Sidney Sheldon's Mistress of the Game (36 page)

For the first time, she wondered if the rape would mean she’d lost her baby. There was blood on her thighs.

Five men charged down the stairs and leaped out of the ground-floor windows like gazelles.
Weren’t there six of them before? Had she miscounted?
She tried to get a closer look at their faces, but it was impossible, they moved so fast.

Grabbing his backpack, the ringleader started after them. Then he stopped and turned around.

“Fucking bitch. You typed in the alarm code, didn’t you?”

He moved toward the stairs. Tara’s blood turned to ice.
The children
.

“No!” She lunged at him, but her legs collapsed beneath her like Jell-O.

He started to climb.

The electric gates were closed.

“No sign of forced entry. You sure this is the place, man?”

“Yah.” The police sergeant nodded. “McGregor. It’s the Phoenix guy. Maybe they got in around the back.”

“You know how to open these things?”

The senior officer looked wearily at the Fort Knox–like gates. He was called out to break-ins almost every day. Nine times out of ten it was a false alarm. Kids playing around with the safe, or some dumb Bantu maid getting spooked and hitting the panic button.

“You can’t. Not without the code. We’ll have to climb over, boss.”

The senior officer sighed. He was getting too old for this.

“Come on, then. Dax, Willoughby, you drive around the back. Wits about you lads, eh? You never know. This could be the real thing.”

“Sure, boss.” They all laughed.

Five o’clock. Forty minutes to change a stupid tire.
You’re pathetic, Gabe McGregor. Pathetic.

Turning the corner, Gabe saw two squad cars parked outside his gates.

“Sorry, sir. You can’t go up there.”

“What do you mean I can’t go up there? This is my house. What’s happened? Where’s my wife?”

Blood drained from the young cop’s face. “Just stay here, sir. I’ll fetch DI Hamilton.” He set off at a run up the drive.

Bugger this
, thought Gabe. Grinding the Bentley’s gears into first, he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, sending his wheels spinning and throwing up a plume of dust like a sandstorm.

“Sir! Stop!” But it was too late. Gabe’s car shot up the hill like a bat out of hell. Seconds later, he sprinted into the house. Cops swarmed the entryway like sand flies.

“Tara!” Gabe shouted into the rafters. He could hear the panic in his own voice. “Tara? Darling?”

A policeman approached him.

“Gabriel McGregor?”

Gabe nodded mutely. “Where’s my wife? Where are the children?”

“If you’d just sit down a minute, sir…”

“I don’t want to sit down. Where have you taken my children?”

A man appeared at the top of the stairs. In his arms was a gray canvas body bag.

It was only four feet long.

T
WENTY
-F
OUR

THE BRUTAL SLAYING OF GABRIEL MCGREGOR’S WIFE AND children was a story that gripped not just South Africa but the world. It was a Greek tragedy: the white philanthropist and his doctor wife, attacked by the very people they had spent their lives trying to save.

A few weeks after the killings, the gruesome drama took another, unexpected twist. Gabe McGregor walked out of Phoenix’s office one lunchtime as usual. He hadn’t been seen or heard from since.

Conspiracy theories abounded on the Internet:
Was Gabe involved in the murders? Maybe Tara was planning to divorce him, and he had her killed to protect his fortune? He discovered the kids were not his and murdered them in a jealous rage? Had he killed himself out of remorse? Had he assumed a new identity and fled justice?

Of course, there wasn’t a shred of evidence to support such lurid speculation. But that didn’t stop tabloids around the world from dredging up every buried secret from Gabe’s past, his drug addiction, his record for assault and battery, his investigation for fraud, dissecting each of them in salacious detail and salivating over their imagined “implications.” Many people spoke up in Gabe’s defense, among them the police investigating the McGregor killings, Robbie Templeton, the world-famous pianist and AIDS campaigner, and Dia Ghali, Gabe’s former partner at Phoenix and a hero to many black South Africans. But their voices were drowned out by the baying of the mob.

Race relations had come so far in the new South Africa. No one wanted to believe that this beautiful white doctor and her photogenic children had been slaughtered by a gang of angry black men whom the cops had no chance of catching. Not when there were so many other, more interesting possibilities.

