Authors: Stephen Frey
17
“
CHRIS!
”
Gillette stopped short and turned around. He’d been heading toward the Everest lobby, but Faraday was jogging down the corridor toward him, puffing hard.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs to get something to eat,” Gillette answered. It was just before two. They’d gotten back from Minnesota an hour ago. “What’s up?”
“Without the QS guys?” Faraday asked loudly.
Gillette looked around furtively to see if anyone had heard him. “I was going to take the guy at the door.”
Faraday’s face scrunched up. “And let him leave the lobby?”
“It’ll be fine for a few minutes.” Gillette searched Faraday’s expression for a sign of what was bothering him. “What is it?”
“Derrick Walker’s got the FBI on the phone in Conference Room One. He wants you in there right away.”
The FBI. Maybe they’d found out something about Stiles. “Okay.”
When Gillette and Faraday entered the room, Walker was leaning against the conference room table near the speaker box, arms folded over his broad chest.
“Close the door, Nigel,” Walker ordered. “George,” he called loudly when Faraday had shut it, “I’ve got Christian Gillette in here now.”
“Christian?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Special Agent George Butler.” Butler spoke with a heavy southern drawl. “I’m with the FBI downtown here at Twenty-six Federal Plaza in Manhattan. I’ve got some information you’ll be very interested in.”
“I hope it has to do with Quentin Stiles.” Walker had told Gillette he’d been in touch with Butler about Stiles and that Butler was working with the local authorities. “That would make my day.”
“Unfortunately not,” Butler replied, “but it should make you sleep better.”
“Go ahead.”
“We believe Tom McGuire is dead.”
Walker remained stone-faced, but Faraday pumped his fist.
“How do you know?” Gillette asked.
Butler hesitated. “We don’t know
for sure,
but I’d say it’s ninety-five percent at this point.”
Gillette eased into the chair from which he ran the managers meetings. He felt as if a boulder had just tumbled off his shoulders.
“We have informants inside most of the big Mafia families,” Butler explained. “
Soldatti,
usually, but sometimes more senior members. Yesterday afternoon we heard from one of those guys. He told us McGuire had been hit. Apparently, they put him in a boat, took him offshore from Jersey about forty miles, then threw him overboard. Our guy’s always been very accurate about this kind of stuff.”
“Why would the Mafia kill Tom McGuire?” Gillette asked.
“Revenge. We think it goes back to when McGuire was in the FBI years ago. He busted up a big drug operation in Boston.”
“You guys bust the Mob on that kind of stuff all the time,” Walker spoke up. “Why would they care so much about it that time?”
“Right,” Gillette agreed, “and why would they kill him after so much time?”
“Good questions,” Butler said. “During the Boston raid, McGuire killed the brother of a man who’s now don of one of the big families. Rumor was, it wasn’t during a shoot-out or in self-defense. Rumor was, McGuire took him in a bathroom and tortured him to get information. Cut off fingers, that kind of stuff. When the guy wouldn’t talk, McGuire dunked him in a tub. The last time a little too long.”
“That’s why they drowned McGuire,” Walker said. “So he got it same way as the don’s brother.”
“Eye for an eye,” Butler agreed. “And it gets better. Yesterday, McGuire’s wife gets home from the grocery store and there’s a shoebox on her front stoop. She opens it up and there’s a human hand inside, a right hand. There’s also a wedding ring inside the box. After the EMTs revive her, McGuire’s wife identifies the wedding ring from the inscription.”
“Still don’t understand why they’d wait so long to kill him,” Walker said.
“The guy who’s the don of the family now wasn’t in power when McGuire killed his brother,” Butler answered. “Plus, McGuire was careful. He usually had his men around.”
“That’s true,” Gillette agreed, remembering.
“But George, you guys couldn’t find him,” said Walker. “How could the Mob?”
“Derrick, didn’t you tell me he hired a Brooklyn gang? A gang named the Fire?” Butler asked. “You know, the guys who attacked Christian and Stiles outside that restaurant in TriBeCa last week?”
“Yeah.”
“Maybe one of the gang talked. Maybe they knew where he was.”
“Maybe,” Walker said skeptically.
