Authors: James Patterson
Midnight Club (19 page)
Sarah McGinniss; The Waldorf-Astoria Hotel
MADNESS WAS BEGINNING
to take over her world. Sarah couldn’t stop thinking that way, because it happened to be the truth.
She was running, actually running, inside the formal and elegant Park Avenue entrance to the Waldorf-Astoria. Then she was rushing up the double-wide marble staircase. Finally Sarah entered the plush, floral-carpeted lobby, which extended a full city block to Lexington Avenue.
As her eyes focused on the scene, she selected sharply delineated objects and surfaces to concentrate on: a gilded sign for the Hilton Room; the entryway to the famous Empire Room, where café society had once danced to Frank Sinatra and Benny Goodman; a cocktail lounge called Peacock Alley. The hotel’s interior was undeniably rich, but also harmonious. It blended various marbles, stones, friezes, matched woods, and marquetry panels.
Somehow, the Waldorf seemed almost perfect for what was about to happen. It was the hotel of kings and presidents, wasn’t it? Maybe it ought to be the hotel for the highest intrigues as well.
She had to find Stefanovitch.
He’d called her at home, but she’d been out taking Sam to school. The message he’d left said there was going to be some kind of announcement about Alexandre St.-Germain at the Waldorf. Stef didn’t know any more than that yet. No one did. The message was so unexpected that as soon as she heard it, Sarah rushed to the midtown hotel. Now where was he?
She was feeling numb as she stood in the Waldorf, trying to catch her breath. Her face was flushed. Her neck tingled.
Finally she spotted him, down past Peacock Alley on the far right side of the lobby. He was spiffed up: wearing a car coat; a shirt and tie. He looked good, and was catching a lot of passing stares.
“I came as soon as I got your message,” she said as she hurried up to Stefanovitch. Even as she spoke, Sarah realized how hurt she’d been in Pennsylvania. She hadn’t understood how much until that moment.
He sensed it. “It’s real hard for me to apologize,” he said. “But I’m sorry. I should have tried to explain, but I’m not sure I understand what happened myself. I am sorry, Sarah.”
His hand brushed the sleeve of her dress. The slightest physical contact was made, but it seemed more than that to Sarah. Something about the strangeness of the relationship made all this incredibly intense to her.
Sarah looked into his eyes, but didn’t say anything. She knew this wasn’t the place or time.
“After this is over, we should talk. Sometime soon.” Her face quickly shifted away from Stefanovitch, those haunting brown eyes. “Do you know where we’re going? Where is all this supposed to happen?”
“The Duke of Windsor Room. It’s up on the fourth floor. A lot of movers and shakers are already there. I did some scouting before you got here.”
“Well… let’s go join everybody,” Sarah said. “See what this is all about.”
MORE THAN A
hundred reporters, all kinds, from television networks, from newspapers and magazines around the world, were already gathered in the formal room. Everyone who was anyone was there: the American networks, the BBC, CBC, Iron Curtain services; representatives from all over Latin America. There were gold moiré draperies everywhere. The walls were covered in gold damask. Several of the sofas and chairs were Chippendale.
Sarah recognized a few of the newspeople, colleagues and acquaintances. This was going to be a huge story. Possibly, it would be the biggest story yet. And it was breaking right here in the Waldorf’s very civilized Duke of Windsor Room.
A cluster of microphones jutted from a stern podium set before rows of upholstered chairs. Alongside the podium, Sarah saw a man she knew, a high-powered New York lawyer named Morton James. She figured that James’s law firm must be orchestrating everything. The idea angered her. Morton James belonged to a group described as “New York’s greediest.” He was definitely another class of criminal: pin-striped collar; blue blood; black heart.
The Midnight Club.
The words played like a familiar tune inside her head. There was something uncomfortable about this juxtaposition: the ornate Waldorf-Astoria meeting room—and what was about to happen here. What
was
about to happen here? What did Morton James have to announce to the press?
In his inimitable way, Stefanovitch was clearing a path through the reporters, plowing down the right side aisle. He found two seats halfway to the podium.
It was almost eleven-thirty, the time scheduled for the press conference. Nothing had happened yet. Reporters continued to file into the hotel room.
A clique of lawyers from James’s firm was congregated around a silver coffee urn, a very expensive-looking samovar. Sarah felt as if she were attending some kind of stockholders’ corporate bash. It was a disturbing notion. Everything felt expertly orchestrated; everything was purposely expensive; so right, so respectable; so utterly reprehensible under the circumstances.
The lawyer Morton James was standing behind the podium and all the protruding microphones. What a pompous and self-satisfied creep. What a fine example of pond scum on the surface of life.
