by Stephen Frey
“He won’t.”
“But how do you know?”
“I just do.”
“Perhaps we should all meet with him once,” the attorney suggested.
Padilla shook his head. “No, he won’t do that.”
“Well, then maybe we should find someone else to—”
“Here’s the way the general looks at this thing,” Padilla cut in, intent on shutting this discussion down quickly. He didn’t want the delicate balance of it all to spin out of control thanks to a snowball effect suddenly grabbing the group. “The way he looks at life, really. He believes that three people can keep a secret”—Padilla took a puff off the cigar—“as long as two of them are dead.” That had been one of the first things Delgado had said in their initial meeting, and the hush in the room told him that it was having the same effect on the other men around the table as it had on him when Delgado had said it. The only sound was the faint cry of a baby upstairs. “He means it, too. Now, do you really want to meet him?”
“How did you meet this military officer?” the attorney finally asked.
“Four months ago a call came into the hospital late one night while I was on duty in the emergency room. A nurse took the call and told me that the man had demanded to speak to me immediately. When she informed him that I was in surgery, he said he didn’t care. He told her there would be trouble for her if she didn’t get me immediately. Then he told her he knew where her husband worked and the names of her children. Understandably, she was quite upset.” Padilla had originally believed that his introduction to Delgado was a fluke, but he wasn’t so certain anymore—which was the only thing that made him even the slightest bit suspicious of the general. “So I talked to the man. He told me his child was ill and that there was a jeep waiting for me outside that would bring me to his villa immediately. He then threatened me, too. I didn’t want any part of that, especially when it became clear to me that he was a senior FAR officer.”
The men around the table nodded in agreement. They all held senior posts inside the government, but even they weren’t immune to the whims of their superiors or the FAR. Fear was a common denominator in Cuba.
“I was the only doctor in the emergency room at that point,” Padilla continued, “but I knew my replacement would be there soon. So I got in the jeep and went with the lieutenant. The man on the phone turned out to be the general we are now in business with.”
“Quite a coincidence,” the attorney said. “Don’t you think?”
“Perhaps, but his young son was actually very sick.”
“Did he say anything to you about us that night?”
“No. It was a week later when he contacted me.”
“Did he explain why he decided to contact you a week later?”
Padilla eyed the attorney. He was a small man, like Rodriguez the little rancher, with slicked-back silver hair. Padilla had always figured that if it ever turned out there was a traitor within the group, it was going to be the attorney. Padilla wasn’t sure if he felt that way because the attorney was constantly asking lots of questions, or because he’d gotten an odd feeling about the little man the first time they’d met. The attorney had been brought to the group by the deputy minister of agriculture, who literally vouched for his loyalty on a Bible—and every man in the group was Catholic. Still, Padilla had wondered from the get-go about him. The attorney was smart and would play a vital role in the government if the Incursion was successful—as minister of justice, or whatever the successor organization was called. But for Padilla, there was always that doubt. Of course, it was too late to kick him out now, and the other men seemed to like him because he asked so many questions.
“No.”
“Did you ask?”
“No.” Padilla’s temperature spiked when the attorney raised his hands and looked up to the ceiling, as if to say, “Why the hell not?” “Look, he did ask me when I was tending to his child if I had ever traveled to the United States. Asked if I was ever approached by people in that government when I told him I did travel there.” Padilla took a puff off the cigar. “If you want my opinion, I think the connection was forged by people inside President Wood’s government. I think the general we’re talking about was already talking to his counterparts in the United States military and they knew about me. I think they put us together.” He hesitated. “But I’m not sure.”
The bank executive pointed at Padilla. “Do you know the name of this senior adviser who you’re meeting with in the United States?”
“I do.”
“Is he an important man in their country?”
Padilla nodded. “Yes.” According to his contact in the States, you couldn’t find anyone in the private sector more important than Christian Gillette.
8
“WE SHOULD HAVE TAKEN a helicopter,” Quentin Stiles grumbled. “We’d be back in Washington by now, probably on the plane. Better than doing all this driving, that’s for sure. Might have even convinced the pilot to go under the Key Bridge on his way to the airport, too. Now that would have been fun.”
Christian glanced over at Stiles from the passenger seat. Stiles was behind the wheel of the Integra they’d rented at the airport after their short flight down to Reagan National from New York City this morning. “Under it?” The Key Bridge spanned the Potomac River from Rosslyn, Virginia, to Washington, D.C., right in front of Georgetown. It was a tall structure, but going under one of its six arches would still be risky as hell. Of course, that was Quentin. Into the extreme. Bungee jumping off cable cars in New Zealand, freestyle climbing in the Rockies, scuba diving with sharks. It was almost as if he had a death wish. They hadn’t been able to get a key-man life insurance policy for him at Everest. He was the only managing partner who didn’t have one. “Are you serious?”
