Harrison put the picture down on the desk and began to boot up his computer. George Bishop had disappeared; there’d been no word from him for a while. His boat was moored where it always was, but his car wasn’t in the apartment complex parking lot. Harrison had gone to the police, but they wouldn’t start looking for Bishop without probable cause—which they said they didn’t have. They’d said he was a drifter, in and out of town, and assumed he’d show up again at some point when he needed to make a few bucks. He was on a joy ride somewhere was the explanation they’d given. In the Caribbean getting drunk, like he was known to do every few months.
Now Harrison was worried about himself. He’d quickly moved into a place a few miles away and holed up, putting off deadlines by not answering the phone, then calling back at times when he knew his editors wouldn’t be around. But he wasn’t sure moving around was going to do him any good. He’d thought about going way far away and starting over, maybe even out of the country. But these people in the photograph were obviously powerful, very powerful, and he was afraid they’d track him down no matter where he went. He wanted to go to the authorities to get help for himself, but he knew he couldn’t go to them with just a picture and a ghost story from an old man.
He typed Stewart Massey’s name into Google and clicked “search.”
FROM THE BACKSEAT
of the sedan, Jesse stared out at an endless string of strip malls lining the wide, four-lane road as he headed back downtown for the fund-raiser. It had stopped raining and the sky was clearing in the west. Maybe that was a sign, he hoped. He shook his head. Wishful thinking. He was a puppet and that was that.
How the hell had Forte gotten that damn clip?
Jesse had always worried about that thing being out there somewhere—Osgood had gone after the guy when they realized what was going on, but the cameraman had gotten away. It was his only mistake in hiring Osgood—it took the guy two days to run the hundred-yard dash. Osgood had come back from the chase looking like he was about to have a heart attack. Jesse closed his eyes. He’d almost convinced himself the clip was gone, that it would never be a problem.
“Senator Wood.”
Jesse opened his eyes. It was the bodyguard in the passenger seat in front of him.
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“It’s all right.”
“We’re going to stop at the next gas station to fill up. It’ll only take a few minutes. We’ll have you back downtown no later than five thirty, in plenty of time for the dinner.”
“Thanks.” He sighed. He was going to
have
to let Stephanie and Osgood go now. He didn’t have any choice.
THE MAN
checked his watch as he stood on the roof of the warehouse, leaning on the cinder-block retaining wall, waiting for the sedan to appear. It was late; it should have been to him by now.
Then he saw it, coming through a light three blocks up, swerving out from behind a furniture delivery truck. He took a quick look through his binoculars to check the license, just to make sure, to confirm that this was what he’d been waiting for. It was.
He picked up the hunting rifle, sighted in the target, and fired.
DON ROTH
gazed at the photograph Harrison had left in the frame in the lodge kitchen. Harrison had taken the one Patty had painstakingly put together, the one that had been in the frame when they went to the kitchen after finishing the tour of the lodge’s third floor. And Harrison had left this one. Switched them before he left—while Roth left the kitchen the second time. They’d never actually said a word to each other about doing that, but somehow they’d understood what was going to happen. Clearly, Harrison had realized that Roth intentionally left the picture of the nine men who came to Champagne Island for him to find. In return, Harrison had taken the photograph of the old man he’d snapped in the bar that night out of his backpack and left it for Roth. The photo of the old man who’d told Harrison the story about Champagne Island.
Roth shook his head. He’d recognized the old man in the photograph Harrison had left right away. It was one of the men who came to the island, the one he’d overheard the others call Benson. The one who’d committed suicide down by the ocean with the Colt revolver, whose body he’d carried to the freezer in the basement of the lodge that night after Hewitt had roused him. Obviously, Benson had been trying to get Harrison to investigate what was going on at the island.
Why,
he didn’t know. Maybe because Benson knew there was something wrong but couldn’t be the whistle-blower because he’d put his own life in jeopardy. But then why would he commit suicide?