“Good morning,” he announced in a voice that was too silky-smooth and mellifluous, too pleasant by half. “I would like to thank you all for coming to this press conference.”
Press conference? Is that what this is? Sarah thought to herself. She had to smile.
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain appeared from behind thickset oak doors at the front of the formal meeting room.
STEFANOVITCH FELT HIS
stomach drop. His heart began to pound so loud he thought others around him could hear it. The killer he had been tracking for almost five years was walking toward the speaker’s dais.
The Grave Dancer wore a conservative business suit, not unlike that of his Park Avenue attorney. His hair was slicked back, making his face more severe than ever. The Grave Dancer was back; and he looked as if he belonged inside the elegant Waldorf meeting room.
Alexandre St.-Germain stepped behind the microphone. He seemed very comfortable and completely relaxed. Sarah suddenly felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Stefanovitch touched her arm. It was like electricity, live current being fed into an even stronger current. She wondered what this was like for him, being in the same room with St.-Germain.
“I have prepared some remarks which should help to explain my sudden, much-publicized disappearance several weeks ago,” Alexandre St.-Germain began in a strong, clear voice.
“On that evening, I received word that because of certain of my financial interests in Europe and the United States, an attempt would be made on my life. I was taken away from New York before a tragic shooting occurred here. A precaution, which turned out to be a necessity. My company’s security team saved my life. I was transported to Kennedy Airport. It was felt that I would be safer at my home near Nice. We are all too aware of the assassination attempts against business leaders during the last few years.
“When I reached my destination in France, I learned about the tragic developments in New York. At the time, it was felt that I should remain in seclusion, until more was known about the attack.
“I discovered that two of the European corporations in which I own a substantial interest, Ferro and Maldo-Scotti Industries, had been infiltrated by members of a crime syndicate that has had dealings with leftist terrorists. Yesterday, the Sûreté arrested several men in connection with the attempt on my life. I am satisfied that my personal safety is assured, and so, I have returned to resume my business in New York.”
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain discovered Stefanovitch in the audience. He glanced at Stef and the look was unbearably cold and detached. In an instant, he let Stefanovitch know how insignificant he was.
I have returned to resume my business in New York. You mean nothing.
“Simultaneous with this announcement,” St.-Germain went on, “another meeting is being held in Europe, releasing all of the information there…my company’s full security arrangements. Everything you need to know for your stories.
“Because of the notoriety the case has received, it was felt that such unusual steps were justified, and in fact necessary… I would gladly answer any of your questions now.”
At the conclusion of his prepared statement, Alexandre St.-Germain smoothly handled questions without any assistance from his lawyers. He gained confidence as he spoke, becoming almost glib on the podium.
He could easily have been mistaken for a high-level executive from a major corporation. He had been expertly coached and prepared for the morning’s meeting. Sarah sensed that he was actually winning the group over. They were starting to laugh at his clever jokes, appreciating his style, which was sophisticated and urbane.
Alexandre St.-Germain seemed so terribly
respectable.
He didn’t act like the Grave Dancer; he didn’t even look like the Grave Dancer, the underworld figure she had once photographed on Fifth Avenue. He had never been more dangerous.
Stefanovitch turned to her. He was clearly disturbed. His body was tense, almost numb. “Let’s go,” he finally whispered. “I’ve heard as much as I need to. As much as I can stomach for today.”
The Grave Dancer was alive. It was starting all over again.
Alexandre St.-Germain;
The Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin
A COMPLETELY NEW
order would exist now, a sixth estate rising out of the impossible chaos of the old mob structure. It would be in effect everywhere that mattered: in the United States, in Italy, West Germany, in England, France, Holland, Spain, all through Japan, Hong Kong, the rest of the Orient. In all the major cities and countries of the world,
respectability
and
anonymity
would be the foundations for the future of organized crime.
The Midnight Club would operate like any multinational corporation, almost like a government. There was no room for gangsters, for unpredictable dons and bosses, when hundreds of billions of dollars were at stake. What was necessary was strong local representation, and even stronger central control.
Tonight there would be celebrations, respectable parties, the kind that any successful business might throw after a victory over the competition.
Tomorrow, the orderly investment of profits would begin. Two dozen legitimate takeover targets had been identified on stock exchanges around the world; real estate opportunities had been found in every major city.
* * *
Alexandre St.-Germain’s luxury yacht was named
The Storm Rider.
It was docked in its accustomed port at the boat basin at Seventy-ninth Street.
The guests had begun to arrive around nine-thirty. They were congregated on the aft deck, where every kind of drink, assorted shellfish and caviar, red meat, and exotic bird was being served by William Poll’s gourmet catering staff.
