"Certainly, and let me explain, won't you?" David waved a hand for them to sit. When they did, reluctantly, he paused before continuing. "Now, you've both been told we want to make you an offer on a book, a fact that is absolutely true. Unfortunately, due to budget constraints, there's only one book offer on the table that has an advance attached, and our job here. . ." He sighed, glancing at Etherton. ". . .is to discover whose story is most compelling, and should be told first. To merit that advance."
Cashman laughed in disbelief. "What is this, some kind of contest?"
David frowned in deprecation. "I wouldn't put it like that at all. No, you see, Mr. Fairchild can only work with one of you at a time, and we're hoping here that you'll help us decide which story would make the better read. Naturally, if one of you wishes to bow out at this point, we'll simply concentrate on the other. But I hope we can all discuss it civilly, and come to a fair decision. I apologize if we led you to believe that the advance offer was exclusively yours, but experience has shown us in the past that only fifty percent of such clients, offered this opportunity, actually sign after learning what we're asking of them. And so we didn't want to go to this expense without reasonable odds of success." Another pregnant pause as he placed the tips of his fingers lightly on the table. "Any questions?"
"Oh yeah," Cashman said, raising his hand as if for permission to speak. "Didn't you just tell me a movie star wanted to meet me, and that your company, what's the name. . ." He snapped his fingers, looking at Innes.
"Alliance Books," Innes said.
"Right. Alliance Books. Didn't you tell me you're new?"
David cleared his throat. "The company is new, yes. Mr. Fairchild and I, however, are not. We've been in the industry for. . .how long has it been, Doug?"
"Going on sixteen years, come October," Etherton piped in.
"Sixteen years. Seems like twenty. No matter. The point is we've worked on projects together for Penguin, Harper, and Simon and Schuster too."
"And the movie star?"
"Bollywood, not Hollywood, I'm afraid. And you're right, she doesn't know either of you yet. The party, in fact, is for her. An engagement party. Surely you can understand that we needed to get you gentlemen here, to the table, so to speak? Whatever happens, though, I promise that we'll introduce you. We'll make an announcement too, if you like."
Innes shook his head, unconvinced. "What does book publishing have to do with Bollywood?" he asked.
"Well, everything, Mr. Innes," David lied. "Rhea Kumar has just signed with us, too. Random House is picking up the expense for this party for that reason."
"Rhea Kumar. . .Rhea Kumar," Cashman repeated, squinting down at the floor. "I've heard that name before."
"Of course you have," David encouraged him. "Everyone in Dubai has heard of Rhea Kumar."
Innes hooked a thumb toward the door behind him. "Do they know it's her?" he asked.
David shook his head. "No, and would you please not let the cat out of the bag prematurely, sir?"
Innes nodded once, confirming David's suspicion that he'd talked to someone besides Ted in the moments before entering. His tense cast and flush face now finally subsided into mere confusion. "When will she be here?" he asked, finally.
David looked down at his wrist. "Less than an hour now. Can we move on?"
"Not quite yet," Cashman said. "Not until you tell me what Aazad Baloum has to do with all this."
"Aazad who?" David asked.
Cashman laughed. "It's interesting you don't know, because, see, I was also told he'd invited me to a party tonight over at Swann Tower, but when I called back later they said the party had been cancelled."
"So?"
"So I just talked to someone out there who said they called her and said the party was being moved here. And she didn't even know who I was."
"I thought I already explained that, Mr. Cashman."
"No." Cashman shook his head. "No, you didn't. See, because if there's a billionaire behind this party, it doesn't explain you're bitching about budget restraints. Catch my drift?"
David opened his hands. "What did I just say?"
Innes’ gray head nodded slowly, turning away. But Cashman wanted clarification. "You tell me," he said.
"Okay," David replied, smiling in pity. "Read my lips. There's no billionaire involved here. Okay? But we do have a substantial bill to cover, so if you know a billionaire who's willing to pick up the tab, we'll be more than willing to discuss it." He glanced at Etherton, who also smiled. Then he rubbed his hands together. "Now, can we get down to discussing why anyone might care to hear what you have to say about anything, Mr. Cashman, or shall we call it an evening, and write it up as a loss?"
