by Stephen Frey
What was really causing them heart failure was that it had become clear Quentin Stiles must have suspected something. Why else would he be so careful? Why else would he have switched vehicles at the warehouse? And if he suspected something, there must be a reason for him to suspect something. Which meant that their suspicions could be true. That someone else was coming after Gillette.
Dorsey picked up the phone and dialed Victoria one more time. But it rang and rang until the voice-mail greeting finally answered.
SANCHEZ WAS DOING 110 miles an hour, tearing across Alligator Alley toward Naples. They’d picked up the signal from the homing device an hour ago, and he was on his way, closing in on the target.
He was keeping himself amused during the long straightaways by thinking about how the woman he’d met with in Miami had given him strict instructions that no one else was to be killed during this mission. He laughed out loud. She was so naïve. She was supposed to be some big financial executive or something, probably savvy in her world. But she was out of her league in this one. He wouldn’t have taken the job if he’d been aware of all the limitations at the beginning—but now he was glad he had because he’d quickly figured out the right way to play it. The woman was paying him a million bucks—which wasn’t too bad. But he had no intention of sticking to his promise to her of not killing anyone—or of just making a million.
Sanchez backed off quickly to seventy-five when the radar detector started to ping. It sure wouldn’t be good to be pulled over by the South Florida cops going 110—especially with Mari’s body in the trunk. The movie producer would have liked her a lot, he thought to himself. She was pretty—much prettier than the other woman he’d sent before—and she had a nice personality. She might actually have made something of herself in the movies or on television. But he couldn’t risk Mari living another day. She knew too much. So he’d killed her this morning. He’d dispose of the body later—probably out here somewhere on the way back to Miami.
Sanchez nodded subtly at the trooper car as he flashed past—not that the guy could see him do it, but it was always a good idea to salute your enemy before going into battle. A mile later he cranked the car back up to 110.
“I’M LEAVING, ” Christian said, walking over to Beth and hugging her. “Will you be okay?”
She let out a little sob. “I’ll be fine.” She pressed her head to his chest and squeezed tightly.
God, he felt awful for her. She’d been shattered by her mother’s death. And she wouldn’t even be able to start putting it behind her until after the small funeral next week. He’d move any meeting he had, he was going to be with her for that.
“I shouldn’t be long. I’m thinking Quentin and I will be a couple of hours at most. You should go down to the pool and relax, get some sun.” They were staying at the Ritz Carlton, which was right on the beach a couple of miles north of Fifth Avenue South—Naples’s main drag. They were in separate rooms, though she’d made it clear this morning that it would be okay with her if they stayed together. He’d politely declined. Her room was down the hall. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, gesturing toward the window. “If you forgot your bathing suit, get one down in the lobby. Put it on my room.”
“Thanks,” she said, pulling back and wiping tears from her eyelids.
He kissed her forehead gently and broke the embrace. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
“Wait, wait,” she said, running past him to where his briefcase sat in a chair by the door. “I have something for you,” she said, holding up an envelope so he could see it. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you doing all of this for me.” She turned her back to him and blocked his view of the briefcase for a moment. She slipped the envelope past the zipper, into one of the open pockets. Then subtly dropped the homing device into another pocket. “Make sure you aren’t around anyone else when you open the envelope,” she said, zipping both pockets shut. Then she picked up the briefcase and brought it to him.
“Why not?”
She smiled slyly as he took it from her. “Oh, there’s a picture of me in there I’d rather you see when you’re alone.” Her smile grew wider. “If you know what I mean.”
CHRISTIAN STOOD UP as the other man entered the suite. He was short—only about five-seven—and slight—no more than 150 pounds. He had small, round wire-rim glasses, a thin mustache, wavy black hair, and a gentle but competent look in his eye. Christian noticed right away how he was constantly rubbing his hands together, too, as though he were washing them. Maybe surgeons washed their hands so often it was a natural habit to pick up.
