Full Circle (29 page)

It had begun on a Sunday, in itself unprecedented. They’d gone out on the deck adjoining DuBois’s study, another departure from conventional protocol. Dubois had propelled himself to the railing where, in silence, he’d contemplated the view. The silence had stretched time unbearably, almost a physical pain. So that, when DuBois finally began to speak, whatever he said would have been a relief. In the months that followed, hardly an hour passed that he hadn’t thought of that incredible conversation. Or, rather, DuBois’s monologue. The monologue had been delivered in a dry, clogged voice, the result of a slight cold. The cold had been given the kind of medical oversight normally accorded a head of state.

The pronouncement had been a miracle of both brevity and understated monstrosity. Betty Giles had been privy to certain secrets—vital secrets—that, if made public, could prove “acutely embarrassing.” That, in itself, presented no problem. Betty, DuBois was confident, could be trusted. But Nick Ames, her live-in boyfriend, had discovered the secrets. And that was a problem. A major problem, compounded by DuBois’s infirmity. Could Powers “neutralize” the problem?

His assent, delivered almost casually, a low-keyed conditioned reflex, had committed him to hiring a murderer. Too late, he realized that he was vulnerable, that the authorities could backtrack from Borrego Springs to Santa Rosa to San Francisco to Los Angeles—to him. Except for a five-minute conversation on DuBois’s deck, there was nothing to connect Raymond DuBois with the murder of Nick Ames and the attempted murder of Betty Giles.

Therefore, his bondage to Raymond DuBois was complete.

Until five days ago, complete.

He’d just returned to his office from a late lunch at Le Cirque. It had been an exploratory lunch, suggesting the possibility of advantageous start-up positions in Russian food packaging and distribution. On a fifty-million initial position, returns of twenty-five percent were possible.

The lunch had gone badly. The two Russians had drunk too much, and the two men from Wall Street had been reluctant to commit themselves, even in principle. The reason, Powers suspected, was that DuBois had passed the word: Powers no longer had the power to act unilaterally. Therefore, after less than an hour at the table, in itself an affront, the men from Wall Street had suggested that they meet again in a week’s time, when “the situation was clarified.”

Afterwards, deep in thought, brooding about the dark portents of the lunch, he’d driven into his building’s underground garage and parked his car, all without conscious perception of his surroundings. He’d just activated the electronic door locks on the Lexus and was peevishly examining a parking-lot nick on the driver’s door when he realized that a man was standing beside the car’s rear bumper. The stranger was well dressed and well barbered. He projected an aura of affable affluence and easygoing authority. John Graham had entered his life.

It had started with a warm, cordial smile, followed by a hearty handshake as Graham introduced himself. Everything had been perfectly orchestrated: two men of the world, each instantly recognizable to the other. Their cars had cost at least forty thousand, their golf was acceptable, their choice of wines impeccable. Their children had never spent a day in public schools.

After introducing himself, Graham had wasted no time. He’d just come out from New York, and was staying at the Beverly Hilton. His business was confidential, but involved extremely valuable objects of art that had been reinsured by his company. The objects of art, worth millions, had been stolen. Graham had followed the trail to Los Angeles, where he believed he could recover the stolen property.

Why, Powers asked, was Graham telling him this?

In reply, Graham had smiled engagingly. He was telling Powers, he’d said, because he believed Powers would be of assistance in the recovery of the stolen property. He also believed—was quite sure, in fact—that Powers might profit, personally, if Graham’s efforts were successful. Of course—once more, the engaging smile—this was not something that could be discussed in a parking garage. Could they meet for drinks, anytime after five? Graham had suggested Roland’s, a small, unobtrusive bar. He’d explained that a low profile might be wise.

At Roland’s, after the briefest of preliminaries, in a calm, conversational voice, Graham had laid it out. If he could raise twenty million dollars, he could purchase a clandestine collection of art from Raymond DuBois that was worth at least a hundred fifty million. The transaction was being brokered by a private detective from San Francisco named Alan Bernhardt. The paintings had been stolen, and if DuBois didn’t divest himself of them immediately he would be indicted for receiving stolen property. Of course, Graham could handle the transaction through normal channels, getting the money from his employer, who would then return the paintings to “ordinary public commerce.”