Quentin nodded. “Yeah. I’ve done it once before. Got one of the navy flyboys to do it when I was in the Rangers. He could have gotten his ass kicked out of the service for it, but he said he’d always wanted to try it. It’s a small fraternity of guys who’ve done it, and they all know who they are. Kind of a badge of honor to do it and get away with it, you know? Hell of a thrill, too, let me tell you. Looks like you’re going to ram the damn bridge the whole way in, even when you’re only a couple hundred feet away. Scares the crap out of everybody going across it, too, especially the pedestrians and the bikers.” He laughed. “Should have seen the way the people scattered when we were about a hundred feet out.”
“No commercial helicopter pilot’s going to do that.”
Quentin shot Christian an irritated look. “We were on our way to see the president of the United States, for crying out loud. I’m sure he could have arranged a military chopper if you’d asked him to. At least we could have gotten a limo,” Quentin muttered.
“No. I told you, Jesse wanted us to be low-key about getting to Camp David.” Normally they would have gotten a driver, but not this time. “He was very clear about that.”
“Well, if you ask me, we were damn discreet. I just hope this rental car doesn’t end up getting us killed. The steering on this thing stinks. I can barely keep it on the road going around some of these turns. Handles like a John Deere tractor.”
“You’re just too used to your high-performance cars. This is what most people deal with.”
“If this is what most people deal with, then it’s no wonder there are so many accidents.”
Christian settled back into the seat. “Yeah, but this way we get to see more of the countryside, too.” Camp David was eighty miles northwest of downtown Washington and Reagan National. This part of the twisting, turning drive back toward D.C. was through a remote rural area full of heavy woods. “It’s a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the birds are singing.” They had the windows down and Christian took a deep breath of the fresh spring air whipping through the car. The wind felt good in his face as he pulled off his tie and tossed it in the back. “If we’d taken a chopper out to Camp David, we’d have blown right over all this,
” he said, gesturing at the trees towering above the roadway. “We would have missed the experience.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw an odd look cross Quentin’s face. Well, this would really get to him. “Learn to appreciate life, my man.”
“Don’t give me that.” Stiles snorted. “This is all about your fear of flying in something that defies the laws of physics, not communing with nature.” He checked his watch. “It’s three o’clock,” he announced loudly over the air swirling around them. “We’re going to hit Washington right at rush hour, and that rush hour is worse than New York’s. I know, I lived there. After that we’ll be stuck on the damn runway for an hour with everyone and their brother trying to get out of the city.”
“That’s all right. It’ll give us more time to talk. Seems like we don’t get to do that enough anymore.”
“Jesus, where’s the take-no-prisoners guy I know? What did you do with Christian Gillette?”
“I’ll be forty-four soon, Q-Dog.” Christian had given Quentin the nickname only a few months ago, even though they’d known each other for years. He seemed to like it. At least, he hadn’t asked Christian to stop using it. “I’m trying to enjoy life a little more. Trying to take a look at what’s actually around me instead of always trying to see what’s around the bend.”
Quentin shut his eyes tightly for a second, as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “I give this new you a few days…at most. You’re addicted to the game, Chris. It’s in your blood.”
Years ago Christian’s father had founded a successful West Coast investment bank. And Christian had been working on Wall Street or at Everest Capital since graduating from business school. Doing deals had been his gig for more than two decades.
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to slow down a little.”
“You don’t know how to slow down. And if you figured it out somehow, it would drive you nuts.”
“You might be surprised. I’ve been giving this a lot of thought lately and—”
“What happened?” Quentin interrupted. “You read some article this morning on the plane down here about how in the end it all seems to go by so fast and it finally got to you? What were you reading, like, Psychology Today? Or maybe it was Woman’s Journal.”
“You got a problem with Woman’s Journal?”
“Nope, as long as other people read it, not you. Do me a favor, stick to BusinessWeek and Sports Illustrated, will you?” Stiles checked the rearview mirror uneasily. “I don’t like your being out here like this with just me. It’s not safe. We should have at least one more of my guys with us.”
Christian waved. “We’re fine. Don’t be so worried about everything anymore. You’ve gotta start living life.”
Quentin slammed the steering wheel with his palm. “What the hell’s going on with you? Is this that midlife-crisis thing? You gonna blow me away in a second and tell me you’ve shacked up with a twenty-five-year-old?”
Quentin was a pit bull. Once he sank his teeth into a bone, he didn’t let go. But that was one of the things Christian respected about him, too—one of many. Stiles was the most loyal, trustworthy man he’d ever known. “Sure would sell a lot of newspapers if I did, huh?”
Stiles put his head back and broke into a loud laugh. “I guess it would.”
Christian patted Quentin’s shoulder. “You’re a good man, pal. There’s darn few of us left.”