“Dr. Padilla?”
Padilla smiled as they shook hands. “Yes,” he said, looking up at Christian. “I hope you are Christian Gillette, yes? If you are not, I think I am in trouble.”
“I am Christian Gillette,” he said, laughing. He guided the other man toward a chair beside the one he’d been sitting in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink, Doctor?”
“No, thank you.” He tapped his watch as he sat down. “I’m supposed to be observing an operation at five o’clock this afternoon back in Miami. It’s a new open-heart procedure we haven’t seen in Cuba yet. I need to keep this short so I’m not late. Obviously, I…we, I mean, we don’t want the people who check up on me to get suspicious.”
Padilla’s English was quite good. Choppy in places but a hundred times better than Christian’s Spanish. “Everything go all right with the trip over here?”
Padilla laughed. “Very well. The man they have as my double? Well, he looks more like me than me. If my mother were alive, I don’t think she could tell who was who. He has all of my markings, right down to the moles. It is amazing.”
Christian nodded to Quentin, who was standing in one corner. The guy was a master. He’d created the double with just a grainy picture from that file Kelly had given Christian at Camp David. “Good.” He felt that he already knew Padilla well. He’d spent a lot of time studying the detailed background files Dex Kelly had provided him on each of the Secret Six. “I want to tell you how impressed I am with what you men have done. It takes a lot of courage. President Wood believes very strongly in you. I’m looking forward to meeting the other five as well.”
“Thank you.”
Christian thought he noticed a cloud cross the other man’s face for a moment, but then it was gone. “Well, I have lots of questions. We should get started so you can get back in time.”
“Please,” Padilla said, opening his arms wide, “ask me all your questions.”
For the next hour Christian did exactly that, rapid-fire. At times it was frustrating because Padilla couldn’t provide the level of detail he was looking for when it came to how certain of the ministries were run, or how the black markets were set up, whether the men of the Six really understood the dynamics there. But he had expected that. After all, Padilla was a doctor. A man who saved lives. Not a man involved with capital markets, production levels, and currency reserves.
At the end of the hour, Christian leaned forward, smiled, and patted Padilla on his knee. “Thank you, my friend. This has been very helpful.” The most important thing Christian had learned during the hour was that he trusted this man—completely. You could never be 100 percent sure, but Padilla certainly seemed like a man who was deeply committed to a democratic Cuba—and to the rebellion that would make the island free. Nervous, even scared—as he should be—and apologetic when he realized by the look in Christian’s eye that he probably wasn’t giving Christian all the information he wanted. But Dex Kelly had been confident about this man. Now Christian saw why.
“We’ll help you,” Christian assured the doctor. There was one more element to all of this—that clandestine trip into Cuba to meet with the rest of the Six as well as the general—but Christian was confident all that would check out. That he would recommend these men to President Wood. “I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of your associates.”
Padilla smiled wid
ely, revealing two rows of bright white teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Gillette,” he said gratefully, reaching into his suit pocket. “Take this,” he said, handing Christian the cow’s identification tag Delgado had given him. “You need to bring it with you to Cuba. You need to give it to the general when you meet him. It is the signal that you are real. You must show it to him. He’s very careful.”
THE MEETING with Padilla had been held at the Naples Beach Hotel and Golf Club. Like the Ritz, the club was located right on the ocean. But it was much closer to town. It consisted of a hotel by the beach—an older wooden structure that was just two stories tall—a pool area, and a bar that overlooked the white sand beach and the smooth Gulf waters beyond. And, on the other side of the first hotel, on the east side, another hotel with a golf course and tennis facility close by.
Christian and Quentin headed down the outdoor stairs from the second floor of the hotel near the beach, one of Quentin’s men in front of them, the other two behind. As they reached the ground level, the bar and the pool were to their left, and in front of them was a wide, beautifully manicured grassy area where the club hosted wedding receptions and parties. The tall palm trees surrounding the area swayed in the light breeze and provided nice shade for the walkway that bordered the grassy area.
