The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (17 page)

Cashman
laughed in disbelief. "What is this, some kind of contest?"

David frowned in deprecation. "I wouldn't put it like that at all. No, you see, Mr. Fairchild can only work with one of you at a time, and we're hoping here that you'll help us decide which story would make the better read. Naturally, if one of you wishes to bow out at this point, we'll simply concentrate on the other. But I hope we can all discuss it civilly, and come to a fair decision. I apologize if we led you to believe that the advance offer was exclusively yours, but experience has shown us in the past that only fifty percent of such clients, offered this opportunity, actually sign after learning what we're asking of them. And so we didn't want to go to this expense without reasonable odds of success." Another pregnant pause as he placed the tips of his fingers lightly on the table. "Any questions?"

"Oh yeah,"
Cashman
said, raising his hand as if for permission to speak. "Didn't you just tell me a movie star wanted to meet me, and that your company, what's the name. . ." He snapped his fingers, looking at Innes.

"Alliance Books," Innes said.

"Right. Alliance Books. Didn't you tell me you're
new?"

David cleared his throat. "The company is new, yes. Mr. Fairchild and I, however, are not. We've been in the industry for. . .how long has it been, Doug?"

"Going on sixteen years, come October," Etherton piped in.

"Sixteen years. Seems like twenty. No matter. The point is we've worked on projects together for Penguin, Harper, and Simon and Schuster too."

"And the movie star?"

"Bollywood, not Hollywood, I'm afraid. And you're right, she doesn't know either of you yet. The party, in fact, is for her. An engagement party. Surely you can understand that we needed to get you gentlemen here, to the table, so to speak? Whatever happens, though, I promise that we'll introduce you. We'll make an announcement too, if you like."

Innes shook his head, unconvinced. "What does book publishing have to do with Bollywood?" he asked.

"Well, everything, Mr. Innes," David lied. "Rhea Kumar has just signed with us, too. Random House is picking up the expense for this party for that reason."

"Rhea Kumar. . .Rhea Kumar,"
Cashman
repeated, squinting down at the floor. "I've heard that name before."

"Of course you have," David encouraged him. "Everyone in Dubai has heard of Rhea Kumar."

Innes hooked a thumb toward the door behind him. "Do
they
know it's her?" he asked.

David shook his head. "No, and would you please not let the cat out of the bag prematurely, sir?"

Innes nodded once, confirming David's suspicion that he'd talked to someone besides Ted in the moments before entering. His tense cast and flush face now finally subsided into mere confusion. "When will she be here?" he asked, finally.

David looked down at his wrist. "Less than an hour now. Can we move on?"

"Not quite yet,"
Cashman
said. "Not until you tell me what
Aazad
Baloum
has to do with all this."

"
Aazad
who
?" David asked.

Cashman
laughed. "It's interesting you don't know, because, see, I was also told he'd invited me to a party tonight over at Swann Tower, but when I called back later they said the party had been cancelled."

"So?"

"So I just talked to someone out there who said they called
her
and said the party was being moved
here
. And she didn't even know who I was."

"I thought I already explained that, Mr.
Cashman
."

"No."
Cashman
shook his head. "No, you didn't. See, because if there's a billionaire behind this party, it doesn't explain you're bitching about budget restraints. Catch my drift?"

David opened his hands. "What did I just say?"

Innes' gray head nodded slowly, turning away. But
Cashman
wanted clarification. "You tell me," he said.

"Okay," David replied, smiling in pity. "Read my lips. There's no billionaire involved here. Okay? But we do have a substantial
bill
to cover, so if you know a
billionaire
who's willing to pick up the tab, we'll be more than willing to discuss it." He glanced at Etherton, who also smiled. Then he rubbed his hands together. "Now, can we get down to discussing why anyone might care to hear what you have to say about
anything
, Mr.
Cashman
, or shall we call it an evening, and write it up as a loss?"

"Gutsy, but brilliant," Etherton told him in the restroom, during a break. "I was expecting any second they'd ask for I.D."

"Thanks for agreeing to play along."

"Kind of fun. Like being in a movie, actually. I didn't know you had it in you to talk like that. You could be an actor, yourself."

"I have been an actor. My whole life. I just didn't know it until now. Don't know if I can do it much longer, though."

"Well, you sure have them going. Already starting to compete by spilling the beans. Can you believe that part about Innes' VP junket to Thailand? The underage hookers financed by bailout money? He really had to do a soft shoe shuffle with the books to protect his guys at the time, didn't he?" Etherton laughed while washing his hands. "And then the other guy, what's his name. . ."

"Ted
Cashman
."

"Right. Then Ted tries to best it with a story about hiring a contortionist to pretend being a cripple? A guy who
first
gets healed and
then
doubles as head usher to collect the offering while wearing a
disguise
?"

David dried his hands. "I was hoping for more."

"More? Like what?"

"An admission of guilt would be nice."

"Dream on, my friend. If you want them to confess to being Nazis in another life, that's one thing, but if you expect them to hang themselves just by getting them enough rope, think again. Those guys are shrewd. Or at least Innes is. Don't know about Ted. Ted's just got him some brass balls. The bigger the lie, the more people believe. That's his motto."

