The Power Broker (29 page)

JESSE RELAXED
in his big desk chair and took a break from the speech he was drafting—the one he would use to accept the nomination. It would be the most important speech of his life, the most important night of his life. One of the most important nights in all of black history.

It was almost eleven and Jesse still hadn’t heard back from Christian. They’d finished up an hour ago, after an all-day skull session. He’d expected Christian to officially accept the vice presidential spot on the ticket at that point, as they were headed to the door of the office. He’d expected a shake of the hand, a big smile, and words like,
I couldn’t be prouder, Jesse, I accept your kind offer. We’re going to make history together.
Something like that.

Instead, Christian had claimed he still needed a little more time to think about it—the guy was harder to land than a five-hundred-pound marlin on ten-pound test. It was almost as if there was something bothering Christian, or he was actually thinking about not accepting. Which seemed unimaginable to Jesse. Turning down the chance to be the vice president of the United States, maybe the president in eight years. But different things drove different people. Maybe making money was more important than anything else to Christian Gillette. Jesse hoped it was. Then maybe he’d get to pick the candidate he wanted. At least have some input.

Jesse glanced at the phone. He hadn’t heard from Stephanie in a couple of days. She’d gone on a sudden vacation, hadn’t even bothered to tell him where she was headed or how long she’d be gone. He’d tried to call her a couple of times today on her cell phone, but nothing. No answer, no return call. He didn’t even know if she was going to be back in time for the convention.

THE NUMBER
on Nigel Faraday’s cell phone had turned out to be Gordon Meade’s—Debbie had confirmed that. As far as Christian knew, Nigel had never spoken to Meade before—never had a reason to. Christian had always handled the Wallace investment directly. Besides, Meade was constantly talking to Allison. As far as Christian knew, Meade had never even met Nigel, thought Meade was probably barely aware Nigel even existed. Obviously, he was wrong. He’d thought about calling Nigel to confront him, but Nigel would have had some smooth explanation—it seemed he always did these days. Nigel was supposed to have called tonight with Michelle Wan’s update about CST, too, but he never had.

Allison moved into the living room and sat down beside Christian on the couch. She’d gotten a glass of champagne from the fridge. “I feel like celebrating,” she said, smiling. “We finally landed Aero Systems. One of the associates called me from the office a little while ago. We got the signed letter.”

Christian tried to smile back. She’d taken a leisurely flight from the West Coast this afternoon. Slept most of the way, she’d said, so she was wide awake. He could barely keep his eyes open. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to celebrate by yourself.”

“Tired?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, thanks for helping me with the deal,” Allison said. “That old woman who controls the company really likes you. She was telling everybody after you left what a great guy you are.” She sighed. “Seems like you can charm anyone . . . including me.” She leaned around and kissed him on the cheek. “So, what are you going to do about Jesse?” she asked.

He’d felt his face flush at the touch of her lips. “I don’t know.”

“What’s your problem?” she asked. “Why wouldn’t you want to be vice president? Why wouldn’t anybody want to be vice president?”

Christian still hadn’t told Allison about CST and what was going on with the SEC. He glanced up at her, wishing that just once he could be a mind reader. The problem was: Maybe she already knew what the SEC was about to do at CST. Maybe she’d known for a while. “You want to do it?”

“
Sure.
But I doubt Jesse would be very happy about that. He’s expecting you to show up for that one.”

“There’s a lot to think about.”

“Look, if it’s that you’re struggling with whether to name me or Nigel chairman, I’ll make it easy for you. Name him.”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

Christian gazed at her for a few moments, then picked up his phone and dialed. Sometimes you just had to assume things would work out. “Jesse? Yeah, it’s me. I’ve decided. I’m with you. Officially.”

21

THERE WASN’T TIME
for McDonnell. The situation had reached a critical stage and Kohler had to prioritize. Christian Gillette had to be his sole focus at this point. Kohler pressed his right arm against his torso as he leaned against the wall just outside a security checkpoint of the Dallas/Fort Worth Airport, feeling the pistol wedged deeply into the shoulder holster strapped tightly to his body beneath his jacket. He glanced back over his shoulder. Outside the checkpoint in the main terminal there wasn’t an obvious police presence, but he’d only have a few precious seconds. They were there—you just couldn’t see them. They’d be all over him if they recognized him.

Every few moments Kohler scanned the long corridor past the checkpoint, searching for Gillette. He wasn’t going to execute here, but he wanted to identify the target. He chuckled wryly. He was talking to himself like he was back in Special Forces. Amazing how training kicked in during times of intense pressure.

Gillette was on his cell phone when Kohler spotted him, fifty yards away. Kohler moved back into the airport, away from security, checking behind every few paces to make certain Gillette was still coming. He stopped outside a newsstand and pretended to read a newspaper, casing the area, making certain he wasn’t going to be surprised by anyone. Gillette was almost to security. Kohler could feel his hands shaking slightly, his blood pulsing. But his mind was perfectly clear. Thank God for all that training.

“ALLISON KEEPS
asking me about CST, Chris. She came into my office
again
this morning.”

