His eyes widened, and then he laughed. She watched him laughing, observing him as if from a distance. As if she were someone else, someplace else. What kind of man was this?
"If anything happens to their house or mine, I'll see you spend the rest of your life in jail." Fury rose through her like the fire he'd described. "I'm a lawyer, and justice is my profession. You'll regret every word you've just said here."
Robert's smile disappeared. He leaned back in the chair and looked at her with no expression, although his voice still held a hint of amusement. "You won't be a lawyer for long if you don't pay attention, Miss Catoir. Let's get this straight. We've both got better things to do." He dipped his chin and watched her under half-closed lids. "Here's the message, plain and simple: If anything happens to delay the Black Diamond closing on Wednesday, or if there's trouble afterward—an uprising of protesters, anything that looks like it's got your hand in it—or if you mention this conversation of ours to anyone, including Bingham Murdoch, if you mention any of this, anytime, you will pay. And that kid will pay."
She stared.
He struck the table with his forefinger. "We'll see you lose this job, for starters. We'll have you fired and file a complaint with the state bar, as well. We'll see you never work again, not in the practice of law."
There was a long pause, a silence that filled the room, and then he added, "And that kid," his eyes held hers, "he looks a little fragile, easily broken. Like that dead bird in the park."
She wrenched her gaze from his and turned her back, moving toward the door, thinking this couldn't be happening. They had been following her. Tiny pinpricks of fear lifted on the back of her neck.
"Miss Catoir."
She halted without turning, staring at the closed door.
"We get this thing closed on time and the demolition completed without any trouble, then you've got nothing to worry about. For that family or the kid."
Regardless, she knew, he'd see that she lost her job. He'd have his revenge. That was in his nature.
Without a word, she yanked the door open and let it close behind her. She wished that Jude was here, not for advice or protection, but just to be with him.
Walking back down the hallway to the conference room, she worked up a smile and held it. She walked with her back straight and her head up, even while she balanced on the edge of a deep, deep crevice.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Bingham sat at the desk in his suite at the Roosevelt, looking out over the tops of buildings and houses stretching through the city toward Lake Pontchartrain. He couldn't see that pleasant expanse of water, but he remembered the peaceful little boats and the double white ribbons of causeway stretching twenty-three miles from New Orleans to the north shore. The endless blue sky had seemed to melt into the water at the horizon, giving the lake a hazy, silvery sheen on that day he'd descended toward the Lakefront airport six weeks ago.
Now it was Tuesday morning, the day before the closing. He took a deep breath and stretched his arms wide, then slapped his chest with both hands, thinking of it all. Then he picked up the wire transfer memorandum he'd received yesterday afternoon, the one Amalise Catoir had prepared for the closing. He'd provided the details for the investors' funds to Rebecca himself, the matrix of transfers between Tom and his investors in New York and on the coast, culminating in a twenty-million-dollar deposit into the Lone Ranger subsidiary account in Grand Cayman. Those wires had been initiated by Tom and Robert yesterday. The money should be there by now, earning interest and waiting for the closing.
He read through the complex memorandum, feeling pleased. The bank lenders had also provided details for their side of the funding into First Merchant Bank on the closing day. These included five smaller transfers totaling seven million, each to be wired tomorrow—after the conference call with Banc Franck in Cayman—into Lone Ranger's account here in New Orleans, while the twenty million remained held offshore.
The call with Banc Franck in Cayman would commence at 9:00 tomorrow morning so that the wire transfers could be started early. The day before a holiday was usually rushed, and wires would close early. Banc Franck's confirmation that the investor funds were on deposit would trigger the syndicate's wiring of funds. The banks would have finished, or almost finished, signing the documents by then. It was a tight squeeze, he knew, but banks on the West Coast were two hours behind and they'd hold things up otherwise.
Further, the memo provided that Banc Franck would transfer the entire twenty million to Lone Ranger's First Merchant Bank account upon notice in the early afternoon that all syndicate bank funds had been received.
Bingham smiled and thumped the page. He scratched his initials on the bottom right-hand corner of each page of the memo, indicating his approval, glad that Rebecca had taken his suggestion. Had the solution come from him, the banks would have studied it for days before agreeing that it was fair—time he didn't have. He set the memorandum down on the desk beside him. Whatever else Miss Catoir was up to, she'd done a good job on the document.
Picking up the phone, he asked for an international operator. He gave her the phone number for his account officer's direct line at Banc Franck in Grand Cayman, and then began the wait. Balancing the receiver between his chin and shoulder, he gazed out over the city, humming.
The call was picked up on the first ring. Benjamin Salter had been waiting to hear from him. Salter had been recommended by Banc Franck in Zurich, with whom he enjoyed a longtime relationship. He'd lunched with Salter in Cayman last year when he'd first opened the account, and they had got along fine.
"Bingham Murdoch here, Ben."
"How do you do, Bingham?" The banker was all business today, unlike at their luncheon. "I was expecting your call."
"You've received the instructions dated November 1, 1977?"
"Yes, we have."
"Right then. Per the standing instructions, please confirm the current balance of the account." He gave the account number.