Christian looked up through the wide leaves at the clear blue sky and took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. “God, it’s nice down here, Quentin.” He glanced over as they walked. Quentin was checking messages on his cell phone. “Maybe we should move the office,” Christian kidded. “What do you think?”
Quentin held up one finger and stopped walking. “Just a—” He interrupted himself, pressing his palm over the other ear, the one he didn’t have the cell phone up to.
Christian stopped, too, watching Quentin’s face intently. His expression had turned so serious. “What is it, pal?”
Quentin pulled the phone from his ear and stashed it in his pocket. “Remember the day we first met Beth? In Maryland?”
“Of course. Why?”
“You told me there was a state police chopper, right?”
“Yeah,” Christian answered. “Flew right over us. The guy who was chasing Beth and me was aiming his gun at us right by the river. Scared the hell out of the guy, scared him off basically. Back into the woods.”
“You called 911 while you and she were running through the woods, right?”
“Yeah. You told me you did, too. So what?”
Quentin tapped the pocket he’d shoved his cell phone into. “I got a message from a buddy of mine at the Secret Service. He’s got a friend who’s a Maryland state trooper out in Frederick. It’s a town close to where we were that day. The trooper did some digging and found out that the call that got the chopper in the air wasn’t either of the ones we made. It came from someone else a few minutes before we called.”
Christian swallowed hard. “Who made it?”
“He doesn’t know yet, hasn’t been able to trace the number.” Quentin hesitated. “There’s something else.”
Christian was starting to get a bad feeling. That once again he’d been a fool not to follow Quentin’s advice. “I hate to even ask. What?”
“My buddy also asked the state police if there was a tree down on that road that went by Grayson’s Market the day we were there. Remember? That’s why we went back to the store to get a drink, because it was going to be a few minutes before we could get through?”
“I remember.”
“No record of it, and typically the police would have been the ones to get the 911 call about something blocking the road, right? They would have been the ones to dispatch the guys to get the downed tree out of there. And there would have been a trooper on-site directing traffic.”
Christian’s eyes narrowed. “What does all that mean?” he asked, knowing exactly what it meant.
Quentin glanced around, then grabbed Christian’s shoulder and began tugging him toward the parking lot that was across the quiet street that separated the two hotel facilities. “It means that Beth Garrison is a setup,” he said loudly as they jogged. “If that’s even her real name. It means that whole thing at the store was arranged so that you’d meet her in a situation you’d remember, under stressful circumstances so you two would have a bond. It’s classic stuff.” Quentin snapped his fingers and held up, pulling Christian to a sharp stop. “Did Beth give you anything before you left the Ritz today?”
Christian hesitated. “Yeah, an envelope.”
“Where is it? Back at the hotel?”
Christian shook his head and slid the briefcase strap down his shoulder. “It’s in here.”
“Let me see it.”
She’d warned him about letting anyone else see what was inside the envelope. “Quentin, I can’t—”
“Let me see it!” Quentin roared.
Christian unzipped the briefcase pockets and rooted around for a moment. “Here,” he said, holding the envelope out.
Quentin grabbed it and ripped it open, pulling out a provocative photo of Beth. On the back of the photo was a short note, telling Christian how much she loved him. “Damn it.” He handed the photograph back. “Sorry.” He put his hands on his hips, frustrated. “Let me see your briefcase,” he snapped.
Christian handed it to him. “Here.” He’d never seen Quentin like this.
Quentin grabbed the briefcase and knelt down. Suddenly he pulled out what looked like lipstick. “Something you’re not telling me?”
“What the…?”
Quentin stood and held the small case up, inspecting it. “It’s a damn homing device,” he said, turning it off by depressing the top.
Christian grabbed it and stared at it for a few moments in disbelief. Beth had been faking everything, and he’d bought it all. Unbelievable.