However, Graham said, if he could raise the twenty million privately, he could take the paintings to a foreign country, where he would return them, one by one, to the underground art market.

Graham had come to Powers, he’d said, because he thought Powers might be interested in “recycling” the twenty million from Powers Associates to DuBois to Graham. Meaning that DuBois would actually buy the paintings from himself. In exchange for arranging the transaction, Powers would receive twenty million as the paintings were sold. Specifically, as Graham sold the paintings, he would pay Powers fifty percent of the proceeds until the twenty million was paid in full. Everything that was left would belong to Graham.

Instantly Powers had recognized the genius of the scheme. It would be a crime without victims, leaving Graham with a fortune in art.

And leaving Powers with a promissory note for twenty million dollars.

It had taken Graham less than ten minutes to lay out the plan—and less than a minute for Powers to decline. Where was his protection? Graham had obviously expected the objection, and had been ready. His plan, he’d said, was to transport the paintings—twelve, at least—directly from the spot where the transaction would take place to a waiting corporate jet, duly chartered and documented for foreign travel. There would be the pilot, and Graham, and Graham’s mistress, who was also his courier. With the crated paintings secured in the airplane, there would still be room for one more passenger: Powers. With customs clearances, everything legal, they would fly down into Mexico, then into Guatemala, where Graham had rented a house in Indigo with the monies he’d taken from his expense account. Already Graham was in contact with people who would gladly pay millions for the DuBois collection, in whole or in part. Within two weeks, Graham had said, call it a vacation with pay, Powers could have his twenty million, and could be back in Los Angeles, or anywhere else, rich and free, independent of Raymond DuBois.

Instantly the doubts had surfaced. Citing DuBois’s global reach, Powers had protested that it would be easier to flee Mafia vengeance than to escape the cold, calculated wrath of Raymond DuBois. Airily Graham had dismissed Powers’s misgivings. Not only was DuBois old and infirm, but he was also vulnerable. As long as they could connect DuBois to the stolen art, they had him at their mercy. Powers’s response had been a grunt of dismissal, repeating that he’d rather have the Mafia after him than DuBois.

Leaving Roland’s, Graham had invited Powers to sleep on it. Graham would be at the Beverly Hilton; if he didn’t hear from Powers during the next twenty-four hours, he would begin collecting the money through “regular channels.” Meaning, he’d said, that if Powers wasn’t interested in “freelancing,” Graham would “hop back over the fence,” return to the executive suite.

Powers had pretended an amusement he didn’t feel. Suppose it was a trap? During the months since the death of Nick Ames, DuBois had begun edging him slowly out of the top spot, had begun moving Albert Robbins, DuBois’s chief counsel, into his place. Until two months ago, DuBois had decreed that, in his absence or “indisposition,” Powers was to take orders from Robbins.

Graham’s proposition had focused Powers’s misgivings, forced him to finally face the fact that he was being phased out, Robbins was being phased in. Therefore, at approximately three-thirty in the morning following the meeting at Roland’s, at first tentatively, mere speculation, he began to toy with Graham’s proposition. Could it be done? Could he pull it off, make twenty million disappear until the next audit?

The answer, he knew, was “Easily.” First set up a twenty-five-million-dollar account dedicated to a position in futures. Soybeans would be a possibility. South American coffee. Or cocoa, or foreign copper. The account would be flagged top-secret, “PP,” for “Powers Personal.” It would be given a name: Prospects International. The following day, with a draft for five million and his own impeccable personal credit, he would open a bank account for Prospects International. During the next few days, using instantaneous wire transfers, ostensibly moving quickly to catch a market swing, he would churn the accounts. Large cash deposits would be made, then withdrawn. Until, in perhaps four days, he would be in a position to deliver twenty million in cash on a day’s notice. No problem.

No problem, but no protection. He couldn’t be present at the exchange of the paintings for the twenty million, or Bernhardt would expose him. He could take one or two paintings immediately following the exchange, but then he would be in possession of stolen property, with no idea how to dispose of it on the black market.

And then, with dawn turning his bedroom window a milky white, the solution had come full blown, as the elements clicked into place:
protection—guarantees—a chartered jet—a fortune in art.
Followed in reprise by
futures—coffee—Guatemala.

