Sidney Sheldon's Mistress of the Game (24 page)

“I beg your pardon?”

“Lionel Jakes. I know.”

Harry Wilder felt his mouth go dry. His tongue began to swell.

“Who is this?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Harry? Lovely Lionel? The way his cock felt in your mouth? The taste of his cum?”

“Jesus.” Harry spluttered. “How do you…? We were children, for God’s sake. Little boys. It was fifty years ago. I’m a happily married man.”

Laughter. “Your wife knows about Lionel, does she? And Mark Gannon?”

Harry Wilder felt a painful tightening in his chest.
Who was this person? How could they possibly know about Mark? He’d been dead for twenty years.

“What do you want?”

When the voice told him, Harry was incredulous.

“That’s it? That’s all? You don’t want money?”

But the line had already gone dead.

Staring down at his empty bowl, he felt the familiar ache of hunger gnawing in the pit of his stomach.

“Mi piang por.”
It’s not enough.

His four cell mates began rattling their spoons against their bowls in protest. Their normal ration of rice—one full bowl at breakfast and another in the afternoon—had been cut by two-thirds with no explanation for the second day running.

“Gla’p maa!”
Get back! the Thai guard barked, and the men cowered back like dogs, their teeth bared but their backs arched in submission.

They were all white, all five of them. Samut Prakan Prison was full of child sex offenders, but the white men received the roughest treatment and had to be segregated from the other prisoners. This was good, because it meant they were five to a cell and not eight or ten like the
Thais, who stank.
Revolting animals
. On the other hand, he suspected the whites were last in the food line. Getting the poorer-quality stew was bearable. Being starved of rice was not.

He closed his eyes and thought about America. Happier days. At other times, when he’d been fed, he allowed his mind to wander back to the Blackwell twins. Sweet Eve and uptight Alexandra. How perfect they’d been as young girls. How smooth, how tiny. He thought about the girl Lexi, Alex’s daughter. Thanks to Federico, that wetback pussy, he never got to rape her. Not fully. Of course, there’d been hundreds of little girls since then: Thais, Burmese, Singaporian, all adorable, squealing virgins. But he still felt robbed.

I wanted that girl. She was promised to me. Three million dollars, and little Lexi with her thighs spread wide. And what did I get? Second-degree burns and the FBI up my ass.

Now, though, all he could think about was food. Like the pink elephants in
Fantasia,
the images danced through his brain: cheeseburgers dripping with ketchup and fat, chili, fried onions, marshmallows dipped in chocolate and peanut butter…

“Effing nips. They’re trying to bloody kill us.”

Barry, the most cadaverous of his cell mates, had deep sunken brown eyes and skin like paper hanging from his caved-in cheekbones. Barry was British, and referred to all Asians indiscriminately as “nips.”

“I can’t take much more of this. GIVE US OUR FUCKING RICE, YOU BASTARDS!”

Barry ran his spoon along the bars of the cell, shrieking and yelling like a madman.

Stupid fool. He’s going to earn us all a beating.

The guard returned. He winced and covered his head, waiting for the inevitable blows to rain down. But instead, to his astonishment, a cauldron of broth was wheeled into the cell. The guards withdrew, leaving it there.

For a second, all five men stood frozen, staring at the steaming food as if it were a mirage. Dumplings bobbed on the surface amid a thin smattering of noodles. It smelled faintly of chicken, more strongly of cabbage. Then they moved as one toward the pot.

Someone called, “Don’t spill it!” Then ten hands plunged into the boiling liquid. He fought like an animal for his share, cramming noodles and thin wisps of meat past his shriveled lips, reveling in the salty broth that scalded his tongue and fingers. When nothing but liquid was left,
he grabbed his bowl and the others followed suit, gulping down every last drop into their distended, rice-deprived bellies.

In less than a minute, it was all gone. He crawled back to his corner, exhausted and, for a short, blissful moment, sated.

At first, he thought it was just cramps. He often got pains after a meal here, especially if rations had been scarce. But then he felt a stab so violent it made him cry out, as if someone were grinding razor blades into his appendix.

He looked across the cell at Barry. He was on his knees, vomiting.

