Blood Trust (16 page)

*   *   *

A
FTER DROPPING
McKinsey off at his own car, Naomi drove to G Street NW, where Fortress Securities had their offices in one of those gigantic stone-faced buildings, fraught with dentils and Doric columns that dwarf any human who walks up the glittery white steps.

Fortress was on the seventh floor. Walking into its lobby, you could imagine yourself in the waiting room of a medium-sized advertising firm. The space was formed almost completely from horizontal planes of veined white marble, cut glass, bronze tubing, and glittering black granite. The only clue as to Fortress’s actual purpose was the bas-relief of an ancient Greek helmet, sculpted out of bronze, that rode over the receptionist’s head like the cloud of combat.

When Naomi produced her ID and asked to see Fortress’s president, she was politely but firmly told to wait while the receptionist—a young man in a sleek dark suit—spoke quietly into the mike of the headpiece encircling his head like a halo.

A short time later, another young man in a sleek dark suit escorted Naomi down a softly lit, carpeted hallway, lined with paintings of famous battles throughout history. Naomi recognized Alexander the Great, the great Spartan stand against Xerxes’s Persian army, Ajax and Achilles outside the walls of Troy, Napoleon at Waterloo, George Patton rolling over Europe, and so on and on, a seemingly endless display of man’s propensity for bloodlust and warfare. It was no surprise to Naomi that not one woman appeared in any of the paintings.

Andrew Gunn, the president of Fortress, rose from behind his desk as she was ushered into the room. Her guide immediately withdrew, closing the door behind him. Gunn seemed to unfold like a praying mantis. He was tall and thin with prematurely white hair and a nose like the prow of a ship. His steel blue eyes regarded her out of a rugged face, as scarred and pitted as the curve of the moon.

He came around, extended his hand, and smiled. His teeth seemed to shine in the muted afternoon light. Naomi had dealt with the top echelons of the private security firms. They all seemed to fall into two groups. Either they were ex-Marines, hard, angry, and bloodthirsty, or they were ex-CIA assets, anonymous, slippery, and bloodthirsty. She found it interesting that Gunn fell into neither of these camps. Rather, he seemed like a good old American cowboy, the way he had been played by Gary Cooper or depicted in the iconic Marlboro Man ads. He smelled good, as well, like the woods at night.

Instead of returning behind his desk, he led her to the far more informal seating area, which was comprised of an ultramodern sofa, two matching chairs, and a low coffee table made of a thick slab of white granite.

As they settled themselves, he said, “I assume, Ms. Wilde, that your visit concerns the death of one of my men, and the attack on two others.”

She nodded. “That’s right.”

He shook his head. “Well, then, I’m at a loss to understand the involvement of the Secret Service.”

“The prime suspect is the First Daughter.”

“Ah, Henry Holt Carson’s niece.”

“That’s right.”

His serious expression deepened. The frown made him look like a caricature of himself, as if he wasn’t used to frowning. “With all due respect, I find the notion that this young girl could have overpowered three of my men inconceivable.”

“Nevertheless, Mr. Gunn, that is very well what might have happened.”

He spread his hands. “Surely there must be another explanation.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, but perhaps together we can find out.” She took out a small memo pad. “Mr. Carson came to you directly?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The phone rang, but Gunn ignored it. “Hank and I are old friends.”

“So you and Mr. Carson have done business before.”

“I said we’re friends.”

Naomi glanced up, trying to discern whether Gunn’s mood had changed. “Has he had occasion to avail himself of your services before?”

“Once.”

Only Naomi’s training allowed her to pick up on the minuscule hesitation. “And when was that?”

Gunn unfolded his lanky frame again and walked over to his desk. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Thanks, no.”

“We have our own barista.”

She laughed. “A double macchiato, then.”

“That’s the spirit!” Using the intercom, he ordered a double macchiato and triple espresso, then returned to the sitting area.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Naomi said.

“I’d rather not, Ms. Wilde.”

“And I’d rather not get a federal order, but I will,” she said. “I take this investigation very seriously.”

Gunn nodded in that grave way presidents of corporations sometimes do. Naomi often wondered whether they taught that at Wharton. The young man who had escorted her opened the door and, crossing the room, set down a tray with two small cups, and bowls of two different sugars and packets of Splenda.

“I appreciate your grit, Ms. Wilde.” Leaning over, he handed her a cup and saucer, then took a sip of his espresso.

Suddenly impatient, Naomi said, “Your friend Mr. Carson has pulled one of his many strings. I now report to him.”

“Ah. Well then.” Gunn sighed and, leaning back, stared up at the ceiling. “Hank called me about six years ago, maybe seven. He was unhappy with his then wife’s behavior.”

“She was cheating on him.”

“Sadly for her, as it turned out.”

Naomi put aside her macchiato and scribbled on her pad. “I didn’t think Fortress did PI work.”

“We don’t,” Gunn said. “Normally.”

“But Mr. Carson wanted a level of discretion only you could provide.”

He clapped his hands. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

“And nothing after that incident until he hired you to guard Alli Carson.”

He took another sip, a deeper one this time, savoring the espresso in his mouth before swallowing. “That’s right.”

Naomi glanced up again. “Did Mr. Carson request specific personnel?”

Gunn lowered his cup and stared fixedly at her. “Hank doesn’t know my personnel.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, Mr. Gunn, but I hardly think Mr. Carson would allow men to guard his niece without personally signing off on their dossiers.”

“Hank trusts me.”

The phone rang again, more insistently this time. Then the intercom buzzed.

“Excuse me a moment,” Gunn said.