Followed by
Indigo.

Indigo, where coffee futures were brokered.

Indigo, where Graham had rented a house.

God, it was so simple, so symmetrical, so perfect. Laying out the parameters for Prospects International, he would let it casually drop that he saw unprecedented short-term prospects in coffee. In fact, the profit potential was so dramatic that he might actually fly down to Indigo, to establish an “advance command post.” And then, smiling, he’d tell his personal assistant that, if Prospects International fulfilled expectations, he would allow himself the pleasure of taking a week to explore the ruins in Guatemala, something that had always fascinated him. Of course, he would be in daily contact with his assistant. But it would be discreet contact. Because, naturally, no one must know he was in Indigo, or coffee futures would soar prematurely. In fact, negotiations were so delicately balanced that he’d chosen only to tell his wife that he had to be out of town for a few days on business.

It had been five o’clock before he’d finally fallen asleep. But it had been a sleep enhanced by images of affluent expatriates, white sand beaches, and long nights of love.

“T
HE WAY IT’LL WORK
,” Andrea said, “is that I’m going to drive my car, and you’re going to follow me in your car.” She gestured to the two walkie-talkies lying on the floor beside an electrical outlet. Each radio’s charger was plugged into the outlet. “I want you to lie back. If you lose sight of me, use the radio. Don’t speed up. I just drove past the Hilton, and Graham’s bug is still putting out, loud and clear. So tomorrow morning, early, we’ll go to the Hilton and wait for Graham to make a move. When he does, I’ll follow him, two or three blocks behind, assuming the bug’s still transmitting. You’ll be the same distance behind me. Got it?”

“Sure,” Harry answered. “So far, so good. But then what? We follow Graham, then what?”

“Nothing happens without the money. So as long as Graham has the money, all we need to do is follow him.”

“But suppose he doesn’t have the money?”

“He’ll have it. But not until tomorrow.”

“I guess you aren’t going to tell me how you know he’ll have it.”

“I guess not.”

“So, okay, maybe you’d like to give me the plan.”

“The plan is very simple, Harry. We’ve been over it a dozen times, and it hasn’t changed.” She spoke didactically, with exaggerated patience. “We go to the Hilton in two cars. We get there early, and we make sure the homer works. We—”

“What if Graham switches cars? He’ll need a van to carry the paintings. What if—”

“Don’t worry, I’ve got it covered.”

He grunted skeptically.

“We follow Graham, and he leads us to the place where the exchange’ll take place. Without doubt it’ll be in a garage or a warehouse. Bernhardt’ll be there with the paintings. We give them time enough to make the exchange. Then it’s your turn, Harry. However it comes down, either they put their hands up or they decide to shoot it out, you take care of it. If they decide to put their hands up, we handcuff them.” She pointed to a dozen plastic handcuffs lying on the coffee table. “If necessary—” She pointed to a small stack of newly purchased handkerchiefs and two rolls of duct tape. “If necessary, we gag them. But only if it’s absolutely necessary, because of the situation. I don’t want anyone suffocating.”

Impatiently he nodded. “All right, so they’re handcuffed and they’re gagged, whatever. So what happens next?”

“What happens next,” she said, “is that we take their two vans outside the warehouse, and we put our cars inside. Then we drive the vans here, put them in our garage.”

“Oh.” He nodded mockingly. “Oh. Good. We tie these people up, and we drive off with millions in cash and paintings that’re worth a fortune, all very neat, no sweat.”

Because she knew what was coming, she made no reply. Instead she examined her fingernails. She must remember to file them. Tomorrow heavy lifting was a distinct possibility.

“Either you’re dreaming,” Harry said, “or you’re running a con. Christ, we’ll need another four people, at least, to do what you’re talking about. And you damn well know it.”

Still examining her nails, she shook her head. “Not four people. Just one more.”

B
ERNHARDT FELT THE BED
shift, heard the irregularity of her breathing. Yes, Paula was awake in the darkness. They both lay on their backs, staring up at the ceiling. The time, he knew, was almost midnight; he’d set his travel alarm for six o’clock. By six-thirty tomorrow morning they should be loaded and ready. He’d allowed a half hour to eat breakfast at McDonald’s. By eight o’clock, they should be at the DuBois mansion.