by Vince Flynn
The demands for a second attempt on the candidates’ lives was dropped and they eventually admitted that their inside source had relayed bad information. Since the job was not completed, they asked if he would accept a reduction in his fee. He told them he would take his full fee and kill the inside source free of charge. They went back and forth several more times and eventually settled on $750,000. When the money showed up in his Swiss account Gazich breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a second. The next day he called his banker and gave him instructions on how he wanted the money relocated. He then left New York and headed west by train to begin his ten-week journey home. Throughout his travels, Gazich couldn’t shake the feeling that this entire affair was going to come back and bite him in the ass.
When he finally stepped off the boat in Limassol he couldn’t help but smile. He’d traveled two thirds of the way around the planet and had done so without raising the suspicion of a single law enforcement or intelligence agency. Maybe his worries had been exaggerated. It wouldn’t be the first time. Gazich threw his bag over his shoulder and threaded his way through the terminal toward the taxi line. He was suddenly eager to see a few familiar faces. To find out how things had been on the island, and most importantly, if anyone had been looking for him.
He powered up his cell phone and then punched in a local number. After a few rings a woman answered and Gazich said, “Andreas.” He waited for the woman to get his landlord and joined the line of people waiting for a taxi. Gazich had talked to the landlord two days ago and had asked him if anyone had been looking for him. It was not an unusual question. Gazich often left on short notice and was sometimes gone for a month at a time. This trip was longer than usual, though, and Andreas had expressed some concern when he’d first checked in almost a month ago. Gazich answered by telling him he’d been detained in Darfur by some overzealous government soldiers. The main thing where Andreas was concerned was that he paid his rent on time and stay away from his daughters. Five of them worked in his café and they were all drop-dead gorgeous. Gazich’s office was on the third floor above the café. When he was on the island he took his meals in the café almost every day.
“Hello,” the voice said in Greek.
“My friend, how are you?”
“Ah…Gavrilo, are you finally home?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Will I see you for dinner tonight?”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
“Around nine. I have a few things to take care of first.”
“I will save a table for you, and put aside your favorite bottle of retsina.”
Before Gazich could respond, the old man hung up. He stared blankly at the phone for a second and then climbed in the waiting cab.
6
ZERMATT, SWITZERLAND
Ross was holding court in the corner of the vaulted living room, his back to the giant picture window. He looked like he was standing on the altar of one of those New Age churches that focused more on entertainment than theology. A six-foot-one, wafer-thin model hung on his every word as Ross spoke about environmentalism being the key to bringing the Middle East and the rest of the world together. A common ground that everyone could agree upon. The others all nodded in earnest and threw in an occasional comment of their own, but this was Ross’s show. He was the new man of the hour.
“How is your president?” asked the model. She had a Dutch accent.
“The current one or the new one?”
“The new one.”
Ross consciously hesitated before answering. “He’s…he’s hanging in there. He’s a pretty tough guy.”
“I can’t imagine the pain,” a slender older woman added. She tried to convey a sense of sadness, but her new face-lift prevented her from showing anything other than a look of permanent alertness.
“They seemed like they really loved each other,” the model added.
“Yes, they did. Very much so.”
“Enough melancholy,” Speyer announced as he wedged his way into the semicircle. With a flippant wave of his wrist he said, “This is a party, and more importantly it is my party. I demand that you all start having fun.”
The group relaxed a bit and cracked a few smiles. Several of the men laughed and begged Speyer for his forgiveness.
“I will consider it, but I will not tolerate boring or depressing conversation at my parties. Start having fun or I will not invite you next year.” He said this with great theatrical flair and the group dispersed with the exception of Ross and the model.
“I have something I would like to show you, Mr. Vice President.”
“And what would that be, Joseph?”
“My new wine cellar.”
“May I join you, as well?” the model asked hopefully.
“I’m afraid not, my darling. Boys only.” Speyer grabbed Ross by the arm and led him through the living room. A few people tried to stop them, but Speyer simply smiled and kept moving. They reached the entrance hall where Special Agent Brown and two other agents were standing watch by the front door. The agents watched their protectee and his host walk across the stone floor. Speyer opened a wooden door to what looked like a closet, but was actually an elevator.
Agent Brown turned to the man on his left. “You didn’t tell me there was an elevator.”
“I didn’t know there was an elevator,” the agent responded in an embarrassed tone. “I was told it was a closet.”
Brown moved quickly, crossing the entrance hall in six long strides. “Mr. Speyer, where does this elevator go?”
“To my wine cellar.”
“I’m fine, Michael.”
Brown ignored the vice president–elect. “Is there another way to get to the wine cellar?”
“There is also a back staircase from the carport.”
The wood paneled elevator door slid open. Before the two men could get in, Agent Brown stuck out his arm to block their path. “I’ll need to clear the room first.” Brown turned to the other two agents, but before he could motion them over, Ross stopped him.