Patty had thought he didn’t know what she was doing the whole time she was sneaking around the woods, taking pictures of the men as they got out of the helicopters or went down to the ocean to fish. She thought he didn’t know what the magnifying glass and the tweezers were for. She’d given him the photograph the night before they’d killed her, telling him he might need it someday. Roth felt the lump in his throat growing bigger as he thought about her. He missed her so much—and he owed her.
He put the picture down and glanced over at the young woman lying on the couch, hands and feet bound. She didn’t have a chance without him.
“WHAT! OH MY GOD!
”
Forte glanced over at Johnson, who was on the phone again. Forte had been thinking about Stephanie Childress. How pretty she was, how he hadn’t taken much time for romance in his life, how he was getting old. How Stephanie was getting old, too.
“Jesus Christ! I knew it.” Johnson ended the call and glared at Forte. “Somebody took a shot at Jesse while he was on his way back downtown to the fund-raiser. Goddamn, it, Elijah, I told you this could happen.”
“Was Jesse hit?” Forte asked calmly.
“No, he’s okay, but one of the bodyguards took a bullet to the shoulder. He was taken to a hospital. They think he’ll be all right, but he’s critical.”
“Well, the important thing is that Jesse’s okay.”
Johnson gazed at Forte, awed by his nonchalance. Then his jaw dropped. “You didn’t,” he whispered.
Forte chuckled. “You kept making the case for me, Heath. You were the one who said Jesse wouldn’t get Secret Service protection until he was officially the nominee. I’ll bet the Secret Service protects him now. If they don’t, the government will look pretty bad, almost like they want him dead. So you know they’ll give him Secret Service, probably a bigger force than normal. Which serves two purposes. First, it’ll be almost impossible for anyone to get to Jesse now. Second, now he’ll look like he’s already the president.”
“You hired the shooter?” Johnson asked incredulously.
Forte flipped on the car radio. “If that’s what you want to believe, Heath, I’m not going to stop you.”
“My God, boss, what if the guy had hit—”
“Shh,” Forte hissed, holding up his hand as the disc jockey interrupted the song that was playing to make the announcement. Beaming a smile that stretched almost from ear to ear after the DJ announced that there had been an assassination attempt on Senator Jesse Wood’s life. That the leading Democratic presidential candidate was apparently unhurt but that one of his bodyguards had been seriously injured. “Fantastic publicity,” Forte murmured. “The kind of stuff we dream about when we release a big album at the hip-hop label. I can’t wait to see how the cable news stations cover it.”
Johnson shook his head in amazement. “Unbelievable.”
“Thank you.” Forte took out his cell phone and dialed. “Jesse? You all right? Good, I’m glad. What? Really?
No, no, don’t change it.
You keep it on, you hear me? And take your jacket off when you give your speech. Let people see it. Right. Good luck tonight.”
“What was that all about?” Johnson asked as Forte hung up.
“When the bodyguard was shot, Jesse’s shirt got spattered pretty good with blood. I told him not to change it. It’ll make for great TV tonight.” Forte’s smile grew even wider. “We’re gonna win this thing in November, Heath.
I know it now.
”
19
“WHERE ARE YOU?”
“Black Brothers Allen,” Christian answered, looking around the conference room as he spoke to Quentin by cell phone. “I’m waiting for Trenton Fleming. I’m here to sign the Laurel Energy engagement agreement. They’re officially taking over the sale process from Morgan Stanley today.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I hope so. I don’t think we have any other choice. I haven’t heard anything more from Samuel Hewitt. He said he was going to talk to his CEO, but that was a few days ago and no word since.”
“Aren’t you going to see Hewitt in Texas at his ranch? The end of this week, right?”
“That was the plan, but his assistant called this afternoon to put it off. Hewitt had to go to China or something.”
“That’s too bad. Did you really have to go all the way down to Wall Street just to sign an engagement agreement?” Quentin asked. “Couldn’t you have sent them a faxed copy of the signature page?”