Bam!
Another razor blade.
What the
…? His back went into spasms, arching so violently it felt as if his neck would snap. Soon his entire body was jumping, contorting in a grotesque dance of death conducted by an invisible cattle prod that delivered shock after shock after shock.

They’ve poisoned us! The bastards have poisoned us!

He opened his mouth to call for help and a volcano of blood and vomit poured out of it. He heard shouts. The little Thai guards came running toward the cell, their short legs pounding the concrete in panicked stampede. Then a red mist came down and everything was quiet.

In the prison kitchen, the new pot scrubber waited till all the cooks had gone.

Something terrible’s happening in the cells. Do you hear that? Let’s go take a look.

Then he slipped out of the back door, as quiet and unnoticed as a cockroach, and climbed into the rear of a delivery truck.

Two minutes later the truck bumped through the prison gates, out onto the bustling streets of Bangkok. At the first intersection, the pot scrubber opened the doors and jumped out, disappearing into the maze of alleys and courtyards that he had known from boyhood.

When he was sure he was alone, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone.

Lexi stared at August Sandford in disbelief.

“I don’t understand it. How did this happen?”

August bit his tongue.
Which part? The Internet division getting its budget tripled overnight? Or me being kicked off the team?

Out loud he said: “I don’t know. Harry Wilder got the budget changes past the board. Then he quit, appointed Jim Bruton to head
up the team with Tabitha as VP. Next thing I know, I’m booted into the real-estate division.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. You were the best-qualified person in that division.”

Tell me about it.

“Doesn’t it? I think it makes perfect sense to your cousin. Max is not my number one fan. He’s been guaranteed a place in the Internet division when you guys graduate. Did you know that?”

Lexi didn’t know. There was only one associate-level job available in the Internet division.
Her
job.

“Apparently you’re scheduled to start in real estate. With me.”

It took Lexi less than forty-five seconds to reach her father’s office. Bursting in, too angry to speak, she began signing at Peter at a hundred miles an hour.

“What the hell are you playing at, cooking up a deal with Max behind my back?”

Peter played dumb. “Slow down, darling. No one’s cooked up anything.”

“You signed off on the Internet budget increase!”

Peter shrugged. “Harry Wilder made a strong case.”

“It wasn’t Harry’s case, it was Max’s. He wants to make a whole bunch of acquisitions, companies that he knows
nothing
about. It’s madness. Wilder and the others are only backing him because they think he’s going to be chairman.”

Peter was silent. He’d made no secret of the fact that he did not want Lexi to take over Kruger-Brent. Had things been different with Robert, maybe he could have assumed the mantle one day. That was what Kate Blackwell had wanted. But Robert had chosen his own path. The idea of Lexi taking his place filled Peter with horror. She’d already been through so much. She had no idea what Kruger-Brent really was: a monster, a curse that swallowed people whole. Kate Blackwell had been consumed by it. Her son, Tony, was driven mad. Peter’s own hopes and dreams had been sacrificed to the monster, for Alex’s sake. But he wanted something better for Lexi. A normal life, a husband, children.

Lexi, however, had other ideas.

“August Sandford told me you’ve guaranteed Max a job in Internet. Is that true?”

Peter looked uncomfortable. “It was Jim Bruton’s decision.”

“You’re the
chairman,
Dad. You
knew
that’s where I wanted to work. They’ve dumped me in real estate, a total dead end.”

“Listen, darling—”

“No, Dad.
You
listen. Just because
you
don’t want me to become chairman, you think you and Max can bury me in real estate. Well, screw you and your little boys’ club. It’s because I’m a woman, isn’t it?” Lexi was furious. “This is such
bullshit.
Kate Blackwell was a woman and she was the best chairman Kruger-Brent ever had.”

“She was,” Peter murmured. It couldn’t be denied. “Master of the game. That’s what people used to call her.”

“Mistress,” Lexi shot back. “
Mistress
of the game. Which is exactly what I’m going to be, whatever you or Max or any of the other sexist pigs around here think.”

Peter watched her go, a whirlwind of righteous indignation, slamming his office door behind her.

She’s so like Kate
, he thought.