“You’ll do no such thing,” Ross said firmly. “I have known Joseph for years. This place has a better security system than the White House. Go wait by the door and I’ll call for you if I need you.”
“But, sir, you know I can’t allow you to enter a room without protection unless it has been checked.”
“You can and you will. Now go stand by the door.”
Brown hesitated briefly and then relented. He stepped out of the way and watched as the person he was charged with guarding stepped into a steel cage with a man Brown barely knew. The door slid shut, and somewhere behind the thick walls Brown could hear the electric motor of the elevator kick in. This entire trip was quickly becoming a textbook example of how not to run a security detail. Brown returned to the other two agents and began venting.
“I want you both to write this up before your heads hit the pillow tonight. Make it very clear that he has prevented us from doing our jobs.” Brown looked back at the elevator and added, “Now go find that staircase and secure it.”
THIRTY FEET BENEATH the house the elevator came to a stop. The door retracted to reveal a huge underground cavern. They stepped onto a hewn stone slab that had been polished to a reflective sheen. In front of them was a vault with row upon row of wine racks. The dimension of the room, and the lack of any support columns shocked Ross more than the size of the wine collection.
“Joseph,” was all he managed to say.
“I know. It took me three years, and it had to be done with the utmost secrecy.”
“But why?”
“This is Zermatt, the heart of the environmentalist movement. This wine cellar is carved right into the mountain. The town would have never granted me permission for such a project. It was difficult enough to get my house built. I had to bribe and cajole every official and inspector in the valley.”
Ross stepped forward and looked into the cavernous room. Expensive crystal chandeliers hung from th
e barrel vaulted ceiling every fifteen feet or so. Racks of wine jutted out from the wall on both sides like pews in a grand church. To his immediate left was a door, to his right, a wine tasting table and four leather chairs.
“How big is it?”
“One hundred feet deep by thirty feet wide.”
“Amazing. How did you do it?”
“I brought in a family of Albanian miners. A father and four sons.”
“How many bottles?”
From the shadows a voice answered, “Thirty thousand, give or take a few.”
Midway down the cavern a man stepped from between the racks. He was wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons and an open-collar white shirt. His hair was brown and slicked back, which made it appear darker than it actually was. He was of average height, tan, and overweight in a way that could be attributed more to indulgence than neglect. His nose was by far the most prominent feature on an otherwise forgettable face.
“What are you holding there?” Speyer asked with uncharacteristic concern creeping into his voice.
“Oh…this?” The man flipped the bottle up in the air. It turned end over end twice and he caught it.
Speyer gasped, his entire body going rigid. “Please tell me that is not one of my forty-two Rothschild Château Moutons.”
“No. It’s one of your forty-one Château Moutons.” The man spoke with a slight New York accent. “Isn’t that the same year your father’s friends rolled into France?”
“They were not my father’s friends, and the year was nineteen forty.” Speyer marched forward and took the extremely expensive bottle from the man’s hands.
“I thought it was well documented that the Nazis carted off the Rothschilds’ private collection during the war. It just seems a bit of a coincidence that the son of a Swiss banker would be in possession of so many rare bottles of wine.”
“I can assure you,” said a slightly more calm Speyer, “that I paid for every bottle of wine in this cellar. Most of it with the fees I earn by hiding your vast fortune from the U.S. government.”
The man with the New York accent smiled broadly showing a set of freshly capped white teeth. “You are worth every penny, Joseph. Now how about we open one of these rare bottles in celebration of our victory?”
The banker hesitated for a second and then said, “I think that is a wonderful idea. An absolutely wonderful idea.” Speyer was now nodding with enthusiasm. “I will decant it, and in the meantime I will find something significantly less expensive and infinitely more suitable to your boorish American palate.” Speyer sauntered off, leaving the two Americans alone.
“Cy, you look well.”
Cy Green was born in New York in 1950 to Jewish immigrants who had fled Hungary as the communists consolidated their power over the country in the wake of WWII. He’d made his first million by the age of twenty-five and his first billion by the age of thirty-five.
“Thank you,” replied Green. “I’ve been on vacation for a long time now.”
Ross grinned, but didn’t dare laugh.
“Congratulations on winning the election,” Green said with a raised brow.
“Thank you.”
“How is my pardon coming?”
“We’re working on it,” Ross said.
“Working on it? That doesn’t sound very convincing.”
“Cy, I can’t guarantee that I’m going to be able to pull this off.”
“You were willing to give me guarantees three months ago when you were desperate.”
“This is a delicate situation. If we push too hard it might backfire.”
“If you don’t push hard enough it might backfire,” Green said with an edge. “And I mean really backfire.”
“There’s no need for threats.”
