“Well, shit, Jack, I heard, just like you and half of Washington, the rumors floating around when the NSA had his…accident. It was fodder for weeks. The administration cut him loose when those rumors of spousal abuse hit the rumor mill. That’s the reason those Pinewood ladies took him on, right? What I heard was he was beating up his wife pretty bad and the Pinewood ladies stepped in and did a tit-for-tat kind of thing. More tit than tat, or so the rumor goes. I can just see Robinson teaming up with him. The NSA wants vengeance. If spilling his guts to a fast-track reporter is the only way he can strike out at the administration, then that’s what the bastard will do. The fibs have to pay attention and investigate any and all complaints, you know that. Plus, they don’t want the press, especially the Post, riding their asses. The DOJ is no different.”
Jack eyed the chow mein on the carpet. Nikki was going to kill him. “That’s kind of my take, too, but I need more info. Nose around, you might come up with something.”
“Just don’t get your hopes up. Who do you think is your guardian angel? That guy Martin? Nikki doesn’t carry any weight so that lets her out. Maybe Myra Rutledge or the new lady from Manassas. That’s a lot of heavy firepower. I’m thinking you shouldn’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth. Maybe the wise course of action is to leave it all alone and count your blessings.”
The chow mein on the floor was bothering Jack. He had to get off the phone and clean it up. “Do what you can, Mark. I’ll call you in the morning. I have a feeling the city is going to shut down if this snow continues. You might be able to get hold of a lot of people at home if the roads aren’t open.”
Jack poked at the chow mein with his big toe to see if it had stained the beige carpet. Yep. “See ya,” he said, ending the call.
Thirty minutes later, the carpet looked reasonably clean. He’d probably have to call in a professional at some point but for now the stain was barely noticeable. While he was returning the cleaning supplies to the kitchen, he looked out the window at the falling snow. He could see a huge drift in the tiny backyard. Too much snow could mean Nikki wouldn’t make it into the city from the farm. He wondered why she hadn’t called him. Things were probably hopping out at Pinewood. He shivered as he contemplated what the devious women would do for Harry’s girlfriend.
A Fluffernutter sandwich in one hand, a beer in the other, Jack made his way back to the living room. Before he started to eat, he tossed another log onto the fire. Sparks shot upward as the new log caught fire. He wished Nikki was here so they could curl up in front of the fire. He looked down at the sandwich, Nikki’s favorite. She said Myra used to make her own version of a Fluffernutter for her and Barbara when they were little: bread, butter, peanut butter, Marshmallow Fluff and thinly sliced banana on top, crowned by a second slice of bread. A very filling sandwich but he really needed the beer to wash it down.
Jack flopped down on the sofa to devour his sandwich. Right now, a big dog keeping him company would be nice. Even a cat. Damn, why didn’t Nikki call? He eyed the portable phone on the cushion. He could call her. Now that everyone at Pinewood knew he was an active member, and Nikki’s inside informant, he didn’t have to sneak around. He shrugged. She would call him when she had something to say. God forbid he should disrupt one of Martin’s heavy-duty meetings. He grimaced as he wondered if he would ever be invited to attend one of those top-secret meetings. He finally decided his job was outside the circle.
What a shitty place to be.
Chapter 5
Charles Martin stepped down into the empty war room, and sat down at the round table that normally accommodated the seven Ladies of Pinewood. Today he was alone and he was glad. Nothing in his long, illustrious life and career had prepared him for what he’d found out about Michael Lyons, Yoko’s American father. Things he wasn’t yet ready to present to the members of the Sisterhood. He had to be dispassionate when he presented his findings so that they could come to a satisfactory resolution where the movie star was concerned. Now simply wasn’t the time.
Charles felt heartsick. How depraved could one human being be and yet have people, fans, dignitaries worship at his feet? His gaze swiveled around the compact room to light on one of the oversize monitors and then to the green folder he’d placed in the center of the table. For the first time in his life he questioned Lady Justice. And like the women of the Sisterhood, he questioned the entire judicial system that allowed scum like Lyons to live among decent human beings. He moved his hands off the table, not wanting to touch the thick green folder. He’d give anything never to touch it again. Such a foolish thought.