22
"Gutsy, but brilliant," Etherton told him in the restroom, during a break. "I was expecting any second they'd ask for I.D."
"Thanks for agreeing to play along."
"Kind of fun. Like being in a movie, actually. I didn't know you had it in you to talk like that. You could be an actor, yourself."
"I have been an actor. My whole life. I just didn't know it until now. Don't know if I can do it much longer, though."
"Well, you sure have them going. Already starting to compete by spilling the beans. Can you believe that part about Innes' VP junket to Thailand? The underage hookers financed by bailout money? He really had to do a soft shoe shuffle with the books to protect his guys at the time, didn't he?" Etherton laughed while washing his hands. "And then the other guy, what's his name. . ."
"Ted Cashman."
"Right. Then Ted tries to best it with a story about hiring a contortionist to pretend being a cripple? A guy who first gets healed and then doubles as head usher to collect the offering while wearing a disguise?"
David dried his hands. "I was hoping for more."
"More? Like what?"
"An admission of guilt would be nice."
"Dream on, my friend. If you want them to confess to being Nazis in another life, that's one thing, but if you expect them to hang themselves just by getting them enough rope, think again. Those guys are shrewd. Or at least Innes is. Don't know about Ted. Ted's just got him some brass balls. The bigger the lie, the more people believe. That's his motto."
"Neither of them got here by telling the truth, that's for sure," David agreed.
As they exited the restroom and walked down the interconnecting hallway, David wondered what revelations were next, and how far he should press it. Should he mention his mother at the end? Would he laugh or cry, or start a fist fight at that point? Or should he just leave them there, after making the same kind of promises they'd made to so many others? Maybe that's what he should do: Say that both of them would get advances. That they would write a book together, with Doug's guidance. Title it Where the Money Goes: Two Tricksters’ Treats, with full color photos of their condos and cars, and with them dining at five star restaurants in the company of sheiks and hookers, along with warnings that others just like them were still operating in the States, still sucking millions from gullible TV addicts and investors who were pushed forward in the end as human shields against the shit storm of lies, while they hid behind an incomprehensible financial maze of hedge funds and derivatives, if not the very Word of almighty God. . .
But upon reentering the private room, David saw that it was empty now. He looked at Etherton in dismay at first, but then felt a sense of relief that it was over. Finally. Now he could go home, or go on vacation to France, once his passport was returned. Now he could get on with his life, whatever that meant.
"Maybe they went outside for a smoke," Etherton said.
"Maybe," he repeated.
"What's that?" Doug asked, after a moment.
"What's what?"
Listening, they heard distant voices. Not merely talking, but shouting. Rushing out, they found the club's office deserted too, and even the main ballroom held only a few tipsy stragglers, propped up at the bar.
"Where is everybody?" Etherton yelled across th
e hall.
One of the lushes there pointed up at the ceiling.
"On the roof," David interpreted. "Come on."
~ * ~
They came to the northeast corner of the crowded roof. "What is it?" Etherton asked. Wurley turned from where the stout Russian stood peering through binoculars. David followed the man's line of sight to a flickering fire and plume of smoke rising from the giant ball of the Etisalat building two miles distant. Behind them at least fifty other people gazed in mesmerized awe at the spectacle, their whisperings evoking fear and indecision about whether to stay or flee. The consensus seemed to be that at least they weren't high enough to be a target, and the club was far enough from any tall building to avoid falling debris.
Wurley closed his cell phone. "It's military," he confided. "They've attacked the communications center with one UAV, and another has hit the Burj al-Arab, with casualties."
"So it's a terrorist assault?" Etherton asked. "Is that what they're saying?"
"No, they're saying it's the U.S. Air Force again."
"Ridiculous," Doug scoffed. "That's what al-Qaeda wants everyone to believe."