“I have over one billion dollars in assets that have been frozen by the U.S. government, my companies in the States are paying fifty thousand dollars a day in contempt of court charges, and I have not set foot in the country I love in more than four years. My estate in Palm Beach, my penthouse in New York, my mansion in Beverly Hills…all of them have been seized by the feds. My own children aren’t even allowed to step foot in my homes.”
The mix of vodka and recent success made Ross a bit braver than he normally would have been. “Maybe you should have thought of some of this before you started trading with the enemy. Not to mention committing fraud and tax evasion.”
“Don’t lecture me on the intricacies of multinational corporations,” Green snapped. “I am the victim of an overzealous prosecutor.”
“If that’s the case, you should meet him in court with an army of high-priced lawyers and show him for the hack that you claim him to be.”
Green was not used to anyone speaking to him in such a way. Especially someone who was so indebted to him. He was about to blow his lid when Speyer returned with two glasses of wine.
“One of your countrymen sent me a case of this. Caymus Vineyards nineteen ninety-four Special Selection Cabernet. A perfectly fine table wine to be served at one of your backyard barbecues. But not at one of my parties.”
Green took his glass and said, “Joseph, I think you will need to leave us alone for a few more minutes.”
“Certainly. I will go put on some music.”
When the host was far enough away, Green’s face twisted into a questioning frown and he said, “You are either drunk or you have grown awfully proud of yourself.”
“It’s probably a bit of both.” Ross smiled. “I am after all the vice president–elect of the United States of America.” He held up his glass in a toast to himself.
Green ignored the glass. “And how did you get there? Do you think for a minute that Josh would have picked you for a running mate if his father-in-law hadn’t told him to do so? His father-in-law…my real estate partner.”
“Cy, let’s not make a big deal out of this. We’re…”
Green cut him off. “I told him if we put you on the ticket, you could make our problems go away, and guess what? I got you on the ticket and then I had to save your ass a second time. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”
Suddenly Ross wished he had been sober for this meeting. He could use a clear head right about now. “I’m sure your partner would find it interesting to know that you had his daughter killed.”
Green clenched his jaw and took a half step back. “I suppose you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you played no part in that entire affair.”
“I most certainly did. I almost died.”
“You’re unbelievable. You’re more self-absorbed than I am.”
Ross took a sip of his wine. “I think we were beginning to close in the polls. I think we could have…”
“I think you’re an idiot!” snapped Green. “You were not closing in the polls, and even if you had been, they would have released the photos of Jillian, that little slut, giving a blowjob to a damn Secret Service agent. Now the American people might have loosened their morals a bit over the years, but they sure as hell aren’t about to accept a whore as their First Lady.”
“Those photos could have just as easily backfired, if they had released them.”
“You really are delusional.” Green laughed. “Need I remind you of the frantic phone call I received from you with one month to go in the campaign? Your pit bull of a campaign manager had received the photo of Jillian having the sword put to her by the hired help.”
“He was a Secret Service agent.”
“Exactly…and on the back of that photo someone had written the words, You’ll never win. Do you remember the phone call you made? Do you remember that you were practically in tears? Do you remember saying we should have the bitch killed?”
Green was five inches shorter and he got right up in Ross’s face. “Go right ahead and convince yourself that you had nothing to do with this. It’s probably a good place to be when you’re dealing with other people, but when you’re with me, drop the attitude. You’re a motherfucker just like I am. The only difference
between the two of us is that I’m under no illusion to the contrary.”
“I have devoted the last twelve years of my life to public service, and I most certainly…”
“You’ve devoted your entire life to yourself. You didn’t run for the Senate because you wanted to help people. You ran for the Senate to feed your ego. So don’t stand here and try and sell me a load of crap. I know exactly who you are even if you don’t.”
“You know, Cy, a little gratitude might go a long way.”
“Gratitude for what? For being allowed to stand in your presence? Are you fucking kidding me? The only person who should be showing any gratitude right now is you. I’m the one who got you elected. You haven’t done shit. I’ll show you my gratitude when you get my pardon signed a week from today.”
Ross nodded. “I’m working on it, but we might need more time.”
“You don’t get more time. You assured me you could get President Hayes to sign the pardon, so get him to sign it next Saturday with all the others.”
“I’ll make it happen,” Ross said because he knew it was the only answer Green would accept. Wanting to change the direction of the conversation he asked, “The man you hired…have you taken care of him yet?”
“I’m working on it. Why?”
“The FBI knows he exists.”
“Do they know he was the trigger man?”
“No, but it’s not worth leaving it up to chance. He needs to be taken care of.”
“Don’t worry about him.” Green pointed a finger at Ross. “Just worry about getting me my pardon.”
Ross took a big gulp of wine and smiled. He had no guarantees that he could get Green his pardon. In fact, if he had to guess, it was more likely that President Hayes would turn them down flat, which would mean that Josh Alexander would have to start out his term with an extremely controversial pardon. Either way, this would not be easy. There was one other option that occurred to Ross. He looked into Green’s eyes and held up his glass.