The Heir Hunter (40 page)

“I don’t have a weapon,” said Nick, a bit angry now. “I don’t think you need the gun.”

The barrel was redirected at Nick’s face.

“Walk.”

Nick walked. The sooner he made it to wherever they were taking him, the quicker he could get away from the goons. Chagnon surely had to be more reasonable than his hired help.

The path was steep, with loose, dry dirt that broke away easily. The ground gave twice under Nick’s feet, forcing him to a knee. Behind him the gunman followed, maintaining a safe distance. Nick reached the bottom of the hill, trotting down the last few steps. Thirty yards in front, two men waited.

Nick immediately guessed which one was Chagnon. He
was a gray-haired, bearded man of about fifty seated on a fallen tree trunk. He wore a white button-down shirt and black slacks, but seemed somehow disheveled, three to four weeks beyond a good haircut. A burly bodyguard stood at the ready near him.

The older man instantly stood at the sight of the newcomers. Nick drew to within twenty feet of him and stopped.

“Mr. Chagnon?”

The man’s stare didn’t show a trace of warmth. He snapped his fingers at his bodyguard. A brief, rapid conversation was exchanged in French.

Nick was about to speak when someone shoved him firmly in the back. He took a few momentum-driven steps, then looked at Chagnon, confused. Before he could speak, he was blindsided again. He stumbled to regain his balance.

“Hold on here,” he said.

One of the three bodyguards kicked him hard in the stomach, doubling him over. A fist slammed his cheek. Nick staggered sideways and looked about wildly.

“Wait a second,” he said. “You need to listen to me—”

He dodged another fist thrown at his face but fell to his knees as another hit him in the back of the neck. A powerful kick smashed him in the kidneys, then another sent him to the dirt. Dazed, he felt a knee pressed into his back. His head was twisted roughly around, a gun barrel stuck to his temple. The older man was suddenly stooped on a knee, barely three feet from him.

“Please,” Nick blurted out. “Let me explain . . .”

“I’m Victor Chagnon,” the man said. “Tell me who you are. Keep in mind your life may depend on your answer.”

The weight on his back was pressing the side of Nick’s face into the soft soil. He swallowed, tasting dirt, and began talking, much faster than he had originally intended.

“My name is Merchant—Nick Merchant. I’m a private investigator who knows about Holtzmann. Ludwig
Holtzmann. I’m just trying to share information that may help us both.”

Chagnon’s face was tired, his eyes bleary. But he was listening. Nick stammered on before he could speak.

“I’ve learned that Holtzmann was involved somehow with your father. All I’m—”

“Do you think I’m a fool?” said Chagnon. “Do you want to die there in the dirt? I know all about Holtzmann. And I know who you work for.”

Nick was breathing fast. With a man on his back and a gun to his head, he couldn’t put his thoughts together. Being beaten nearly senseless hadn’t helped. But their viciousness couldn’t be this random. He had to figure out who they were mistaking him for, and quick.

Chagnon stood and strolled out of sight. Nick’s cheek was pressed to the ground so tightly that he couldn’t watch where the banker went. He felt paralyzed. His story was coming out fragmented, bits and pieces that weren’t adding up. He licked his lower lip and forced himself to slow down.

“Let me tell you how I know about all this, Mr. Chagnon. I got involved with Holtzmann when an old man by the name of Gerald Jacobs died recently in New York. Jacobs had an estate worth millions of dollars. What I was trying to do—”

“Enough,” said Chagnon, walking back into Nick’s line of sight. His face was flushed with anger. “I know who sent you, and I don’t want to hear any more. You need to listen to me now, if you want to live.”

Nick fell silent. He was desperate to get his story out, but if Chagnon’s plan included keeping him alive . . .

“Why were the others killed?” asked Chagnon. “Every one of Holtzmann’s accounts were released, every requirement was met. Everything agreed upon was done. Why is Taylor doing this?”

Nick’s eyes darted about the ground. He wasn’t sure what the safest answer was, especially now that he had run
his mouth off about Taylor and Holtzmann. If he denied any knowledge, he would only infuriate Chagnon further. But playing along could get him killed just as quickly.

“Answer me!” shouted Chagnon.