For those who knew Gabe and Tara, however, this was no soap opera. It was sobering, unimaginable reality.

Lexi was in her office in New York when she got word of the murders.

“But they can’t
all
have been killed. Not the children, too. There must be some mistake.”

There was no mistake. Lexi’s first feeling was pure compassion.
Poor Gabe. All of them, his whole family, gone!
She wanted to call or write to him, but quickly realized how inappropriate that would be. She and Gabe hadn’t spoken in more than two years. And for a very good reason. As she was fond of telling Robbie and anyone else who would listen, Lexi Templeton hated Gabe McGregor.

Lexi saw the world in black and white. She did not operate in grays. Ever since she was a little girl, playing with her dolls, she’d divided the people around her into two camps: friends or enemies.

Robbie was her friend. Her love for him, and her loyalty, were bottomless and would remain so all her life.

The men who kidnapped her were her enemies. Max was her enemy. Now, since her revelation on safari, Gabe was her enemy. Enemies must be destroyed.

Hovering above this black-and-white worldview loomed a single, even greater imperative: Kruger-Brent. Kruger-Brent was the beginning and end of everything. It was Lexi’s religion. Her god. Max had stolen Kruger-Brent from her. That made him the greatest of all her enemies. But Gabe McGregor ran a close second. Not only had he outperformed Lexi in business, but he had also succeeded in keeping his soul intact. For this crime alone, he must be damned, eternally undeserving of her compassion.

And yet Lexi did feel compassion. How could she not? When she heard about Gabe’s disappearance, she felt something even deeper. She imagined him alone in the bush somewhere, tortured, crawling away to end his life in unutterable grief and despair. And all at once the world became grayer. For the first time in her life, Lexi Templeton took a day off from work. She spent it in her apartment sobbing, unable to get out of bed.

David Tennant came to see her. A senior member of the Templeton board, David was a lawyer by training. He looked like a character from a Dickens novel. He wore full Victorian sideburns, carried a pocket watch, and had a long bulbous nose that always made Lexi think of Mr. Punch. But beneath his comic appearance, David Tennant was sharp as a tack. He was one of Lexi’s most trusted advisers.

“What’s Cedar International?”

Lexi assumed a look of studied blankness. “What?”

David Tennant wasn’t buying the innocent routine.

“Cedar International. What is it? Or how about DH Holdings? Does that ring any bells?”

Lexi tried to brazen it out. “Of course. They’re both offshore investment vehicles. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” David Tennant smiled wryly. “I suppose I was just curious as to why you’ve been siphoning off Templeton assets into them like a South American dictator about to go on the lam.”

Lexi smiled. Perhaps charm would work where brazenness had failed?

“Relax, David. I’m not going anywhere. I set those companies up to make investments outside of Templeton’s core portfolio.”

“I’ll say they’re outside of our portfolio! We’re a real-estate company, Lexi. Cedar International owns two paper mills, a failing diamond mine in the Congo, and a chain of European waste-disposal companies. DH Holdings owns an Internet bank and”—he consulted his notes—“a coffee-processing plant in Brazil. Have you gone quite mad?”

How typical of David to be so observant. And how irritating.

Forget charm. I’ll try the angry-boss card.

“Templeton Estates is my company, David. I don’t need you to remind me of our business plan.”

“Don’t you? Then would you mind telling me what all these acquisitions are
for
? And why the dodgy shell companies?”

Damn.
She’d forgotten it was impossible to bully David Tennant. That must be why he was her closest adviser and why she’d allowed him to buy a 10 percent stake in her company.

He’s entitled to an explanation. I just have to think of one that will appease him without revealing the truth.

“Look, perhaps I should have told you. But not all of these trades worked out as well as I’d hoped. I didn’t want to appear, well, foolish.”

Silence.

“I knew they were risky deals, so I stripped them out of our balance sheet.”

More silence. Lexi plowed on.

“If it looks as if there’s no rhyme or reason to the portfolio, that’s because there isn’t. I set up Cedar years and years ago to buy up any wacky, failing business I thought looked interesting. It’s been around almost as long as Templeton.”