“What did she want this time?” Christian demanded, looking ahead at the security checkpoint as he spoke to Nigel on his cell phone.

“She wanted to talk about Bob Galloway’s suicide. Asked me if I knew why he’d done it.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her I had no idea why Bob did what he did. Told her it must have been just one of those awful things nobody sees coming.”

Christian could hear Nigel munching on something at the other end of the line. “Anything else?”

“Yeah, she asked me if the SEC had contacted CST.”

Christian stopped dead in his tracks.
“She asked what?”
He still hadn’t told Allison anything about CST’s problems with the SEC. Christ, this thing was getting nuts.

“Yeah, she asked about it,” Nigel confirmed. “I don’t know what’s going on with that woman, but something’s definitely up. She acted real squirrelly about it, too. She wanted me to swear I wasn’t going to say anything to you about her asking me all these questions. I told her I wouldn’t, but . . . well . . . I always tell you everything.”

Christian’s phone beeped, indicating another call. “I’ll buzz you back in a few minutes.” It was Quentin. “Yeah, pal?”

“I got a line on who killed Torino.”

Christian held his breath. “Who?”

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“Who?”

“Chicago again.”

Christian glanced around. “The Wallaces?” he whispered.

“That’s where everything’s pointing. CST
and
Torino.”

Christian’s mind was spinning, and he staggered toward the wall to support himself. He’d asked Quentin to do whatever was necessary—call in favors from his contacts, make payoffs to them, whatever—to find out who had killed Carmine Torino. If he was going to be a vice presidential candidate, he had to have
all
the answers. In this case he had to know who wanted pictures of him giving the Mob money, and it seemed to him it was the same people who wanted Carmine Torino dead.

Jesse was going to officially accept the presidential nomination tonight at the Democratic convention, but they’d decided to wait a few days before announcing Christian as his running mate. To give Jesse time alone on the national stage and to give themselves a second bite at the apple. So Jesse could make a big announcement after the initial hype about his nomination had settled down, and they could grab a few more headlines.

Christian had to have as many loose ends as possible tied up before he and Jesse made the announcement, before they passed the point of no return. Which was why he was having the lawyers call the SEC again, too, to demand an update on CST. If they didn’t get an acceptable answer, Christian had given the attorneys orders to go over Vivian Davis’s head, to go to the senior people they knew at the agency. It was a risky strategy because it was sure to piss Vivian off, but Christian saw no alternative. He couldn’t accept Jesse’s invitation to be the vice president, then have the SEC announce an investigation of CST, Everest, and him. That was the nightmare scenario—for everyone.

“Where are you?” Christian asked.

“Vegas. I had to come out here for a face-to-face to get the answer on Torino.”

Christian started moving again, passing the security checkpoint. “Who from Everest knew you were going to Las Vegas?” He noticed a man standing against the wall ahead and to his right. The guy seemed to be staring directly at him over his newspaper.

“Nobody. Uh, well, that’s not exactly true. I stopped by Allison’s office yesterday to congratulate her on the Aero Systems deal, I’d been meaning to do that for a while. She asked me if I wanted to get a drink after work. I told her I couldn’t because I was coming out here.” Quentin hesitated. “And I always tell Nigel where I’m going per your instructions. As the chief admin officer at Everest, you told me he’s supposed to know all our schedules. I e-mailed his assistant about my trip yesterday, like I always do the day before I’m going out of town.”

Christian stared back at the man who’d been leaning against the wall. He’d folded the newspaper up and was walking this way. “Don’t tell Allison where you’re going from now on.” The guy was moving faster with each step, still staring at him, still coming right at him. “Got it?”

“Yeah, but what’s the deal? What’s wrong?”

“Just don’t say anything to her about where you’re—Jesus!” Christian whipped around quickly. He’d been staring at the guy walking toward him and had backed into someone. “God, I’m sorry, I wasn’t looking—”

“Hello, Christian,” the person he’d run into said loudly. “Welcome to Texas.”

Christian recognized the face beneath the snazzy black Stetson. “Hello, Samuel.”

“Glad you made it down here okay,” Hewitt said after Christian muttered a quick good-bye to Quentin. “We’re gonna have some fun. Hope you’re ready for a good time.”

Christian’s eyes snapped back toward the spot where he’d last seen the man coming at him. “Yeah, sure, I’m ready.” He glanced around the area as they shook hands, but the guy was gone. “What are you doing here, Samuel? I thought you were sending a chopper for me, I thought I was meeting you at the ranch.”

Hewitt grinned. “I couldn’t wait to give you the good news, Chris, and I wanted to do it in person.”

“Oh?”

“Yep. I got my CEO over the hump on Laurel Energy this morning. We’re ready to buy it. Wish you hadn’t hired Black Brothers, but what’s done is done.”

Christian gazed at Hewitt, wondering why they were going through the charade. Hewitt was still acting like he hadn’t known Laurel Energy was for sale until they’d met at Princeton. “What are you offering? Still five billion?”

“We’ll talk about that later,” Hewitt said, gesturing to his right at the young man standing beside him. “I want you to meet someone. This is my grandson, Samuel Prescott Hewitt the third. He’s the best kid in all Texas.”