“Because he didn’t trust them,” Nick exclaimed. “He needed to insure their silence.”

“Their
silence?
” Chagnon asked. “What reason would we—would
I
—have to talk of our dealings with Holtzmann? By talking we would have only indicted ourselves!” He shook his head, his cheeks purple with rage. “Taylor knew. He knew if he came for us that we would have nowhere to run. Where could we go—to the police? They would have imprisoned us for life!”

Nick felt a chill as the pieces came together. Chagnon had his hands in it then, as all the murdered bankers did. Once Taylor had milked the accounts, the bankers had become a liability, so the arrangement was voided, the accessories targeted. The conspirators had turned upon themselves. He was dealing with another criminal then, a crook at the end of his rope, someone no better than Taylor and Holtzmann. And probably no less dangerous.

“We let our greed take over,” said Chagnon, reaching into his coat. “It killed the rest, but I won’t let it kill me.” He removed a thick manila envelope and tossed it near Nick’s face. “Let him free,” he said to his henchmen.

The pressure on Nick’s back was removed. Painfully he got to his feet, brushing the dirt from his cheek.

“Pick it up,” said Chagnon.

Nick stooped for the envelope and brought it up with unsteady hands.

“That’s right—look at it.”

Nick opened the envelope with some difficulty and removed a collection of photographs. He looked at them one by one. Surveillance photos—very similar to the ones he had found in Jacobs’s home. He brought one close to his face. There was one man in the group he definitely recognized.

“Someone you’re familiar with, I see,” said Chagnon. “Take these to him—wherever he is. Tell him I have many copies. If anything happens to me, these will go to your media. Your
Washington Post
and your
New York Times.
Tell Taylor it won’t be so easy for him after all.”

Nick folded the envelope and placed it in his pocket. He was going to walk away from this, then, and not empty-handed either. Serving as their messenger—a false one—would save his life. He felt dazed. Surrounded by half a dozen men who probably wanted nothing more than to shoot him in the head and he was going to walk away.

“Take these to him,” said Chagnon. “Tell him everything I’ve told you.”

Nick gripped the envelope with both hands. He slowly nodded. “I will.”

“Now get out of here,” whispered Chagnon viciously. “If I see you again, you’re dead.”

Nick scanned the circle of men surrounding him. No weapons were drawn. They were done with him. He jogged to a clearing, looked back once, then ran as quickly as he could through the park.

T
HEY ARRIVED AT
the airport one hour early and found a dark corner of the airport lounge to wait in. At five minutes before departure they would ease out of the bar separately, hurry through the concourse, find the gate, and walk down the boarding tunnel. It was a short, simple little gauntlet, and if luck was on their side, it probably wouldn’t get either of them killed.

Nick sat with his back to the corner and waited. He was facing Jessica, but his eyes were trained to the walkway beyond her. The Geneva airport was thankfully busy, the concourse bustling with travelers. When boarding time arrived, they would be two of hundreds of travelers passing through. Excellent odds, but the fact that there even
were
odds was terrifying. He had to assume their pursuers had taken the airport into account. Somewhere, then, they would be part of the crowd, casually checking faces as they moved, making themselves as inconspicuous as possible as they walked back and forth, hoping for that one chance encounter with their targets.

Jessica sat and watched him scan the crowds. Someone from the bar came by, and she ordered them sodas and an order of appetizers, strictly for the purpose of making them appear relaxed and unworried. Neither of them touched the food. She watched him, he watched the
walkways, and for half an hour they sat and said almost nothing.

The boarding call for Flight 103 to Montreal came in English and French. Nick leaned forward and placed his hand on hers.

“It’s time,” he said softly. “I lead. Give me about a thirty-second head start, then walk to the gate at a normal pace. Stay on the right side of the walkway, right next to the wall so I’ll know where to look for you. When you get to the boarding tunnel, just hustle down it.”

“Why don’t both of us just—”

He shook his head.

“Because they’re looking for
me.
You’re safer and a lot less conspicuous on your own. If you see a line to board, wait a few minutes in the bathroom until it clears. I’ll be watching out for you. Just move quickly and stay to the right at all times.”

He rose, but she did not release his hand.