“Come on!” Quentin yelled, pulling Christian along again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
The five men sprinted toward the parking lot, toward the rental car they’d driven down from the Ritz. Christian hopped into the back, a bodyguard on either side, while Quentin and the other bodyguard clambered into the front.
The last thing Christian remembered was a loud pop and the car suddenly filling with a foul-smelling gas. Then his eyes rolled back and everything went black.
19
VICTORIA GRAHAM sat in her office, watching the baby boa stalk a small gray mouse she’d picked up at a pet store on her way into Manhattan this morning. The life-and-death struggle fascinated her—it always had. The way it played out every second of every day somewhere in the world. Survival for one—the end for another. And, though it was terrible to admit, she liked having a hand in the outcome. From facilitating the mouse’s death to preventing Christian’s.
Steven Sanchez was a seedy character, but it was far better for Christian to be in his hands than to go to Cuba and be murdered. She knew the men backing Dorsey would kill Christian if he actually made it to Cuba—she’d seen it in Dorsey’s eyes when she’d asked the question: What’s going to happen to Christian? But she’d really known it way before then. When she’d found that file in Dorsey’s desk in the Georgetown house. Back in the fall of last year when she’d been snooping around looking for something to convince her Dorsey was serious about divorcing his wife. Instead she’d stumbled onto a manila folder in a desk drawer with a lot of handwritten notes Dorsey had taken.
They hated Christian for what he’d done to their cronies and them—exposing the nanotech scam and interfering in their plot to derail Jesse Wood’s election. Which had ultimately resulted in the deaths of a couple of their close pals—Samuel Hewitt and Stewart Massey. So they’d decided to use Christian, then kill him. A double score in their eyes. Perfect revenge.
Jesse Wood was president of the United States, but that didn’t mean he controlled what went on at the CIA or the Pentagon, Graham knew. In fact, it was the other way around. The old-boy military machine controlled Wood. They’d been able to manipulate Wood into signing the assassination order
for Cuba because he desperately needed their support—and the damage was done. They’d told Wood and his advisers they had to have the assassination order to carry out the Cuba offensive, and Wood’s administration had bought it—apparently. Christian was a chess piece in all of that—and wouldn’t survive the game.
So, through an acquaintance, Graham had arranged for Steven Sanchez to kidnap Christian, then demand a huge ransom—$25 million. Which would, of course, never be paid. Sanchez already had half his money—five hundred grand. He’d get the other half in a couple of weeks. She was expecting the bogus ransom note tonight. There’d be nothing in it related to Cuba, just some babble about the perpetrators being allied with an Iraqi terrorist group. It would have to be viewed by Wood and his administration as just terrible luck. An act of aggression within the United States’ borders that they’d want to keep silent. No one would ever interpret it as in any way related to Cuba—which was all that mattered.
The negotiation with Sanchez would take weeks, and the president would be forced to delay the initiative because, without Christian, he’d have no way to assess the capabilities of the Cuban civilians who were supposed to take over the government after the Communists were ousted. Ultimately, the president would have to choose someone else as his emissary when the phantom negotiations broke down. At that point, when Wood chose another emissary, Christian would be safe. Sanchez would let Christian go a few days later, get the second half of his money, then disappear forever. And the establishment would get Wood.
Christian had saved her career—her life really—by turning down the Ohio insurance company deal. And by standing up for her in her darkest hour. The fact of the matter was that two of her MuPenn board members had uncovered what she was trying to do independent of Christian—not because Christian had told them. A senior executive at the target—at the Ohio insurance company—had figured out that Victoria was trying to execute an end run around the state regulators—then called the MuPenn board members and told them. Christian had met with the two board members at their request—without even telling Victoria—and convinced them she was acting on the up-and-up and that the senior executive at the target company had concocted the lies about Victoria because he was worried that if she got the company, he would be fired. Christian had put his reputation on the line for her, and she’d never forget it.