“Morgan Stanley sent a bunch of information over here to Black Brothers for them to look at. Engineering reports, financial information, that kind of stuff. The people handling the deal for Black Brothers, the day-to-day people, wanted help going through it.”
“Couldn’t one of our young people have done that? One of the associates?”
“It won’t take long. Besides, I was down here on another transaction anyway.”
“Is Allison with you?”
“No.” That faint alarm in the back of Christian’s brain went off. “Why?”
“I just wondered.”
“Need her for something?”
“No. I was just wondering if she was around.”
Quentin was probably trying to see how much time they were spending together, probably all there was to that question. “She’s in San Francisco, working on the Aero Systems deal.” He wouldn’t have even have stopped to think about Quentin’s motive behind asking the question except that Allison had pointed out why Quentin wouldn’t want things to change around Everest Capital. And the more Christian thought about what she’d said, the more he realized she was right. She and Nigel wouldn’t use Quentin like he did. They’d try, at least for a while, but it wouldn’t be the same. She’d just been honest. It was one of the things Christian respected about her.
“If you need her, call her on her cell phone. You got that number?”
“Yeah, yeah. Well, I hope Black Brothers can bring home the bacon on Laurel Energy because—”
Suddenly Quentin stopped talking and for a few moments there was dead air, then Christian heard garbled voices in the background. “Quentin,” he said loudly. “Quentin!”
“Hold on, Chris. Jesus, I—
Wow!
”
“What is it?” Christian demanded. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s . . . really? Are you
sure
?”
Christian couldn’t tell who Quentin was talking to. Him or someone at the other end. “Quentin!”
“Yeah, Chris, I’m back. You gotta turn on CNN.”
“Why?” Christian glanced around the conference room, but there wasn’t a television in sight. From the sound of Quentin’s voice, his first thought was that there had been another major terrorist attack. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Jesse Wood.”
“What about him?”
“Somebody tried to kill him.”
“What?”
Suddenly the blood was pounding in Christian’s brain. “When?”
“A few minutes ago,” Quentin answered quickly. “Jesse was on his way to some fund-raiser in Cleveland and somebody took a shot at him while the car he was riding in was stopped at a red light.”
Christian knew about the fund-raiser. They’d spoken yesterday and Jesse had told him about it. “Was he hit? Is he all right?”
“Hold on.”
Christian heard more muffled voices, then Quentin came back on the line.
“Jesse’s fine, at least, according to CNN. One of the men riding in the car with him was hit . . . may have been killed.”
“Do they know who the guy was?” It could easily have been Clarence Osgood. “Are they saying?”
“No, they’re just reporting it was a bodyguard. No name.”
That didn’t sound like Osgood. Very few people would mistake him for a bodyguard, but you never knew. There was always so much confusion right after something like this happened.
“Aren’t you meeting with Jesse all day tomorrow?” Quentin asked. “To go over his platform?”
“Yeah, here in New York. He’s supposed to be flying back from Cleveland tonight after his dinner. I’m meeting with him at ten o’clock.”
“Maybe not now.”
“Maybe not,” Christian agreed grimly. Another call was coming in on his cell phone. “I gotta go, Quentin. I’ll call you later.” Christian switched lines. “Nigel?”
“Yes.”
“Did you hear about Jesse Wood?”
“No. What happened?”
Christian quickly explained what Quentin had relayed.
“My God,” Nigel exclaimed. “I’m turning on the television in my office right now. Are you at Black Brothers yet?”
“Yup. Waiting for Fleming. He should be here in a minute.”
“Okay, I’ll make this quick. Look, the SEC’s been calling over to CST a lot. Four times today and the last time it was Vivian Davis. The only time she called before was to set up the meeting you and I had with her. It’s been the worker bees since.”
Bad news. Christian could feel it. “What did she want?”
“Bob Galloway said she was acting real cagey. No specific questions but a lot of cocky comments. Kinda like she was trying to distract him at the front door while the SWAT team was sneaking in through the back.”
“Jesus. What are the attorneys saying?”