"Rogue military or not," Malcolm said, "no one will be able to prove otherwise unless they capture one of those planes before it explodes."
David glimpsing Cashman standing amid several others, engaged in banter and opinion. Then he finally glanced up. He squinted toward the area of their surveyed window, midway to the top of the Seacrest Tower, but couldn't be sure of the right room. "Any movement up there?" he asked the Russian.
"Where?" the guardian named Peter asked.
David first pointed, then took the binoculars, scanning the entire area without luck. "Where's their telescope?"
"What?" Wurley snatched the binoculars for himself, training it on Seacrest Tower. Then he pulled out a walkie talkie, depressed the transmit button and demanded, "Have you been recording?"
There was static on the other end. Then came a shout from the other side of the roof. "Incoming!"
Incredulously, they all turned toward the horizon, where the man who'd shouted now pointed. For a moment David saw nothing, and then there was a faint blink of whiteness, as though someone were trying to signal them with a candle from a Greek temple high on a hill. Finally movement was evident, the thing passing through a short space from which it was lit from below. A moment later it happened again, nearer still.
"Quiet!" someone yelled.
The murmurs died, and then, just barely, they could hear it too. The feeble sound, like a whirring or droning. Like that which a remotely controlled toy airplane makes high over a field or parking lot.
"You hear that?" Doug whispered.
"Yes," David replied. "Although we shouldn't. Aren't military drones silent?"
"I'm not positive," Doug said, "but I think they usually fly higher than that. Don't they?"
The blinking became a steady glow as the lights from below the craft increased in frequency and intensity, the distance soon shortening.
After a moment someone yelled, "Coming this way!"
Then the crowd on the roof broke, en masse, moving toward the stairs. Some even ran.
Etherton flipped open his cell phone and punched a speed dial button. Placing the phone to his left ear, he then pressed the index and forefinger of his right hand against his opposite ear canal. The phone rang as the UAV neared.
David stared in fascination as the craft descended and appeared to turn, albeit unsteadily, wavering as though wounded. . . or guided. Within seconds he visually established the glide path, and tracked the anticipated angle ahead of it to arrive at the intended target. "It's gonna hit the Swann," he told Doug, leaning in to be heard.
Etherton eyed him anxiously. "He won't answer the damn--" A beat, then jerking his head upward to follow the UAV's flight path while it loomed and banked, he said, "Shakil! This is Doug. Tell your men to get out! There's a drone airplane about to--" Another moment, followed by a look of shock, morphing into horror. "You what? Get out, Shakil! Get out now! No, no, you probably can't hear it in there, you--"
The unmanned drone finished banking, and leveled out. Accelerating, its engine now whined as it shot like a spear toward Swann Tower.
"Shakil, you have to--"
Two seconds later the UAV plunged into glass and chrome, detonating on impact. A blinding flash of white light preceded a deafening explosion. A billowing flare of yellow and red burst outward, bulging. Shards of debris arced down like tracers from a fireworks display, leaving behind a roar of flame that dribbled liquid fire down the side of the building.
Etherton stared down at his cell phone as though he'd just heard an obscenity. Then he let the thing fall from his hand like holding on meant being burned. They both stood motionless, staring up at the Swann, where a fire now raged in incendiary engulfment. With this biggest explosion yet, it seemed as if some liquid had also combusted.
A hidden stash of accelerant, or just jet fuel ignited by high explosives?
David squinted as some of the smoke cleared. "Look," he said, "it wasn't a direct hit on Nasheed's condo. It's. . .see?. . .it's below that. Maybe four, five floors below."
Etherton didn't seem hopeful, staring at the flames going higher. But he picked up his cell phone and retried it, without luck. When they finally looked back toward Seacrest Tower, to the place they'd been observing earlier, they saw that the curtains of most of the windows had been pulled aside to afford a better view. But the window behind which a telescope had been trained was unchanged.
"He did it," Doug said, slumping down onto one of folding chairs. "He figures it can't be traced back to him. Somehow, he's fixed it."