“Jeez, Granddad, I wish you wouldn’t—”

“Meet Christian Gillette, Three Sticks,” Hewitt interrupted. “He’s about the best investor you’ll ever meet. We got all kinds of bests going on here. Just like I like it.”

Christian shook the young man’s hand. “How you doing?”

“Hello, sir,” the young man said respectfully.

Christian grinned. “Don’t call me sir, you make me feel old. Christian’s fine, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hewitt spoke up, starting to walk, “I’ve asked my boy here to join us at the ranch. I don’t get to see him often,” he said, patting the young man’s shoulder, “so I jump at every chance I get.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Christian answered, checking the area one more time. But the guy had vanished. “Like you said, we’ll have fun.”

ROTH GAZED
at the young woman’s bare legs as she lay bound on the bed. Hewitt had always made it clear that he was welcome to do anything he wanted with the women who were temporarily under his care on Champagne Island.
Anything at all,
Hewitt had said with a smug grin.

“What are you doing?” she asked, struggling against the ropes securing her wrists and ankles as she came to.

“Stop it,” Roth ordered loudly. He’d been watching her sleep. “You can’t get free,” he muttered, sitting down on the bed. “I’m too good with knots. You’ll only make them tighter.”

“Please don’t do anything to me,” she begged, trying desperately to move away from him. “Please!”

Roth felt his breath run shallow as he gazed at her, thinking about how he’d watched her in the shower last night. He couldn’t trust her in there by herself.

Suddenly there was a wild banging downstairs, loud and hard on the front door of the lodge.

NIGEL SLIPPED INTO
the back of a long blue limousine idling on the South Bronx street corner and quickly closed the door. He’d ridden the subway up here from midtown, then hoofed it from the stop to this corner. The neighborhood was rough, so he’d walked the two blocks quickly, and now he was hot as hell. Summer was in full swing in New York.

Trenton Fleming sat in the limo.

“Hello,” Nigel said, easing back on the seat.

“Thanks for being on time.” Fleming tapped his watch. “I know it’s a pain in the ass to do it like this, but we can’t use phones or e-mail, especially now.”

“I understand.”

“Have some water,” Fleming suggested, tossing a plastic bottle at Nigel. “So where are we?”

Nigel twisted off the bottle’s cap and guzzled some down. “I think you’re right, Trenton. I think Christian suspects he’s being set up on CST. He hasn’t said anything to me specifically, but I’ve gotten that feeling.”

“We’ve confirmed that Christian got some information,” Fleming explained. “At least we now know that Quentin Stiles was nosing around before we could get to people and shut them up. If Quentin got the information we think he got, at this point Christian probably believes Gordon Meade is involved.”

Nigel took another swig. “Well, whatever happens, I did what you told me. I made sure he thinks Allison’s involved, too.”

Fleming nodded. “Good, because we don’t want him thinking you’re involved. Is Christian still pushing you on your investigation at CST?”

“Yeah, and I can’t put him off any longer. I keep telling him it’s almost finished, but he’s getting impatient. I’m worried he’s going to call CST himself looking for Michelle Wan. That wouldn’t be good.”

“It’s all right,” Fleming said confidently. “You’ve done a fine job. We have what we need now anyway. Everything fell into place when Bob Galloway did his part.”

“What do you mean?”

“He wrote a suicide note, just like we told him to. He claimed in the note that the entire accounting fraud at CST had been done at the personal direction of Christian Gillette.”

Nigel’s mouth fell slowly open.

“Galloway got what he wanted: thirty million for his wife free and clear. And we got what we wanted: Christian in the crosshairs.”

Nigel shook his head. “Just to keep him off the ticket.”

Fleming’s expression hardened. “Yes,” he said quietly.

“How much has Black Brothers put into CST so far?” Christian was one sharp cat, Nigel thought to himself. He’d known all along that CST was getting cash from somewhere. Yeah, Christian was smart all right. His downfall lay in trusting those close to him too much. “In total?”

“About a hundred million.”

Nigel whistled. “Wow. You won’t get that back, either. That’s a lot of money to throw away.”

Fleming waved. “It’s an investment. We’ll make three hundred million on our Laurel Energy fee. Lose a hundred on CST, make
three
hundred on Laurel. I think that’s a pretty good trade.”

“That’s right. I forgot about the Laurel fee.” Nigel frowned. “But you never know, you might not get Laurel sold. Morgan Stanley couldn’t find anyone to buy it, and they’re one of the best investment banks around.”

Fleming smiled thinly. “I’ll take my chances.”

Nigel grimaced. “Is Christian going to jail?”

“Not if he plays ball.”

“But I get the chairmanship. Allison goes back to Chicago and I get the chairmanship. No matter what.”

Fleming nodded slowly. “No matter what.”

ROTH FLUNG
the front door of the lodge open. Todd Harrison stood on the porch in front of him. “What do you want?” he growled angrily. “What are you doing coming out here like this? You could get us both in a lot of trouble.”

“How?” Harrison demanded, stepping inside without being asked. “How could I get us in a lot of trouble?”