“To sit tight. They’ve called the SEC and demanded that we be kept up-to-date with what’s going on. They said that’s all they can do.”
“What about the woman at CST you’re working with?” Christian asked. He hadn’t confronted Nigel yet about what he’d found in Nigel’s briefcase—the different name—because it was impossible for him to believe that Nigel could be holding back in any way on this, but he wanted to. “Is she finished yet?” Christian could hear the hesitation at the other end of the phone. “Nigel?”
“Almost, almost.”
“What’s her name again?”
“Who?”
“The woman you’re working with at CST.”
“Michelle Wan.”
“Right, Michelle Wan,” Christian repeated, making certain Nigel knew he’d remember the name. The conference door opened and Fleming and Inkster appeared. He’d been about to ask. Now he couldn’t. “I gotta go, Nigel.”
Christian stood up and shook hands with Fleming and Inkster. “Did you guys hear about Jesse Wood?”
“I did,” Fleming spoke up, sliding several copies of the Laurel Energy engagement letter across the table at Christian. “An awful thing. At least the senator wasn’t hurt.”
“Has that been confirmed?”
“I think so,” Inkster spoke up.
“He wasn’t hit,” Fleming said firmly. “I just saw him on television before I walked in here. They showed him walking into a fund-raiser in Cleveland. He was waving to people.” Fleming chuckled. “He’s got a lot of security people around him now, I’ll tell you that. It’s like a swarm.”
“Thank God he’s all right.”
Fleming looked up, keenly interested all of a sudden. “Is he your candidate, Christian?”
“Maybe.”
A faint smile appeared on Fleming’s lips. “Are you a Democrat?”
“Maybe.” Christian watched Fleming’s smile turn into a smirk. “Why? Would that be a shock?”
“It would be a surprise,” Fleming admitted. “So?”
Fleming was pushing hard. “Why would it surprise you?”
Fleming shrugged. “Your father was a Republican, a very prominent Republican. I wouldn’t think you’d turn on . . .” Fleming stopped himself. “Well, I just wouldn’t think you’d be a Democrat.” His smirk transformed into a polite smile. “It’s really none of my business.” He glanced at Inkster, then back at Christian. “Can you go ahead and sign the letter? We’ve already executed it.”
Politics and religion. Two subjects you never touched when you didn’t know exactly where the other person stood on each, especially in a business situation. It had been odd for Fleming to press the question when he was on the verge of landing such a huge sell-side deal. Odd that he’d risk pushing a client’s button in such a way that might sour the deal. Maybe Fleming was confident that Everest Capital needed him so badly he felt like he could ask anything. Christian smiled to himself. The real shocker for Fleming would be seeing Christian standing beside Jesse Wood as the vice presidential candidate.
Christian pulled out a pen and signed the engagement letter, then reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out an envelope, and slid it across the table to Inkster. “Ten million dollars.” It was a ton of cash for just a retainer, especially one with a no-refund policy. “I better get my money’s worth.” He watched Inkster look away and Fleming’s face turn to stone.
“You’ll get your money’s worth,” Fleming replied.
After going over a few logistical issues, Fleming bid a curt good-bye and had Inkster lead Christian down a hallway to another, smaller conference room.
“This will be the Laurel Energy war room,” Inkster explained, pointing at the stacks of papers already covering the table. “This is Beverly,” he said, introducing Christian to a young woman standing near the far wall of the room. “She’ll be on the team, managing a lot of the details.”
“Hi, Mr. Gillette,” she said nervously.
Christian could see that she recognized him, probably from the
Forbes
or
Fortune
covers. “Call me Christian.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“I’ve got to go to my office for a second,” Inkster explained. “I’ll be back in a minute. You and Bev can get started.”
“Sure.”
Beverly was short and cute with pretty red hair and freckles. “How long have you been with the firm?” Christian asked.
“About a year,” she answered, moving to the table and starting to go through one of the piles. “I’ve read all about you, Mr., um, Christian. It’s a real honor to work with you.”
