN.”
“Same here,” she said. “‘Golf legends,’ they call us. Makes me feel like I’m on the Senior tour.”
Sprague glanced at her. “I wouldn’t make that mistake.”
She lifted an eyebrow. “So what do you think is up with the ‘dozens of surprise guests’?”
“I wondered the same thing. That invite-list scrolls, and I was hard-pressed to think of one person who might have been left out.”
“The ad kind of looked like one of those oldies-goldies collections. You know those ads?”
“I hate those ads,” he said.
She laughed. “Yeah, me too.”
She glanced over at him then, and they met eyes for the first time that mattered. This was no “hi, how ya doing?” meeting of the minds, but more like a zipless fuck that she felt clear down inside her, like he’d slipped his hand under her bottom when she wasn’t looking. She said, “Well, as far as I’m concerned, this little outing is looking better by the minute. At least,” she fished for a compliment, “it looks that way to me.”
“Definitely,” Sprague answered. He lowered his voice, leaned over the substantial armrest, and said, “Your agent say anything about ‘saving the world’?”
“Honey,” she said, laying a hand on his forearm and squeezing just right, “my agent is far more worried about me saving my own ass. The world’ll have to wait.”
London shone like a jewel despite the thick carpet of fog that hung suspended only a few yards above the city’s skyline. Ned Gorman sat in the left-hand seat of a Ford sedan, his driver casually passing cars like they were standing still. The driving on the left instilled total terror in Ned, who kep
t leaning the wrong way with each pass.
“The situation is this,” his British counterpart informed him. “We suspect the involvement of one François Le Tour, an environmental activist who we believe responsible for at least three animal-rights bombings and a ship arson that took out a container ship. He’s Belgian. Single. Twenty-three. No current photographs.”
“Suspect how?” Gorman asked. No time to enjoy the surroundings. So typical of the job to thrust him into the stolen explosives case before he’d even had a chance to shave. His head felt dull from fatigue. It was seven in the morning going on . . . he couldn’t compute the time change, but it felt like the middle of the night.
“Obviously, we don’t have an eyewitness,” the driver joked, but Gorman wasn’t in the mood.
“A snitch. Someone undercover. You can’t tell me yet because it’s Need To Know. My feelings aren’t hurt, don’t worry. It’s just I have a bit of a headache, and I was hoping to put my feet up for a few hours.”
“Not today, I’m afraid. Besides, it’s better to push through the first day. Drink some tea. Make it through to dinner. It resets the clock much more quickly.”
Gorman leaned the wrong way again, expecting to pass on the left. The car leaned right and the driver raced past.
“How much plastique?” Gorman asked.
“That is the bad news, I’m afraid. Upwards of twenty kilos.”
“Kilos!” Gorman exclaimed. A quarter pound of Semtex could drop an average house. “Fifty pounds of Semtex?”
“You can understand our concern. He could take out the House of Lords, any of the bridges, Westminster Abbey.”
“Fifty pounds!”
“Still feel like a nap?” the driver asked.
“How long has he had it?”
“Four days, if we’re right.”
“Le Tour stole it?”
“No. A bloke inside our own navy. We’ve identified him — he’s being carefully watched and evaluated before we question him. Our information,” the man said carefully, “is that Le Tour was the buyer.”
“Four days is an eternity.” Gorman thought this through. “But why involve us?” he asked. “Other than for a consult?” His dull mind churned through various possibilities. “The embassy? Is that it? You think he’ll hit an American target? A corporation?”
The Putt at the End of the World Page 4