His heart was filled with foreboding.

Outside in the corridor, Lexi forced herself to take deep, calming breaths.

Real estate? Why not accounting? Why not the goddamn mail room?

The real-estate division was known to be one of Kruger-Brent’s sleepier businesses. If there was a fiery center to the company, real estate was as far removed from it as it was possible to be.

Max thinks he can bury me alive in there with August. Out of sight, out of mind.

We’ll see about that.

Lexi’s cell vibrated in her pocket. New message, sender unknown. She read the four words on the screen. Suddenly nothing else mattered. Not Max, not Kruger-Brent, not anything.

She bolted into the ladies’ room, walking straight into a cubicle and locking the door. Only when she knew she was alone did she read the text again, allowing her eyes to linger on the most beautiful sentence she had ever read:

The pig is dead.

Lexi’s knees gave way and she slumped onto the toilet seat, tears streaming down her face. For years she’d allowed herself to believe that she’d shaken off the ghosts of her childhood, and the terrible things that had happened to her. Now she saw this for the fantasy it was. The pain would always be there. Always.

There could be no closure. Not in this lifetime.

Only vengeance.

Lexi savored its sweetness for a few precious moments. Then she dried her tears, erased the text from her phone and walked back to her office as if nothing had happened.

N
INETEEN

CAPE TOWN WAS UTTERLY UNLIKE ANYTHING GABE MCGREGOR had ever seen.

After a twelve-hour economy-class flight on SAA that was a circus in itself—a family of eleven tried to bring a crate of live chickens on board as hand luggage, and several grown men fell asleep in the aisles—Gabe emerged bleary-eyed into the arrival hall at Cape Town International Airport to begin the new millennium not just on a new continent, but in a new world. People of every different race and creed swarmed the marble concourse like multicolored ants. Men in traditional African robes and women balancing brightly woven blankets or earthenware on their heads mingled with Asian businessmen in bespoke suits. Half-naked street children skipped around the luggage carousel alongside towheaded American kids dressed head to toe in Ralph Lauren, visiting Cape Town with their parents for the glitzy millennium New Year’s parties. Unpleasant, sour smells of sweat and travel were overlaid by the sweet coconut scent of shea butter, expensive aftershave and the delicious, barbecue tang of boerewors, the traditional Cape Dutch sausages sold by vendors outside. Every one of Gabe’s senses was assailed by something new.

I wonder if this is what it felt like for Jamie McGregor all those years ago. Stepping off his boat, the
Walmer Castle,
onto a wharf of unfamiliar sights and sounds.

Like Jamie, Gabe had never been away from home before. Unless you counted three days in St. Tropez, or family holidays on the Isle of Mull in an RV when he was eight (Gabe didn’t). Both men had come to South Africa to make their fortunes, determined to love the country, to make it their home.

Soon all these sights and sounds and smells will seem normal to me. I have Africa in my blood, after all.

“I hate sodding Africa. I want to go home.”

Gabe was slumped on a bar stool in an Irish pub in Camps Bay.
Did they have Irish pubs on the moon yet? Probably. At least one McGinty’s.
He’d been in Cape Town for a week, during which time he’d been mugged at gunpoint, had his wallet and passport stolen, developed a mysterious stomach bug that had him on his knees over the toilet bowl every night, and failed to find a place to live. Oh, and had every square inch of his white Scottish skin bitten to death by mosquitoes the size of small bats.

“Why don’t you, then?”

The girl was American. A brunette with merry green eyes and a full, womanly body that Gabe couldn’t take his eyes off of. After eight years in prison, he’d learned an even deeper appreciation of the female form, and this girl’s form was exquisite.

She introduced herself as Ruby.

“Why don’t you go home?”

“I can’t.” Gabe hoped he wasn’t blushing. Christ, she was gorgeous. “I only just got here. I can’t go home till I’m rich enough to pay everybody back.”

“You’re not rich, then?”

“Not yet.”

“Why d’you hate Africa?”

“How long have you got?” Gabe locked his gray eyes onto Ruby’s green ones and decided he hated Africa a lot less than he did two minutes ago. “Let me buy you a drink and I’ll tell you about it.”