“That’s nice,” he said, not wanting to make much of it. He gestured at the table. “This looks like some kind of IQ test. Where do we start?”
She laughed. “I’d like to go over the list of companies Morgan Stanley already contacted about Laurel Energy. So Mr. Inkster knows exactly who’s already seen the deal.”
“Okay.” Christian came around to her side of the table.
She pointed down. “This pile has all the comments back from people at the other companies who looked at the deal. It’s arranged alphabetically.”
Christian ran his finger down the tall pile. Near the bottom was a folder marked U.S. Oil. He pulled it out and opened it, interested to see who had turned it down. As he leafed through the pages, his eye caught something beside one of the gas reserve statistics that instantly sucked the breath out of him. A set of initials. SPH. Samuel Prescott Hewitt. In the exact same looping script Hewitt had used to sign his meal tab at Princeton.
Christian gazed at the initials. Samuel Hewitt had been lying to him all along. He’d seen the Laurel Energy deal months ago. Well before they’d met at Princeton.
FORTE KICKED OFF
his shoes and relaxed contentedly onto the plush sofa of his hotel suite. It had been a long but successful night. The ten-thousand-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser had just broken up, and they’d raised almost ten million—a good chunk of change he wouldn’t have to fund himself now. More important, the bloodstains on Jesse’s white shirt had made a profound effect on the crowd and the throng of cameramen kneeling in front of the stage. Exactly as Forte had hoped.
In his introduction, the emcee had noted the blood before Jesse had taken the dais to make his speech. Senator Jesse Wood was a man on a mission, the emcee shouted, a man who wouldn’t be denied the presidency. The crowd had roared its approval as Jesse bounded to the podium, fists raised. Forte had almost fallen for the hype himself.
Stephanie Childress sat in a chair across the room. He’d asked her to come back up here after the dinner to talk about the campaign. It wasn’t unusual for them to be alone late like this. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Tired. Worried about Jesse, you know?”
“Of course,” said Forte soothingly. “But there might actually be a silver lining to the assassination attempt.”
“What?”
“Federal protection from now on. An hour ago Heath Johnson heard that Jesse will have full-time Secret Service starting immediately until the convention. For good, really,” he added, “because we all know Jesse’s going to win the nomination. And, Lord, the press coverage he’s gotten from the shooting? Enormous. You can’t begin to put a vote value on that. As his PR person, you’ve got to agree.”
“I’d rather know he’s safe.”
“He’ll be fine from now on, Stephanie.” Forte patted the sofa beside where he was sitting. “Come here.” He saw her hesitate. “I’m not gonna bite.”
She got up slowly from the chair and sat down beside him.
“You’re an incredible woman,” he said, taking her hand.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
“It took a lot of courage to come to me and tell me about Samuel Hewitt.” He squeezed her fingers gently. “To tell me about him approaching you and trying to get you to give him information, to be his spy.”
“I told you from the start, I want the best for Jesse. I’d do almost anything to get him elected.”
Forte felt her squeeze back. She had to be so lonely. She’d carried the torch for Jesse all these years, but she had to see that it wasn’t going to happen for them at this point. “Could you love anyone else?”
Her eyes shot to his. “What do you mean?” she snapped, jerking her hand away.
“Could you love someone besides Jesse?”
“There’s nothing going on between us, Elijah. I love Jesse as a
person.
For who he is, what he stands for, and what he can do for our country. Not romantically.”
“Hey, hey.” Forte reached for her fingers again, marveling at her loyalty. “Easy. What’s that all about?”
“What did you mean by the question?”
“I know about you and Jesse,” he said, caressing the back of her hand lightly. “I know a long time ago for a short while there was a romance. Jesse told me that when I first started to back him. How you were there for him when he wasn’t feeling very good about himself, when he realized his tennis days were just about over. He told me you two talked about marriage and children and a lot more, but it never worked out.” Forte saw the emotion building in her expression. Tension lines, a tremor here and there on her face. Almost imperceptible but recognizable to the trained eye.