Charles dropped his head into his hands as he roll-called his distinguished life and how he’d gotten to this place in time. He’d gone into service at MI 6 as a young man and had worked tirelessly as a covert spy. He’d done Black Ops, Black Bag jobs, anything he was called on to do. The Queen had knighted him. Then his cover had been blown and the powers that be had sent him across the ocean where he signed on as head of security of Myra Rutledge’s huge Fortune 500 candy company. There he renewed his relationship with Myra that had started in their teens when her parents brought her to England.
They weren’t married but it wasn’t for his lack of proposing. Perhaps this year. Myra said she didn’t need to be made an honest woman. Only God in heaven knew how much he loved Myra and how much Myra loved him. How else could he have agreed to help her with his expertise to set up the Sisterhood to win justice for those who fell through the cracks or when Lady Justice looked the other way?
He loved being back in the game, loved that he could call on other operatives to help him. Loved that he could help the sisters with his expertise and Myra’s unlimited funds. With more than one close call, they’d all managed to stay ahead of the authorities, thanks in part to Jack Emery, Nikki’s fiancé, who had started out as an adversary but now was one of them.
Doubt cloaked him now like a shroud. Could he bring this all together for the sisters? If it was up to him, he’d simply seek out the bloody son of a bitch and blow a hole in his head. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option. He thought about Yoko and wondered how she would handle the sordid details. Alexis said Yoko was a tough little cookie, but tough or not, she might not be able to handle the information he had in the thick green folder.
Clearly he was going to have to call in extra help. It shouldn’t prove to be a problem since he’d lost count of the many favors he’d called in just to get the material now compiled in the green folder. The Internet had proved to be an invaluable tool. Without it, he wouldn’t have the information he had and Michael Lyons wouldn’t be in the business he was in. He instantly realized the latter part was a lie. Men like Lyons would simply find other ways to do their trafficking. The Internet, aside from anonymity, simply made things a hundred times easier.
Charles swiveled around in the chair and glared at Lady Justice. “You truly are blind, my dear, especially in this case.” The statement didn’t make him feel one bit better. Now he had to pick up the green folder and take it back to his workstation and continue until he couldn’t stand it a moment longer.
Three thousand miles away, the object of Charles Martin’s investigation stepped out of the shower. He didn’t bother to dry off but wrapped a thick, thirsty black towel around his middle. He marched through the oversize bathroom into the dressing room where he popped in his summer-blue contact lenses before he ripped off his towel to view his entire body in the full-length mirror. He was totally tanned, like George Hamilton, thanks to his tanning bed.
Hollywood’s Super-Stud fingered the hairline scars all over his body. Liposuction was a wonderful thing, provided that one had a doctor who knew what he was doing. The hair implants had been done in Switzerland, along with his various surgeries in his fight to ward off middle age. He smiled at himself. His teeth, mostly caps and expensive veneer, glowed in the early-morning light. He had many smiles—winsome, a wicked grin, his honest smile, his devious smile and then the smile his adoring public never saw. He
called it his lust smile.
Michael Lyons was between pictures, which meant he had a full month to do nothing but indulge himself and his squirrelly appetites. He smiled at himself again before he got dressed. As always, his dress was impeccable even if he planned on staying indoors the whole day. Today he wore khaki slacks and a blue cashmere sweater that matched his eyes. Mr. Casual himself. Someone might stop by.
Mick, as he liked to be called, meandered through his ten-thousand-square-foot house to his office, where life-sized posters of himself graced the walls. His Oscars stood sentinel on the mantel. Above the Oscars was a full-body portrait of him sitting by the beach in a colorful striped beach chair. It was his favorite picture of himself and each morning, sometimes in the evening, too, he saluted it.