"Your security code, please."
Bingham gave it to him.
"Just one moment."
Bingham waited. If he tilted his head in just a certain way, he could almost hear the ocean rolling in toward the Cayman shoreline. He wished he were there.
"Thank you for waiting." The banker confirmed the account number and the various deposits of the investors' funds received on Monday. On current account, twenty million and two hundred thousand dollars, U.S. currency. That included Bingham's initial deposit from a year ago.
"Thank you," Bingham said. "At nine o'clock Central time, ten o'clock your time tomorrow morning, November 23, I will call you from the offices of Mangen & Morris in New Orleans. As per the instructions, you will confirm on that call the current balance on account. Representatives of the banks in the company's loan syndicate will be on the call, as well as various parties in the conference room." He paused. "I believe I sent you the list of participants."
"I have it. I'll be expecting your call."
Bingham hung up the phone. Whistling, he slid open the desk drawer and pulled out an eight-by-ten brown envelope in which he placed the wire transfer memorandum. He slipped his copy of the standing instructions into the drawer and closed it. Then he looked about for his jacket. He needed to get over to the conference room. Got a late start this morning, things being as they were.
Already wearing corduroy slacks and a light sweater, he slipped on a jacket, an old tweed one, comfortable. Good fit. At least he didn't have to worry about wearing a suit today. Staff at Mangen & Morris would be bare bones this holiday week, and Doug had proclaimed today a casual day. No ties. The transaction team would be working nonstop to make tomorrow's closing.
With a last wistful glance in the direction of the lake, he walked to the desk and picked up the envelope. He'd bring it to the conference room for Tom and Robert to initial also. Give
n the circumstances, that was the least he could do for Miss Catoir.
In the conference room Amalise sat beside Preston as he pulled papers from a manila file folder and scanned them. Bingham, Robert, and Tom walked in together.
Robert looked at her and she looked at him.
Bingham broke the connection. "The wire memorandum," he said, dropping an envelope in front of her. "It's initialed by the three of us. I'd like you to send a copy to each of the banks, get them to initial it, too."
She nodded. "All right." She pulled out the memo, checking the initials on each page. "I'll get this out right away."
"Good." He double-tapped the table beside her and moved on.
She stood as Raymond and Rebecca entered the room, each carrying a pair of cardboard boxes stuffed with file folders. Completed documents, ready to be set out on the closing table and signed tomorrow. Tom quickly stood and relieved Rebecca of her boxes. Holding his eyes a beat too long, she smiled and let him take them from her arms.
Amalise looked away, thinking of Jude.
"Over there," Raymond was saying. "Set them there." He nodded to the credenza near the windows. "They'll be out of the way until tonight when we organize the closing table."
Setting up the table for the closing would be an all-night job, Amalise knew. She'd created a list of documents generated in the transaction in the first week, revising it as the deal moved along. Now the lawyers in the room would be responsible for assuring that when lenders and investors showed up in the morning, every document on the closing list would be in the proper place on the table and ready for their signatures.
And those clients would show up early, around seven o'clock, and start early because the fund transfers would take most of the morning, leaving the afternoon for the transfer from Cayman, the investors' twenty million dollars. She had brought clothes with her to change for the occasion. A kitty-cat bath in the ladies room would have to do. But, oh, how she wished the firm had showers.
Rebecca poked her arm, and Amalise glanced up.
"Look over there. Check the outfit."
Raymond was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned across the front with the words Where in the world is D. B. Cooper?
Murdoch's voice rang out. "Who's D. B. Cooper, son?"
"Don't you know?"
"Wouldn't have asked if I did."
Preston laughed. "Don't get him started."
Robert lit a cigarette and blew smoke. "He's that hijacker from a few years ago."
Raymond raked his fingers through his hair. "D. B. Cooper is a legend. How could anyone forget that story?"
"Do tell."
Raymond pulled out a chair and sat down. "It was the night before Thanksgiving in 1971—"
"From D. B.'s point of view, it was the night before Christmas," Tom's voice drawled.
"Yeah. Well, the guy hijacks Northwest Orient Airlines Flight 305 out of Portland, Oregon—passengers and crew. Demands a big ransom and gets it."
Bingham shook his head. "Lot of hijacking going on since the sixties."
"Not like this." Raymond arched his chest, gesturing, embellishing. "Cooper jumps out midflight and is never seen again. They looked for a body and the money for years. The case is still unsolved."
Robert snorted. "He's dead."
Raymond regarded his T-shirt. "Got this at one of those Cooper Caper parties held on Thanksgiving Eve."
"I went to one in the Village a few years ago," Tom said. "It was wild."
Bingham tilted his head to one side. "Celebrations for a hijacker?"
"He had style, Bingham." Raymond let out a little laugh. "Plus, he was a madman, jumping like that from a 727. He literally disappeared into thin air."
With a thin smile, Robert stabbed his cigarette into an ashtray. He arched his eyes at Raymond. Covertly, Amalise watched him pull out a package of chewing gum, select a piece, unwrap it, and pop it into his mouth.
Beside him, Bingham egged Raymond on. "So what was different about this guy?"