Live music played: European disco, Brazilian sambas, slightly dated punk rock. The guests of Alexandre St.-Germain included New York artists, their stodgy patrons, old eastern stockbrokers, executives from multinational corporations, Broadway actors and actresses, musicians, the usual hangers-on for each of these groups. Enormous wealth was everywhere. The confident aura of power and prestige was unmistakable.
Alexandre St.-Germain was completely at ease among the wealthy party-goers. He had selected a light gray suit that was subtle and elegant. He understood his role tonight: helping to seed the new order; securely establishing his own place in it. Long ago, he had discovered that facades and surfaces were everything in any society. It was as true on this yacht as it had been in the underworld of Marseilles. The difference between the two worlds was that one operated on deception, the other on self-deception.
The distinguished guests, with their ingrained oh-so-serious looks, found him witty, charming, even better-looking than had been rumored. They were easily convinced that the stories about Alexandre St.-Germain were apocryphal; media-inspired exaggerations. There was no way this European gentleman could be the things he was said to be.
Respectability,
he remembered all through the night. It was a mask he wore easily; one of his more subtle disguises.
Late in the evening, he stood alongside Jimmy Burke on the yacht’s deck. For several years, Burke had been carefully preparing the way for St.-Germain’s emergence in New York. Now, the two men watched the glittering, super-rich party from shadows falling across the second deck of
The Storm Rider.
“The créme de la créme of New York society,” Alexandre St.-Germain said. “A peculiar thing, the conversation of most American men—there is rarely any content, no depth of thinking or knowledge. It’s a consistent trait, I find. All that they know about is making money, and not so much about that as they think.”
St.-Germain pointed toward the main deck. He indicated a tall, striking blonde who was dancing there. He felt the need to do something that wasn’t so respectable. Something for himself tonight.
“You see the one I like? The blonde in blue. Quite stunning. Do you happen to know her?”
“I can find out for you.”
“Yes, find out for me. Bring her around. She’s the most beautiful creature here tonight. Tell her that. Tell her I would like to meet her very much.”
WHEN THE LAST OF THE
guests left in the early morning, the young blond woman, Susan Paladino, remained on board the yacht. She couldn’t have possibly left the main stateroom by herself.
She was feeling uncomfortably warm inside the elegant and luxurious room. She was having trouble getting her dress up over her head and off. Underneath the cumbersome blue Azzedine, she wore nothing. She had planned to meet someone important and interesting at the party tonight. She just hadn’t been sure who.
Susan Paladino was feeling sleepy, but also sexy, and wonderfully important in the stateroom, which she knew belonged to Alexandre St.-Germain. She had the intoxicating thought that she had come a long way from Buffalo. She was somebody now; she really was.
The exotic shipboard room seemed to be moving around her. The walls and ceiling occasionally blurred, coming in and out of focus.
Finally, she had to lie down on the huge double bed. It was a good place to wait for him to come back. Alexandre St.-Germain. Handsome. Blond. Very, very rich… Susan Paladino. Very, very naked.
She tried to sit up, but it was no good. She wanted to speak, but couldn’t get control of her voice.
How could she be so drunk? She never let herself get like this. She felt completely separated from the scene, from her own body.
She suddenly noticed Alexandre St.-Germain there in the stateroom, along with a few other men, but he didn’t say anything to her. How strange. Hello? Hello there? Was she saying that out loud?
She tried to smile.
But he didn’t smile back at her.
How different he was. How interesting and provocative. How stunning with his long blond curls.
Why don’t you smile, Goldilocks? she wanted to say. Don’t take everything so seriously or you’ll ruin tonight for both of us. Why don’t you say something?
He sat in a chair across the room. His long legs were draped across the chair’s arm. He never said a word to the girl. He watched the other men use Susan Paladino. The Grave Dancer merely watched. Later, he watched as they injected her with cocaine, almost 90 percent pure.
There was nothing that compared with this forbidden thrill: watching someone die, especially a frightened, beautiful woman. It was one of the last taboos in a world that claimed to have none. It was an experience he had known Club members pay fortunes to witness…
The drug threw her body into convulsions. The convulsions went on for several minutes. Technically, she suffered a stroke. She seemed to be coming as she died. Who was the poet who had enjoyed that image? Lord Byron, wasn’t it? Watching her die, Alexandre St.-Germain was as excited as he ever became.
The men in the stateroom discarded the young woman’s body somewhere around Sandy Hook. Susan Paladino sank quietly into the dark waves of the sea. She was weighted around the waist and ankles, and wouldn’t be found until spring, if ever…
Just another dance for the Grave Dancer.