He rose, went behind his desk, and picked up the phone. He spoke for several minutes in a tone so low Naomi could not hear a word. While he was occupied, she took a look around the office. It was spacious, but not the vast, palatial room she had been expecting. But then nothing about Andrew Gunn was what she had expected. He didn’t have the typical chip-on-the-shoulder attitude of his compatriots, the burning desire to bilk the federal government out of every possible dollar. Why not? After all, the Mint just printed up more greenbacks to pay the security firms’ exorbitant fees. No, Gunn was erudite, urbane, and charming, even while being secretive as hell. Though she had been expecting to dislike him, she found it impossible to do so. Still, while she had a moment she continued the deep drilling on the Web investigation she had begun while at the crime scene behind Henry Carson’s house.

When Gunn returned, sitting in precisely the same spot he had vacated, he smiled at her benignly. “Where were we?”

“I wonder,” Naomi said, putting aside her phone and taking up her cup, “whether Mr. Carson’s trust in you stems from the fact that you’re a major investor in his primary company, InterPublic Bancorp?”

*   *   *

M
C
K
INSEY FOLLOWED
Naomi all the way into the building housing Fortress Securities. He watched her step into the elevator, watched the numbers flicker until they stopped at Fortress’s floor. Then he entered the next car and took it up to the fourth floor. Turning left, he walked down the hallway, knocked on the fifth door on his right, even though there was a clearly marked button. Then he walked to the next door down, arriving just as a buzzer opened the door.

He entered a small, grubby anteroom stacked with cartons, some opened, some not. A cheap desk stood to the left. On it was a multiline corded telephone, a Rolodex, and a cup full of pencils. No one sat in the chair behind the desk, and, McKinsey knew, no one ever had.

Passing the desk, he went down a bare, narrow corridor that stank of wet shoes, burnt coffee, and stale sweat. There were all of three rooms, including a windowless kitchenette, where the burnt coffee stink was so palpable it became an entity unto itself. Crossing the threshold of the cubicle opposite, he came upon Willowicz sitting behind a green metal desk that looked like a castoff, and probably was. He was leaning back in an adjustable office chair, his brogue-shod feet, crossed at the ankles, up on the desk. Both shoes were severely run-down at the heel. Willowicz was talking on his cell phone.

“I don’t care what it takes,” he said. “Get it done and get it done now.”

He grinned at McKinsey, beckoning him in. “Laws? What laws?” he said into the phone. “I don’t give a shit about laws. If you do, you’re in the wrong business. If you like, I’ll bring in … No, I thought not.”

He severed the connection, said, “It’s the same all over, good help is scarcer than a toad with balls.” His grin widened. “How goes it on the inside?”

“Fine and dandy,” McKinsey said.

There was nothing at all on the dented metal of the desktop, save a small plaque in the center of which was a bronze bas relief of a Greek warrior’s helmet.

E
LEVEN

G
UNN REGARDED
Naomi with a vaguely ironic smile. “It’s public knowledge that I’m an investor in InterPublic.”

Naomi didn’t like that smile. “A major investor.”

“What can I say? I have a facility for making money.”

“Uh-huh. And what other things have you and Mr. Carson cooked up?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Naomi shrugged. “Maybe InterPublic isn’t the extent of your dealings together. Maybe there are deals that aren’t public knowledge.”

Gunn sat looking at her for a moment. “I do believe you’re trying to piss me off.”

“Not at all.”

“For what reason I cannot imagine.”

Now that they were talking at cross-purposes, it was time for Naomi to go. But before she did, there was one item left remaining on her agenda. She rose and headed for the door, before turning back.

“I’d appreciate the dossiers on the three men who were assigned to guard Alli Carter.”

Gunn appeared unfazed. “Bennett will hand them to you on the way out.”

She smiled. “A pleasure, Mr. Gunn.” Her smile widened. “That macchiato was so good I promise I’ll be back.”

*   *   *

“T
HE
I
ZMAYLOVSKAYA
recruit,” Thatë said when Jack had finished explaining his storied past. “Their representatives go far afield—Albania, Romania, all of Eastern Europe, so I’m told.” He looked down at his hands, their long fingers laced together. “That’s how they found me.” He looked up. “Why should I say no? They offered me a home, training, a steady job, security—none of the things I had. It was everything I wanted—and needed.”

“I thought the
grupperovka
were all Russian nationals.”

“Once, maybe.” Thatë rose, got them two more beers, and sat back down. “But these days the families are under a shitload of pressure from the Kremlin. They gotta expand beyond Russia in order to survive.” He shrugged as he snapped off the bottle cap. “They don’t like it, but what the fuck else can they do. The fucking writing’s on the wall.”

The day had wasted itself in gray rain and intermittent spurts of sleet that rattled on the concrete sidewalks. Now, exhausted, day had given way to night, a darkness muffled in low clouds and swirls of icy rain. Far above, the sky was dully phosphorescent with the lights of the far-off prosperous sections of the city, but the glow did little here. Streetlights worked only intermittently; illumination was at a premium, which was just how the roving gangs liked it.

Jack checked his watch. “It’s almost showtime.”

“Time to go, no?” Thatë glanced over his shoulder. “The girl’s awake.”

Jack turned. Alli was standing in the doorway, dried blood all over her. She looked even smaller than usual, almost like a child.

“Jack…” All at once, tears rolled down her cheeks.

He rose and went to her, held her while she shook and sobbed. “It’s always worst the first time.”

He felt her freeze, almost as if her breathing had come to a halt. “He’s dead?”

“Yes.”

“I … I didn’t mean to, but he wouldn’t stop coming after me.”

“What happened?” Jack said gently.

After a shuddering breath, Alli described everything that had happened in her uncle’s study. How Rudy had waited until Uncle Hank and Harrison Jenkins had driven away before coming in and threatening her with the fire poker, how she had managed to get away and what had happened when she encountered the other two guards, how in her flight she had come across the cook lying on the floor of the kitchen, and how Rudy had followed her out of the house.