"His audacity, I suppose. He demanded four chutes, but used only two, a main and a reserve. The Feds tried to follow, but weather was bad. Low visibility and only a quarter moon. But he had them running. When he made the ransom demand, there wasn't time to mark the bills. No time to plan."
"How much did he get?" Bingham sounded amused.
"Two hundred thousand, the papers said. But I'm guessing it was more and they kept it quiet."
"He'd have been thinking of weight, too."
"I don't know. A good jumper can take a hundred and thirty-five to forty pounds. He could have gotten away with more. The Feds could be covering up the real number to discourage copycats."
"How do you know that, the weight and all?"
Raymond grinned. "I've been following the guy for a while."
"Well, two hundred thousand's not so much. You're probably right. It really wouldn't have been worth the risk for so little."
Amalise broke in. "If he invested in gold right away, it would be a significant sum today. Gold's up around three hundred percent since '71."
Robert popped his gum. "Private ownership of gold was against the law until 1974."
Amalise smiled. "Not in Switzerland."
As if she hadn't spoken, Robert said, "They'll find him someday hanging in a tree, caught up in his parachute."
Bingham swung his gaze to Robert. "You think so?"
"Sure. Wind from the engines would have knocked him around up there. Would've torn up those chutes."
Bingham looked thoughtful. "Boeing 727, you could jump midflight in that aircraft. It's configured with aft stairs that drop open below the fuselage and the vertical tail." He looked off, musing aloud. "Three engines, all set high, one on the fuselage in front of the tail, the others above the horizontal. The chutes would be protected from intake and exhaust."
Raymond looked up. "He knew what he was doing."
"Air pressure might be a problem though."
Raymond shook his head. "The cabin was depressurized. He held the pilot at 170 knots and low altitude, under ten thousand feet, with the landing gear down."
Bingham worried his bottom lip, nodding slowly, studying Raymond. "Smart. Reduce the risk of incoming air."
"The Feds tried to follow, but they didn't see him bail. He jumped a little north of Portland."
"And no one's seen him since?" Tom asked.
"Nope. A few of the bills were found in a stream, downriver in the forest. Not much, though."
Lines at the corners of Bingham's eyes crinkled as he looked at Raymond. "You certainly know a lot about this."
"He does." Preston's tone was wry. "We're forced to listen to the story every year." He fixed his eyes on Raymond. "Every. Single. Thanksgiving."
Amalise, wire transfer memorandum in hand, chose this time to head for the fax room.
Bingham glanced at his watch. "Where's Doug? And Frank Earl?" He turned to Robert, his voice suddenly snappish. "Find Steve, Lars, Richard, and Adam and meet me in the conference room down the hall. We need to get things moving. Time's money." With a glance at the row of lawyers, he stood up. "Speaking of hijacking."
Raymond called to Amalise and she halted and turned. "Rebecca and I have a call on the investor agreement with the bank group in ten minutes. We're going to have to give up that hundred and fifty basis points on the investor's notes. I'll let them know to expect the wire transfer memo and that they all need to approve it right away."
She nodded. Call? What call?
Amalise glanced back as she opened the door. Rebecca's red hair gleamed under the lights as she bent, writing. Amalise hurried toward the fax room, reflecting on how quickly she seemed to have been replaced on this transaction.
Amalise halted in the doorway of her office, frowning at the pile of
purchase agreements on her desk. She'd set them aside for everything else, and now she'd almost run out of time to complete them. There were perhaps twenty-five or thirty of the agreements left. Dragging herself to her desk, she wondered if Rebecca had finished her allotment.
Focusing on the purchase agreements, Amalise reminded herself that she was working on the biggest transaction in the firm right now. Yet this work left too much time for rumination—time for thoughts of losing Jude, the new competitive edge to her relationship with Rebecca, of Luke, of purchasing not one but two houses. Now, worst of all, there were Robert's threats toward Luke and the rest of Caroline's family. And toward her.
That last stopped her cold. Regardless of a successful closing, Robert had made it clear he would lodge a complaint with the firm as soon as it was over. Emotions whipped her thoughts, and several times she was forced to backtrack and double-check her work. How could things have gone so wrong?
But through it all, as she worked, she clung to the safe harbor that Robert had offered: If the closing went well and demolition, too, then Luke and Caroline's family would be left alone. Two weeks, she figured, dreading the wait. Or maybe three.
A thought slowly formed in the deep recesses of her mind. When at last it broke through to the conscious level, she lifted her head and inspected the rows of deal books facing her on the bookshelf. Before she'd met Luke, she'd always thought of a partnership at Mangen & Morris as the glittering prize. Each one of those books and Lucite mementoes had represented a step toward that prize. But now.
Now it was all about Luke.
Chapter Forty
Amalise had only twelve purchase agreements to go when the phone rang. Grateful for the break, she turned and picked up the telephone and let her tired eyes roam to the darkened windows across the way. It was only dusk, but on a holiday week the lights were already off and everyone had gone home.
"Amalise!" She recognized Caroline's voice, and thinking of Robert's threat, she gripped the phone.
"What's wrong?"
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