by Bob Mayer
“You’d think it was contagious,” Preston said. “You’re certain the clause will work?” he asked, tapping the papers he’d just been perusing.
Rigney nodded. “Upon the unlikely event of the passing of both father and son, with no male heir, the Fabrou stake in Daufuskie passes to the State of South Carolina, earmarked as a wildlife refuge. But, as I showed you, there was a case twenty-two years ago where a parcel of land was passed to the State that way and the lawyer for the ex-wife had quite a bit of leverage in Columbia. A law was passed, retroactive, and now the state can waive its claim and the land be purchased at a price determined by the comptroller.”
“And you know the comptroller,” Preston made it a statement, not a sentence.
“As planned, the paperwork is already drawn up for that sale to you.” Rigney indicated his brief case. “You’ll be getting it for pennies on the dollar.”
“And how much does the comptroller get?”
“Six hundred thousand.”
“How much does he actually get once it passes through you?”
“Four hundred thousand.”
Preston laughed. “Got to love capitalism. Anything can be bought. Anyone can be bought.”
Rigney shifted uncomfortably in the chair.
“Do you believe that?” Preston asked.
“What?”
“That anyone can be bought?”
“I’ve never really thought about it,” Rigney replied.
“Don’t lie,” Preston said. “You’re a lawyer. Of course you’ve thought about it. And you’ve done it. I bought you from Mrs. Jenrette, correct?”
“Old man Jenrette screwed me in his will,” Rigney said. “Rewrote it himself and cut me out. It wasn’t what we’d agreed on. And I know the old lady isn’t going to do anything for me. After all the years I’ve served the family. So it’s not so much a case of you buying me; they ran me off.”
“And Sarah Briggs?”
Rigney froze in the chair. “Who?”
“Are you fucking her?” Preston asked. “What special ploy does she use on you?”
Rigney’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“The paperwork in your briefcase,” Preston said. “Is it made out to me? Or is it made out to her?”
Rigney found his voice. “To you, of course.”
The door opened and three men walked in. They spread out around the room, effectively circling Rigney.
“What’s going on?” Rigney demanded.
“I’ve asked you that three times and you haven’t answered,” Preston said. “If I look in your briefcase, will the paperwork be made out to me for the Fabrou’s portion of Daufuskie via the state or to her? I assure you, if you’re lying to me, you will not leave this room alive.”
Rigney closed his eyes. He sighed and then opened them. “There are two sets of paperwork in there. One for you. One for her.”
Preston laughed. “Exactly what a good lawyer would do. Prepare for all contingencies. And I assume you’ve done the same with Mrs. Jenrette’s property?”
“Yes.”
“What has Briggs offered you?” Preston asked.
“Five million.”
“And how does she propose to develop the island?” Preston asked. “She doesn’t have the contacts.”
“I believe she plans on selling it once the appropriation goes through.”
“And Bloody Point?” Preston asked.
“She owns it now.”
“You really think she’d pay you five million?” Preston asked.
Rigney shook his head. “No. But she’s a dangerous person. I needed a back-up in case she turned on you and she was the only one left standing.”
“I admire the planning,” Preston said. He looked past the lawyer at the man directly behind him and nodded.
Rigney started to turn, but he was too slow. The man slammed an icepick into the base of Rigney’s skull and twisted it once it had penetrated to the hilt.
There wasn’t much blood at all.
Preston walked around the desk then retrieved Rigney’s briefcase.
“Take care of the body and then we have to go out to Daufuskie Island to make another deal.”
* * *
Mrs. Jenrette didn’t like to leave her house. In fact, it was hard for her to recall the last time she’d passed out of the doors. And she most definitely did not like leaving Charleston.
She had a yacht, of course. One could not be rich in Charleston and not have a yacht, given there was water on three sides. She did remember her last time on it. A cruise with her husband, son and grandson. And now all three were gone. So it was with heavy heart she was supervising Thomas packing a small bag for a two-day excursion. Not far, just down the coast to Daufuskie Island and back. And she wouldn’t be doing it if the stakes weren’t so high.
“It will be done soon,” Thomas said, as he closed the overnight bag.
Mrs. Jenrette was thinking about that last trip. A cruise to Europe and the Mediterranean. Her pile of bags had filled the foyer; and the mansion had a very large foyer. Who had she been back then? All the stuff; she’d give it all up to have Greer back.
“I will be glad,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “I believe—“ she paused as the house phone rang, a most unusual occurrence. Oly a handful of people had the number; otherwise a service handled her calls, logging them, noting the message, and supplying a summary.
Thomas walked over to the closest extension. “It says ‘unknown’,” he reported as he looked at the display.
“Might as well answer it to see who is disturbing me.”
Thomas picked up the phone. “Jenrette residence.”
He listened for a moment. “Who might I say is calling?” A frown flickered over his face. “I cannot bring Mrs. Jenrette to the line unless I know to whom she would be speaking.” He put a hand over the receiver and spoke to Jenrette. “A woman. Says she must speak with you. It’s urgent regarding Daufuskie.”
Mrs. Jenrette twitched a finger, indicating he should bring the phone to her. She took the device. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Jenrette, my name is Sarah Briggs.”