Gillette settled into the chair. It sounded as if Tom McGuire were really dead. Maybe he could finally relax, get back to a more normal life. “Who did McGuire torture up in Boston?” he asked.
“A guy name Tony Celino. His brother is Joe Celino, aka Twenty-two, boss of the Carbone family.”
Then again, Gillette thought, maybe not.
GILLETTE HUSTLED
down Park Avenue to Grand Central Station. He headed through the station’s north entrance, jogging past restaurants and shops to the escalators moving down to the main floor of the station. He turned right and covered the open area to the stairway leading up to the west entrance in a matter of seconds. He was up to the top of the stairway quickly, then past Michael Jordan’s restaurant and out the door, his eyes flashing around, scouring the area for his contact. Suddenly there was a tap on his shoulder, and he whipped around. It was the QS agent he’d been looking for.
“Here you are, Mr. Gillette.” The man handed Gillette a small package, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of car keys.
“Thanks.” Gillette grabbed the package and the keys. “Where is it?”
The man pointed at a black Escalade parked at the curb a short distance away. It had tinted windows, as Gillette had requested.
“You didn’t tell anybody about meeting me, did you?”
“No.”
“Or about taking these for me?” Gillette held up the package.
“Nope.”
Gillette could see the guy was anxious. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to lose my job, Mr. Gillette. I can’t begin to tell you how pissed off Derrick will be if he finds out I did this.”
“I’m the client. I pay you.”
“Yeah, but I work for Derrick.”
“Derrick won’t find out. If he does, I’ll make sure he knows I didn’t give you any choice.”
The QS agent eyed Gillette for a few seconds. “That’s fine . . . if you’re around to tell him.”
“I’ll be around,” Gillette assured him. “Now, get to LaGuardia. Call me when you’re there.”
“
COME IN,
” Faraday called from his desk at the sound of the sharp knock.
Allison stepped into his office but didn’t say anything right away.
“What do you want?” he asked. He was trying to answer a ton of e-mails, and he didn’t have time for idle chitchat.
“Do you know where Christian is?” she asked, staying by the door.
Faraday shook his head. “Nope. Just that he isn’t here.”
“If you talk to him, will you transfer him over to me?”
“Just tell me what you want to ask him.”
“That won’t work,” she said quickly. “Just transfer him over to me. Don’t forget.”
Faraday’s eyes narrowed as she backed out of the office and closed the door. He didn’t trust Allison Wallace one bit.
DR. DAVIS
had agreed—through Cathy Dylan—to meet with him that afternoon. Gillette’s cell phone rang as he passed Exit 9 on the New Jersey Turnpike, headed south toward Richmond.
“Hello.”
“It’s Richard.”
The QS agent who’d met Gillette at Grand Central Station an hour ago. “You there?” Gillette asked.
“Yes.”
“How about the other guy?”
“Yes.”
“Is the door to the cabin closed?”
“Yes.”
“All right, give me the pilot. Tell him I’m in the back.”
There was a rustling noise and some muffled words, then the pilot came on. “Hello?”
“It’s Christian.”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’re headed to Chicago. Let’s get going.”
“Okay.”
Gillette smiled to himself as he ended the call, satisfied. He could hear the pilot’s irritation at having to wait until the last minute to get destination instructions, but it had to be this way.
Next, Gillette dialed the cell phone number of another QS agent who was sitting in the cockpit beside the pilot of the second Everest jet. Gillette instructed the second pilot to fly to Atlanta.
BOYD’S DOOR
shook with a loud knock.
“What is it, Daniel?” Boyd demanded after Ganze opened the door.
“I just got a call from our mechanic friend at LaGuardia. Both Everest planes are on the move.”
“Both?”
“Yes.”
“Did Gillette gag the pilots again?” Boyd asked angrily. “Has he got his QS boys holding their dicks for them when they piss?”
“I guess. I haven’t heard from either of them.”
“Well, are we tracking the planes?”
“Of course.”
“Good.” Boyd put his elbows on the desk and rested his chin on the back of his hand. “Strange, isn’t it? That Gillette would have both planes in the air at the same time?”
“Maybe.”
“He’s gotta be on one of them,” Boyd observed. “The question is, what’s the other plane doing? Is it on a real mission or just decoying?” He glanced up. “Any chance they could have found the tracking devices?”