“I know. You registered it in the Caymans in 2010.”

“Right.”
How the hell did he know that?

Lexi ensured she left a trail so complex and convoluted, no one should have been able to trace the company to her, still less link it with Templeton Estates.

I must have gotten careless. That can’t happen again.

“I also noticed that two of the companies, the mine and the coffee plant, belonged to Kruger-Brent.”

Actually, they all belonged to Kruger-Brent…once. With the others, I bought shares in the acquirers, then sold them on to my shell companies after a suitably discreet interval. I guess you didn’t get
that
far, Sherlock Holmes.

Lexi kept her voice casual. “Yes. Purely coincidence.”

David Tennant looked skeptical. Lexi had been becoming more and more secretive and reclusive recently. She’d been furious when a recent
Vanity Fair
article drew comparisons between her and Eve Blackwell, her agoraphobic aunt. Maybe the truth hurt?

“I should have told you, David. I’m sorry.”

He softened slightly.

“As you say, Lexi, this is your company. Just don’t bleed us completely dry, eh? Too many transfers of the size you’ve been making recently and our cash flow…well, I don’t need to tell you of the risks.”

After he’d gone, Lexi sat at her desk for a long time, thinking.

Her Jenga strategy wasn’t working. She’d thought she could chip away at Kruger-Brent discreetly, making strategic acquisitions here and there without anyone connecting them to her. But David Tennant had already made the connection. More important, Kruger-Brent was showing no signs of imminent collapse.

I need a new strategy. Something bigger, bolder. I need to think.

It was time to face facts. Gabe’s disappearance had shaken her deeply. She wasn’t sleeping. She often found herself crying for no rea
son. Worse still, it was starting to affect her judgment at work. She had appeased David Tennant, for now. But she knew David. The man was a rottweiler. He never let go. Next time…

No. There mustn’t be a next time.

She wrote an e-mail to her brother:

I’ve changed my mind. If it’s still open, I’d like to take you up on your offer. I’ve been working too hard recently. I need a break.

Three weeks at Robbie and Paolo’s farmhouse in the South African wine country might be just what the doctor ordered.

The week Lexi arrived in South Africa, Gabe McGregor was officially pronounced dead.

“It’s a legal formality,” Robbie told her. “No one knows for sure what happened. But given his state of mind and the length of time he’s been missing…he hasn’t touched his bank accounts. He left his passport in the office.”

Lexi nodded. She had accepted weeks ago that Gabe was gone. Even so, having his death confirmed in the newspapers felt strange and sad.

I never got to say sorry. I wish he’d known how much he meant to me.

Robbie Templeton opened the lawyer’s letter at breakfast.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” Paolo teased. “Been harassing the busty sopranos again, have you? Bad boy.”

“It’s from Gabe McGregor’s law firm. I’ve been asked to come to the reading of his will. According to this, I’m a beneficiary.”

Lexi asked to see the letter.

“I didn’t know you and Gabe were that close.” She felt unaccountably jealous.

“We were friends. But I never would have expected anything like this. To be blunt, it’s not as if I need the money. Gabe knew that.”

“One always needs the money, Robert,” said Paolo firmly. “I intend to become shamefully extravagant in my old age. Don’t force me to leave you for someone younger and richer,
chéri.
”

Robbie laughed. Lexi couldn’t.

I’ve been asked to come to the reading of his will.

His will.

He really is dead.

Robbie hated lawyers’ offices. They reminded him of sitting opposite Lionel Neuman as a teenager, the old man’s rabbit face twitching as Robbie renounced his inheritance. What dark days those had been. And how happy he was now. Walking away from Kruger-Brent was the best decision he’d ever made. Even so, attorneys still scared him, and Frederick Jansen was no exception. One look at Jansen’s severe, dark suit and craggy face crisscrossed with lines, like a clay bust left too long in the sun, and Robbie felt like a naughty kid again. It didn’t help that the five other men in the room had all worn suits. Robbie, in jeans and an L.A. Philharmonic T-shirt, felt like a fool.