“Proceed.” She nodded at Thomas and he picked up an extension to listen in.
“I just love your voice, Mrs. Jenrette. So southern, so much charm, so much power. Truly a marvel.”
“Is there a purpose to this call, Mrs. Briggs?”
“You assume I am married,” Sarah said. “I am not. But you can call me Sarah.”
“I have no reason to assume familiarity with someone I do not know,” Mrs. Jenrette said.
Sarah laughed. “So true, so true. Then I will get down to business. Seems everyone is in a hurry to get down to business these days. I was wondering about worth. How much things are worth on a relative scale.”
“Speak more plainly or I will hang up.”
“Sea Drift will be worth roughly two hundred million, won’t it?” Sarah did not wait for a reply. “And the split was to be fifty percent Jenrette, forty percent Fabrou, five percent Mongin, if they won’t sell out right, and the rest is allocated to acquiring Bloody Point. Five percent. Am I correct?”
“How do you know this?”
“Let’s not waste questions,” Sarah said. “If I am correct, then I know you know I know. We are most knowledgeable are we not?”
“I am knowledgeable,” Mrs. Jenrette said, “which is why you are wasting my time telling me things I already know.”
“That math would net me ten million,” Sarah said.
Mrs. Jenrette looked at Thomas as she spoke into the phone. “Our invisible owner of Bloody Point has dropped her cloak and appeared.”
“Indeed.”
“You do understand that those figures were internal discussions and privy to only a handful of people. We never intended to pay full price for Bloody Point.”
“I know. You were offering four hundred thousand.”
“And while you might feel you are in the catbird’s seat,” Mrs. Jenrette continu
ed, “understand that the land you own is worthless since we control access to it.”
“As Senator Gregory controls releasing the appropriation for the causeway that will be built to the island once he releases the funds. By the way. How much does he get?”
Mrs. Jenrette gripped the phone tighter. “What do you want Mrs. Briggs.”
“Told you. I’m not married.”
“What do you want?”
“It’s more a question of what you want,” Sarah said.
“I want Bloody Point, but I won’t be extorted,” Mrs. Jenrette said.
“Fair market value given the causeway being built is not extortion,” Sarah said. “Current market value without knowledge of the causeway, well, now that would be cheating, wouldn’t it? And that’s what your agent was putting out there publicly.” Sarah’s voice got sharper. “So let’s not dance around pretending we’re belles at the ball, Mrs. Jenrette when we’re business women at a knife fight.”
“Fine,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Ten million is fair market value given the causeway. I can have—“
“I want more.”
Mrs. Jenrette was about to say something, but Thomas shook his head and mouthed: Wait.
“And you want more,” Sarah said. “Don’t you?”
“Speak.”
“Harry Brannigan.”
Mrs. Jenrette stood, one hand on the chair. “Go on.”
“I have him,” Sarah said. “What’s he worth to you? Wait. Don’t answer. I think we’ve gone past money now, haven’t we? This is personal.”
“It is.”
“And it’s personal for me too,” Sarah said. “Seems we’ve both had our pound of flesh carved from us in the past and want retribution. Perhaps there is a way for us to both be satisfied.”
“And how is that?” Mrs. Jenrette walked across her master suite to the French doors that led out onto the balcony running across the front of the house. She stepped outside. It was late in the day, the sun slanting rays across the harbor.
Fort Sumter was out there, still taunting her.
“You’ll find out tomorrow,” Sarah said. “But I will give you Harry Brannigan if you give me what I want. Tomorrow morning, Mrs. Jenrette. When I ask, you give me what I want. And we will both have our satisfaction.” There was a short pause. “And I do want my ten million also.”
* * *
Sometimes honor was a bad thing, but a man had to have a code. Doc Cleary most definitely regretted listening to Erin Brannigan beg to see her son over the radio three weeks ago. He’d known it was her by the information she had and he vaguely remembered her voice from so many years ago when Horace brought her around.
The fact she’d been gone for almost all of Harry’s life was something he’d been willing to put aside to agree to her request for a clandestine meeting; after all, there was still Mrs. Jenrette to deal with.
The journey back had taken eighteen days, out of the Mediterranean, and then across the Atlantic to this hidden spot at Wassaw Island. He and Harry had waited two days until a boat showed up just the other day; but Harry’s mother wasn’t on board, but rather a woman leading a trio of toughs from the islands.
Cleary had seen their like before, but he’d never met anyone quite like Sarah Briggs. She’d only spent a few hours with them, grilling Harry about what had happened at the Institute, and Doc about what he knew about Horace, and then she’d departed in a small Zodiac driven by one of the toughs, who’d returned an hour later.
Since then, nothing. Except for once when they were tied to chairs, a newspaper was propped in his lap, and one of the toughs took their photo.
Proof of life. Doc had seen enough movies to know what it meant.
“Do you think she’s going to sell me to Mrs. Jenrette?” Harry asked.
They were locked in the bow stateroom on the boat. There was a hatch above, not large enough to crawl through, but it allowed light through and it was cracked open, allowing ventilation. They had a small latrine and food was shoved through the door every so often, on a random schedule, whenever the three guards felt like cooking something up; usually island fare that was surprisingly good.