Five different state-of-the-art computers sat in the middle of the room. When they were installed he had only one demand: “I want them to be impregnable.” And that’s what he got, to the tune of millions of dollars. The White House would find it difficult to duplicate what stood before him.
His hobby, which is how he thought of his perversion, called for such secretive measures. His work, or his day job, was relegated to a different computer in a small alcove. When you were one of Hollywood’s golden people, others took care of publicity, guest appearances and schedules. His business manager kept those funds separate from his other income that stopped just short of billionaire status. Sins of the flesh paid well.
Sometimes, like now, he stopped to really think about what he was doing and how long he’d been doing it without anyone suspecting that Hollywood’s idol was something other than what they saw on the screen. His adoring public saw him donating vast sums of money to animal rights, the Red Cross, the homeless, children’s rights and any worthy cause that came his way. All funded from his nefarious activities. He’d been invited to the White House more times than he could remember. He played golf with the governor of California. He’d even had an audience with the pope, although he was a Baptist. Before he left Rome he’d left behind a ten-million-dollar check at the Vatican for the poor souls who needed help. The pope had blessed him and called him “my child.” The truth was, Mick Lyons was an atheist, even though he claimed Baptist status, and never saw the inside of a church.
The private phone line, complete with scrambler, rang, a pleasant tinkling sound. Mick Lyons hated loud noises. What he really hated more than loud noises was the sound of whimpering, crying women when they found out what he was all about.
Lyons’s voice was husky, sensual, his public voice, when he said, “Hello.”
“Mick, it’s Lyle. I thought you were going to call me back yesterday. I need you to say yes or no to the script I sent you. The studio wants an answer by noon. It’s a great script, I read it twice. It’s you through and through. You could do it with your eyes closed,” the agent said.
“I got sidetracked yesterday, Lyle. The answer is yes, and you’re right, it’s a good script. I want a double of my choice for the fight scenes. And, I’m going out of town for the whole month so don’t call me unless the head of the studio dies or the check bounces.”
Mick broke the connection and booted up his computer. This was the part of the day he liked best; when he opened his secret e-mail to see what was forthcoming from the four corners of the world. Today he was expecting to hear when his next Asian delivery would take place.
In seven short minutes, the handsome movie star’s mood turned ugly. His adoring public would have run for cover if they’d seen him in this mood. He used up five full minutes tapping out equally ugly messages, the gist of which was, clients were waiting and if delivery wasn’t on time, there were others standing in line for the opportunity to go on his cash payroll. Now, his whole day was ruined. He would spend hours on the phone trying to appease his sick, perverted friends and clients.
Charles Martin tightened the collar of his jacket. Of all the months of the year, February was the month he hated most. Myra had wanted him to cancel the meeting when the snow reached the three-foot mark but the man he was to meet had been explicit. A no-show would cancel any further contact. He also hated secret meetings that took place in Lafayette Park across from the White House. He’d debated long and hard before he had consented to this particular meeting, preferring scrambled telephones or secure email. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust the man he was meeting; he did. But no matter how careful, how diligent you were, some people could foul things up royally just by going on with their daily lives. Snow, an act of nature, could prove to be disastrous.
Steve Landry, according to one of Charles’s operatives, was the best computer hacker in the world. The operative had stressed the word world and was in constant demand, which, translated, meant he picked and chose those cases that challenged him. The description given to him was of a nerdy-looking young man who lived in the gray shadows of the world offering his services to anyone who could afford his astronomical fees. A man, the operative said, who knew how to deliver and who kept his mouth shut. As far as Landry was concerned, if you wanted his services, you showed up with a knapsack full of green. No checks, no credit cards and no promises.
Charles Martin did not look like Charles Martin today. Alexis and her Red Bag of tricks had altered his appearance just enough that even under intense grilling by the authorities, Landry wouldn’t be able to make a positive identification where Charles was concerned. He wore an old watch cap to cover his gray hair, glasses that were plain glass and gray contact lenses. The down jacket was padded and puffed him out, making him look heavier than he was. He wore leather gloves and his fingerprints were not on the knapsack or the bills inside. Five hundred thousand now and the rest when Landry delivered the passwords to Michael Lyons’s computers and access to his stored files.