Stiles was a strapping African American who’d made it to partner at Everest Capital after a long, hard road. No Ivy League diplomas or summers on the Cape for him. He’d grown up in Harlem, raised by his grandmother—he’d never known his father, and his mother had died of an overdose when he was young. When he was eighteen, his grandmother had forced him to enlist in the army after a bullet in a gang war almost killed him. He’d kicked and screamed all the way down to the recruiting office in Times Square, but he’d done it. And now he credited that move—and his grandmother—with turning his life around, probably saving it.
Quentin quickly became a star in the Rangers, had been involved in several highly classified operations inside the Defense Intelligence Agency, and ultimately became a Secret Service agent. After a few years at the White House, he’d left government and gone into the private sector, founding his own company—QS Security. Rapidly developing an A-list clientele that included sports stars, actors, and wealthy families. At one point Christian had retained QS Security—which was how they’d met—and bought the company because he was so impressed, merging it into a larger Everest portfolio company. Then he’d made Quentin a partner at Everest.
“You can put your mind at ease,” Christian said reassuringly, gazing down at a gin-clear mountain stream as they zipped across a narrow bridge. He spotted a guy fly-fishing downriver. He’d always wanted to try that. “I doubt I’ll be taking up with any twenty-five-year-olds.” He made a mental note to start a list of “things I want to try.” Lately, he’d begun to realize how many of those things there were. “That would probably be a disaster.”
“Have you thought about it?”
“What? No, of course not.”
“A lot of guys our age do.”
Christian glanced over at Quentin again. “Have you?”
“Maybe. I mean, it sounds fun, you know? But I think it’s one of those things that’s a total disappointment when you actually do it. For both people.” Quentin asked, “What about Allison? You two have been circling around each other like the earth and the moon for a long time. But you haven’t talked much about her lately.”
“Because I can’t figure out which one of us is the moon and which one is the earth.”
“What does that—”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s always telling me not to go there,” Christian pointed out. “That I can’t dip my pen in the company ink and expect to keep the fact that we’re seeing each other under wraps for very long.”
“I know, I know.” Quentin guided the car through a sharp turn. The trees and bushes were heavy on both sides. They hadn’t passed a car coming the other way in a while. “She really cares about you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said, she really cares about you. Not just as a friend, either.”
Quentin and Allison had known each other ever since she’d come to Everest, and it hadn’t been any secret among the three of them that she wanted a deeper relationship with Christian. Still, it seemed like an odd thing for Quentin to say, if only because it was so obvious. “Why’d you say it?”
Quentin hesitated for a moment. “I took her out for drinks last week, after she closed that deal on the West Coast. You were in Europe.”
“She told me you two went out.” That wasn’t unusual. Quentin and Allison had gotten to be good friends over the last few years. “So?”
“She had a whole bottle of champagne herself, then a couple of martinis.”
She hadn’t told Christian that. “And?”
“That woman’s in love with you, pal. She started to unload on me after she finished the champagne. She was convinced you two were going to get together a couple of years ago, when we thought you were going to be Jesse Wood’s VP. She wanted you to do that with him so badly because you kept telling her that then you wouldn’t have to worry about the fact that you were both at Everest. She was really disappointed when it didn’t happen, especially because you threw yourself into raising the last fund so hard and she said you two have kind of drifted apart. Told me you two haven’t been out in a long time. At least, not by yourselves.”
That was true, but it wasn’t a conscious thing on Christian’s part. It wasn’t because he was avoiding her or dating anyone else. He’d just been busy, constantly traveling, constantly meeting with investors to raise the massive $25 billion pool of equity.
“She was talking about how much you two have in common on the family side,” Quentin continued. “You know, now that her family doesn’t talk to her anymore. She was thinking that might make you guys even tighter.”
Clayton had died right after Christian graduated from college, and Christian had been forced to ride freight trains home to California. Lana had closed his checking account and shut off his credit cards only hours after the crash, then refused to send him a dime. And no one else in the family would return his calls.
Christian hadn’t spoken to his family in a long time. Now Allison was in the same boat.
“Allison met with Victoria Graham this morning,” Christian said.
Quentin looked over, obviously surprised. “That tough old bird at MuPenn?”
“Yup.”
“I thought you handled her seven-hundred-fifty-million-dollar investment by yourself.”
“She called Allison. Didn’t tell me she was going to, either. Allison came to me right after she hung up with Ms. Graham to let me know.”
“Do you know why Ms. Graham called Allison?”
Christian wouldn’t have told the other Everest partners anything about this, at least at this point, but it was different with Quentin. He knew if he told Quentin not to say anything, he could count on him to keep it completely to himself. You didn’t find many people like that in life, even when they were your best friend. Most human beings had to tell somebody, and a lot of times telling that one somebody was enough to blow everything. “When I met with Ms. Graham about MuPenn’s investment in our fund, she told me I needed to start thinking about a succession plan. She didn’t make the investment contingent on having a plan in place, but she made me promise I’d have it ready to go soon.”