“Sure,” Ganze replied. “If they know what they’re doing.”
“Gillette’s a smart fucker. He might have left them on there just to screw with whoever he assumed put them there.”
“Or to try to find out who did.”
Boyd nodded. “I hope we have people on the ground wherever he lands.”
“
I APPRECIATE
your meeting with me again on such short notice, Dr. Davis.”
“It’s my pleasure, Christian.”
“How’s that boy you operated on last week?”
Davis broke into a wide smile. “Very well. Thank you for asking. Still in the ICU, but the prognosis is quite good. He’s responding well.”
“That’s great. You really are a miracle man.”
“Please don’t embarrass me like that.” But Davis’s smile grew wider. “So, are you back for the ‘intermediate’ lecture on nanotechnology?” he asked. “I can give you that one, but you’ll have to find someone else for the ‘expert’ lecture.”
Gillette thought carefully about what he was going to say. He was about to bring Davis inside the circle, and judging by that look he’d seen in Boyd’s eyes at their meeting in Washington and again yesterday in Minneapolis, this could be dangerous. “No. The ‘beginner’ lecture was plenty. I need something else.”
“What?”
Gillette hesitated.
Davis leaned forward over his desk, stroking his beard. He frowned. “Last time, I asked what you knew and you stonewalled me, Christian. You gave me a half-assed answer I knew was crap. Be straight with me this time, son.”
Gillette looked up, surprised at Davis’s words, even more so at his tone. The doctor seemed like such a gentle man, but clearly he had an edge to him. “I told you I was here last week because I had an investment opportunity. That wasn’t true.”
“Well, I—”
“Can you keep what I’m about to tell you completely confidential? I mean,
tell no one.
”
Davis gazed at Gillette for a few moments.
“It’s vital that you stay quiet . . . for a lot of people’s sakes. But, Doctor, I think this is something you’ll want to hear.”
Davis nodded slowly, his anger fading. “I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
The other man’s eyes were flashing. Gillette wondered if it was out of fear or curiosity.
“I was approached by the government,” Gillette began, “by people representing something called GARD, the Government Advanced Research Department. Don’t bother going on the Internet to try to find it. I did. There’s nothing.”
“What did they want?” Davis asked, his voice hushed.
“Have you ever heard of DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency?”
“Sure. Those are the Defense Department’s sci-fi geeks.” Davis smiled. “And I use that term fondly. I consider myself one.”
“Uh-huh. Well, they’ve been working on biomedical nanotech research for a few years, and they claim they’re close to breaking through in a big way.”
Davis’s mouth dropped slowly open. “My God. Are you sure?”
“No,” Gillette admitted. “I’m not sure at all. I only know what I’ve been told by the man who runs GARD. Or says he does,” he added. He didn’t really know if Boyd ran GARD or if there even was such an organization. Everything had come from Boyd or Ganze, so it was all questionable.
Davis’s expression intensified. “Why did the people from GARD approach you?”
“Supposedly, they work with DARPA. They help them out when there’s a problem. When something needs to go supersecret because there’s a security issue with something the DARPA people are working on.”
“Is that what’s going on, a security problem?”
“Yes. They’re worried that—”
“They’re worried,” Davis interrupted, “that one of the terrorist organizations is trying to get the technology.”
“That’s right. How did you know?”
“I didn’t, but it makes sense.” Davis shuddered. “If they did, biological warfare would suddenly look like something out of the Middle Ages. Once terrorists had bionanotech that worked, all they’d need is a delivery system. Then they could wipe out millions of us very quickly.”
“Help me with that,” Gillette said. “What do you mean? How could they wipe out millions of us?”
“Last week I told you how nanotechnology could save people. How those tiny little terminators could be programmed to kill cancer or head off a stroke by rebuilding blood vessels in the brain. Remember?”
“Of course.”
“Well, those little terminators could also be programmed to kill healthy cells very easily. They can be programmed to do anything. But to make them killers of healthy cells on a massive scale, you have to have a way of getting them into lots of people’s bodies without their realizing. You can’t just release them into the atmosphere and hope they’ll be inhaled. It doesn’t work that way.”