Charles stretched out his arm so he could roll back the cuff to see what time it was. Two minutes to go. With thirty seconds to spare, Charles looked through a tree bare of leaves to see a man plodding toward him in the deep snow. At first glance the man looked like the nerd his operative had described. On second glance, Charles knew the man was not a nerd. His eyes were sharp and shrewd behind glasses like the ones he was wearing. Meaning, of course, the man was in disguise just the way he was.
Charles took the initiative. “You were told what I want. Can you do it?”
The response was succinct. “Yes.”
“Delivery time?” Charles asked coolly.
“Three days. Payment is half now, the other half on delivery.”
“Guaranteed?”
The nerd angled his head toward the White House to stare at the gawking tourists. “Absolutely. Where do you want to take delivery?”
“The Lincoln Memorial.”
The nerd pondered the delivery site. “Okay. This is the only time we’ll meet. Someone else will make delivery. Use a gray knapsack. Dusk, around five thirty. Does that meet with your approval?”
Charles sucked in his breath. “Satisfactory.” He released the knapsack from his shoulders, set it on the ground and walked away. He wondered if he’d just squandered half a million dollars of Myra’s money. His gut told him he hadn’t.
An hour later, after changing taxis twice, riding the Metro and then hoofing around the mall, Charles felt confident that he wasn’t wearing a tail when he climbed into his own SUV and started the engine. He sat for a few moments waiting for the heater to click on. Standing in the park in deep snow had left him numb with cold. The temperature gauge on the dashboard said it was seven degrees. And it was still snowing. His best bet would be to check into the Hay-Adams instead of trying to make it back to Pinewood.
His decision made, Charles inched his way out into traffic. Another car, parked six cars to his right, pulled out behind him. Ted Robinson smacked his hands together and cackled happily. “Gotcha, you fucking spook!” He hit the speed dial on his cell phone.
Maggie Spritzer bellowed into her own cell phone. “I’m on him, Ted, and he’s walking. How come I have the shit detail while you
are sitting nice and warm in the car? For your information, I can’t feel my feet. I’m frozen stiff. In case you haven’t noticed the snow is up to my belly button.”
“Stop whining and don’t lose that guy. We need to know who he is.”
Maggie suggested he do something that was an impossible feat. Ted cackled again as he followed Charles Martin.
“This time I gotcha, you bastard.” Ted patted the small camera he carried in his pocket. It was a nice one, smaller than a package of cigarettes, half as thin, with five pixels. “Gotcha,” he said again. While he wasn’t sure what he had, he knew he had something.
Chapter 6
The hour was late, well past midnight, when Charles sat down on the chest at the foot of the bed to remove his shoes. Myra thought she’d never seen him look so weary, so distraught. She sat down beside him on the chest and started to rub his shoulders. “I’m a good listener, Charles,” she said softly.
Charles closed his eyes and allowed Myra’s strong hands to work at the knots in his neck and shoulders. The fire crackled in the fireplace but did little to warm the drafty old room in the farmhouse. Outside, snow fell softly, covering everything with pristine whiteness. He’d been shocked to see that it was snowing again when he entered the main part of the house from the war room. Earlier in the day he’d looked outdoors to see that most of the snow from the previous storm was all but gone, and now this.
Charles struggled for just the right words for Myra’s benefit. He decided he was simply too tired to sugarcoat anything. “I think this is the worst thing I’ve ever worked on in my entire life. I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to call the girls to tell them I didn’t want any part of Yoko’s mission. I can’t seem to feel clean these days. I know there is decadence, filth, perversion in the world but this man…This man is the Devil. He moves among society, receives accolades, adoration, and is in such demand it makes me question society as a whole. He’s been doing what he’s doing for years and years and no one, no one, Myra, has a clue as to who this man really is.
Free Fall Page 5