Doc had been thinking along the same lines, but not expressing it. They’d discussed escape plans (coming up with nothing viable against three armed men) and speculated where Harry’s mother might be. Doc had told Harry what little he knew of Erin Brannigan.
They’d discussed Harry’s father at length during their many months at sea. Doc could see Horace in Harry, in the strong jaw, and the tough physique, but he also saw his grandmother Lilly in the graceful way Harry had handled the sails and scampered about the deck and his eyes. For a long time it had pained Doc every time he looked into those eyes, because they reminded him of her; but he knew that was selfish and he’d put it aside, shelving that it in a bittersweet part of his mind.
“It’s possible,” Doc said, never one to obscure reality with wishful thinking. “She’s a bitter old woman.” He was seated on one side, on the narrow bunk while Harry was on the bunk on the other side. “She didn’t use to be that way. I knew her a long time ago. But the deaths of her husband and son gutted her and she put everything into Greer. And then—“ he left it unsaid.
“Maybe it’s not a good idea to love someone that much?” Harry said.
“Oh no,” Doc said. “Never regret love. But never turn it into hate. Bitterness kills the heart.”
“Maybe I should have stayed and explained—“ Harry began not for the first time.
Doc cut him off. “Let’s not get into that again. Going up against Mrs. Jenrette is bad enough, but throw in Gregory, Fabrou and Mongin and no one would have believed you. We tried to get the truth, but when I learned what the official account was, we knew we had to go.”
“Still—“ Harry paused and cocked his head. “Someone’s coming.”
The noise of a boat engine came in through the cracked hatch.
“I assume our friend is back,” Doc said.
On the deck, the three men Sarah Briggs had hired to sail here didn’t know what to make of the approaching boat. In fact, they didn’t know what to make of much of what they’d been doing. Her instructions had been brief: keep the two men locked up below, answer the cell phone she left with them and do whatever she instructed.
She had not called to tell them she was coming, or anyone else for that matter, so they drew their pistols.
On board Preston Gregory’s boat, which barely made classification as a yacht at forty-two feet, Pappano stood on the foredeck. A sniper, another former Secret Service agent, who’d been on the CAT—counter-assault-team—and cashiered after being found drunk in a hallway during a Presidential trip to Europe. Pappano had hired him on previous occasions. The sniper lay prone, covered with a piece of canvas. A fold in the canvas allowed him to see out and gave a clear line of fire for his rifle. The muzzle of the weapon did not poke out; that was the sign of an amateur.
Slightly behind their counterparts in Special Operations, CAT still used the SR-25, also known in the military as the MK-11, for sniping. Essentially it was an upgraded version of the AR-10 chambered for 7.62 ammunition. The gun the sniper used also had a sound suppressor.
It might be a tad outdated. but it could get the job done.
“I see three,” Pappano said.
“I confirm three,” the sniper said.
“Terminate.”
The first round hit the man farthest away, on the bridge of the boat, exploding his head like a melon. The second round was on the way before the first victim hit the deck. The third man had less than a second to react.
He was beginning to move when he too was killed.
It was all over in less than two seconds. The sniper stayed in position though, scanning the boat through his optics.
Just in case.
They pulled up next to the boat and Pappano led two men aboard as the sniper threw aside his canvas cover and provided overwatch.
Below deck, all Doc Cleary a
nd Harry heard were three thuds above them and the other boat getting closer, then idling.
They heard the lock being turned, then the door was opened and a short man with a pistol in his hand filled the opening.
“Are you—“ Doc began, getting to his feet, but the man had the gun up, aimed at them, answering his question.
“Turn around,” Pappano ordered. “Hands behind your back.”
Another man squeezed in and zip-tied their hands together.
“Come on,” Pappano said, leading them up to the deck-level cabin.
The bodies of the three who’d held them captive were lined up on the floor.
“So you understand we mean business,” Pappano said, pointing at the three dead men with the muzzle of his pistol.
“Who are you?” Doc asked.
“You don’t need to know,” Pappano said.
Doc and Harry were transferred to Preston’s yacht, while one of Pappano’s men took the helm of Sarah Briggs’ boat. They got underway, edging out of the low country and into the open ocean, heading due east.
Doc and Harry were moved below, once more locked in a stateroom, this one with just a single porthole. Their zipties were cut just before the door was locked on them. Harry stood by the porthole, staring out at the open ocean. “Who do you think these people work for?”
“Not Mrs. Jenrette,” Doc Cleary said.
“How do you know?”
“She wants you dead, not others. This is out of her league.”
“Then whose league is it in? Why are we heading out to sea?”
“Harry.” Doc Cleary said it calmly, sensing the agitation in his young protégé. “Remember the days we were becalmed in the middle of the ocean?”
Harry nodded. “Put your mind back in that place.”
“We fight if we get a chance,” Harry said. “I’m not going the way that couple went off of San Diego.”
Doc Cleary knew what he was referring to: a couple took some men out for a test drive of their boat and ended up being tie together to the anchor and thrown overboard. A frightening way to go.