David shook his head, dumbfounded in realizing the implications. "Was Swann with Nasheed?" he asked.
A brief flash of unfocused anger lit Etherton's eyes. "Was? They could both be burning alive up there, right now!" He looked down in despair. "And just like with the Twin Towers in New York, there's nothing we can do about it. Nothing anyone can do."
Leaning against the edge of the wall, David saw that they were now the only ones left atop the roof. He felt numbed by it. The night held an absurd, surreal quality, illuminated by phantom flares and then searchlights that cast shadows up from below. The incessant blaring of sirens and horns, both near and far away, seemed to merge into a cacophonous buzz, like hornets trapped in a bell jar. A sliver of moon like a sideways grin shown through a patch of cloud. . . or was it smoke? He couldn't tell which. Just below, cars leaped from the tunnel of the underground parking lot in back, only to find gridlock at the very first intersection met. Then he glimpsed Cashman down there too, hugging the side of the club nearest the corner, cell phone drawn to call a cab.
Part of him imagined yelling something down at the man. But what was there left to say, and what comfort or resolution would there be in saying it, except for his own ego?
How do you like your advance now, Ted?
Someday you'll realize what a scumbag you are, Ted.
See you in hell, Ted.
Such retorts seemed ludicrous. As absurd as accusation, and just as meaningless. How had he ever thought an expression of anger--or even violence--would make any difference? He slumped beside Etherton as flames crept higher to engulf Nasheed's floor atop Swann Tower. He touched Doug's shoulder with one hand while a thick tendril of black smoke curled up from the gap of broken glass. "This wasn't supposed to happen," he said. "It's totally insane, we both agreed, you know."
"Since when has that stopped anyone from doing anything?" When his cell phone rang, Doug paused to answer, then his mood seemed to change as a renewed sense of urgency overtook him. "I better go see what they're gonna do," he said, at last. "They want you to wait here."
"They say why?"
"Not really."
~ * ~
Etherton returned with a look that telegraphed astonishment and confusion, as though he were being pressed to come to a decision.
"What is it?" David asked. "What's happe
ned?"
Doug went down on one knee beside his chair, staring across at Swann Tower. "Building's fire suppression system isn't working like it should. Firefighters are trying to get up the stairwell, which seems to be blocked. Unless they get backup systems working, the upper floors might be gutted. So far they think smoke inhalation is more likely the real danger for those trapped higher."
"Just like the Twin Towers," David said. "So it's sabotage?"
"Who knows. One thing's for sure. Swann's not going to wait for someone else's kangaroo court."
"So he's alive?"
Doug nodded. "On his way here now."
"Here?"
"He intends to confront Victor in person, although the word confront doesn't cut it. They'll go up the stairwell to the penthouse for a full cavity search." Etherton paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. "There's one other thing. It's about why they agreed to your game with Cashman and Innes. They wanted to see which one of them might play the pawn."
"What do you mean?"
"They don't know for sure where Victor is. All they know is that he's in the building."
"Why doesn't someone call him and find out?"
"Tried it already. Got voice mail."
"So what are they thinking?"
Etherton looked at him a moment before answering. "They want to send Jeffrey Innes up there to I.D. him."
"Innes?"
Doug glanced toward the stairs. "Innes was told that's where you've gone. He saw Cashman leave, and must figure he has a lock on the book deal."
23
"Maybe he's comfortable with the concept of employees jumping out of buildings without the golden parachute he used himself," Malcolm Wurley surmised in explaining the situation to David, "so we gave him a throwaway cell phone, told him it was yours, and sent him over to Seacrest Tower with it. He'll be let in from the inside. Our girl will show him into the right elevator to the penthouse. Then his cell phone will ring. It'll be you, telling him you'll be right there with Rhea Kumar, and to buzz the door and ask for Victor. You'll say to put Victor on the phone. We know he's a fan. We're also hoping he recognizes Innes on the security camera, too. According to his bio, he should."
The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott Page 12