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said. “I’m not boarding until I see you.”

He touched her shoulder reassuringly and eased his hand from hers. The table behind them was a collection of empty beer bottles and dirty paper plates. He took one of the longnecks and exited out to the walkway.

He strode quickly through the crowd, feeling as skittish as a rabbit. The departure gate was only sixty yards away, but it seemed to be retreating from him—a cruel mirage. He picked up his pace. A man’s shout made him jerk his head to his left. A Swiss family was greeting an arriving traveler and being awfully loud about it. He turned away and focused back on their gate. He could see a line now, and a pretty sizable one at that. What the hell was the delay?

He reached the gate, still clutching the beer bottle. People were everywhere—happy faces, tired faces, bored
faces. There were far too many people to keep track of. He quickly took a seat against the wall. The line of travelers was slowly filing into the boarding tunnel but not nearly as quickly as he wanted. He put the bottle on the ground and rubbed his hands. The walkway he had come from was packed. He couldn’t see her. Ten seconds passed. Twenty. He stood. He couldn’t see anyone but strangers.

Finally he caught a glimpse of her. She was by the bathroom, searching for the gate. God, was it him or was she standing out like a cat in a kennel?

Get inside!

As if hearing him, she pushed her way into the rest room. Nick let a breath out slowly. He wiped his hands together furiously. Another minute or so and they would be safe in the cabin. He leaned forward, his eyes on the bathroom door she had entered. He gave an anxious glance at the boarding line. People were still taking their sweet time boarding the plane. He wanted to run up and start shoving people in.

He turned back in the direction of the women’s rest room, just catching the sight of a man suddenly ducking inside.

Nick didn’t have time to think about it. He grabbed the bottle and was up in a charge. He jostled his way through the crowd and sprinted for the door. People stared as he nearly ran a woman over. He reached the restroom door and threw it open.

The stranger was at one of the stall doors, kicking it powerfully. Several women were screaming and running for the exit. Nick lunged for him. The man tried to turn, but he wasn’t fast enough. Nick swung the bottle like a blackjack and shattered it viciously against the side of his head, sending him to the floor. The man struggled to get up but Nick was powered by sheer violent adrenaline. He kicked the attacker under the chin, putting everything he had into it. The man flipped over on his back and didn’t move.

“Jessica? Jessica!”

The stall door creaked open. She was near the back, her face white.

“You all right?”

She nodded hesitantly. Nick grabbed for her hand and pulled her out. A cluster of curious people had gathered outside. People were pointing. A small group of airport security guards was rushing through the terminal toward them. Nick ignored the crowd and kept them moving forward to the boarding tunnel. A Swiss in a green uniform grabbed his elbow.

“What are you doing in there?” he demanded.

“A man just attacked me,” said Jessica.

“Get in there and arrest him,” said Nick, jerking his arm free.

The security guard looked thoroughly confused. The crowd seemed to encircle them. It looked as if every traveler in the terminal had gathered around to gawk.

“Stay here,” the guard said.

“Our flight’s leaving,” snapped Nick, walking again. “He’s in there. Go get him.”

The man glanced over his shoulder as two of his comrades entered the rest room. When he turned back to the young couple, they were already gone, out of sight down the boarding tunnel.

The Lear rolled to a stop on the private airfield at nine in the morning. The doors flew open and a half-dozen suits and ties streamed down the stairs and into the waiting limousines. Director Gordon fell into the backseat and immediately read Edmund Arminger’s dour expression.

“Let me guess,” said Gordon. “Nothing new?”

Arminger’s silence spoke volumes. Gordon shook his head and gave a short rueful laugh.

“I’ll have half a dozen of my agents in place for the
hearing tomorrow,” Arminger said. “We’ve got a verbal commitment from the attorney not to participate.”

Gordon sat up and nodded. This was something positive at last. “What’s this Spinetti character have to say about Merchant’s whereabouts?”

“Claims he has no idea where he is.”

“Naturally,” replied Gordon. “Here’s my thought: if Merchant has gotten a replacement attorney, then it indicates to me he’s still in town. If no one shows on his behalf, then he’s left the country. I suspect that’s probably the case. With his client dead, he doesn’t even have a claim on the estate.”