"Neither of them got here by telling the truth, that's for sure," David agreed.

As they exited the restroom and walked down the interconnecting hallway, David wondered what revelations were next, and how far he should press it. Should he mention his mother at the end? Would he laugh or cry, or start a fist fight at that point? Or should he just leave them there, after making the same kind of promises they'd made to so many others? Maybe that's what he should do: Say that
both
of them would get advances. That they would write a book together, with Doug's guidance. Title it
Where the Money Goes: Two Tricksters' Treats
, with full color photos of their condos and cars, and with them dining at five star restaurants in the company of sheiks and hookers, along with warnings that others just like them were still operating in the States,
still
sucking millions from gullible TV addicts and investors who were pushed forward in the end as human shields against the shit storm of lies, while they hid behind an incomprehensible financial maze of hedge funds and derivatives, if not the very Word of almighty God. . .

But upon reentering the private room, David saw that it was empty now. He looked at Etherton in dismay at first, but then felt a sense of relief that it was over.
Finally
. Now he could go home, or go on vacation to France, once his passport was returned. Now he could get on with his life, whatever that meant.

"Maybe they went outside for a smoke," Etherton said.

"Maybe," he repeated.

"What's that?" Doug asked, after a moment.

"What's what?"

Listening, they heard distant voices. Not merely talking, but shouting. Rushing out, they found the club's office deserted too, and even the main ballroom held only a few tipsy stragglers, propped up at the bar.

"Where is everybody?" Etherton yelled across the hall.

One of the lushes there pointed up at the ceiling.

"On the roof," David interpreted. "Come on."

~ * ~

They came to the northeast corner of the crowded roof. "What is it?" Etherton asked.
Wurley
turned from where the stout Russian stood peering through binoculars. David followed the man's line of sight to a flickering fire and plume of smoke rising from the giant ball of the
Etisalat
building two miles distant. Behind them at least fifty other people gazed in mesmerized awe at the spectacle, their whisperings evoking fear and indecision about whether to stay or flee. The consensus seemed to be that at least they weren't high enough to be a target, and the club was far enough from any tall building to avoid falling debris.

Wurley
closed his cell phone. "It's military," he confided. "They've attacked the communications center with one UAV, and another has hit the
Burj
al-Arab, with casualties."

"So it's a terrorist assault?" Etherton asked. "Is that what they're saying?"

"No, they're saying it's the U.S. Air Force again."

"Ridiculous," Doug scoffed. "That's what al-Qaeda wants everyone to believe."

"Rogue military or not," Malcolm said, "no one will be able to prove otherwise unless they capture one of those planes before it explodes."

David glimpsing
Cashman
standing amid several others, engaged in banter and opinion. Then he finally glanced up. He squinted toward the area of their surveyed window, midway to the top of the
Seacrest
Tower, but couldn't be sure of the right room. "Any movement up there?" he asked the Russian.

"Where?" the guardian named Peter asked.

David first pointed, then took the binoculars, scanning the entire area without luck. "Where's their telescope?"

"What?"
Wurley
snatched the binoculars for himself, training it on
Seacrest
Tower. Then he pulled out a
walkie
talkie, depressed the transmit button and demanded, "Have you been recording?"

There was static on the other end. Then came a shout from the other side of the roof. "Incoming!"

Incredulously, they all turned toward the horizon, where the man who'd shouted now pointed. For a moment David saw nothing, and then there was a faint blink of whiteness, as though someone were trying to signal them with a candle from a Greek temple high on a hill. Finally movement was evident, the thing passing through a short space from which it was lit from below. A moment later it happened again, nearer still.

"Quiet!" someone yelled.

The murmurs died, and then, just barely, they could hear it too. The feeble sound, like a whirring or droning. Like that which a remotely controlled toy airplane makes high over a field or parking lot.

"You hear that?" Doug whispered.

"Yes," David replied. "Although we shouldn't. Aren't military drones silent?"

"I'm not positive," Doug said, "but I think they usually fly higher than that. Don't they?"

The blinking became a steady glow as the lights from below the craft increased in frequency and intensity, the distance soon shortening.

After a moment someone yelled, "Coming this way!"

Then the crowd on the roof broke, en masse, moving toward the stairs. Some even ran.

Etherton flipped open his cell phone and punched a speed dial button. Placing the phone to his left ear, he then pressed the index and forefinger of his right hand against his opposite ear canal. The phone rang as the UAV neared.

David stared in fascination as the craft descended and appeared to turn, albeit unsteadily, wavering as though wounded. . . or
guided
. Within seconds he visually established the glide path, and tracked the anticipated angle ahead of it to arrive at the intended target. "It's gonna hit the Swann," he told Doug, leaning in to be heard.

Etherton eyed him anxiously. "He won't answer the damn--" A beat, then jerking his head upward to follow the UAV's flight path while it loomed and banked, he said, "
Shakil
! This is Doug. Tell your men to get out! There's a drone airplane about to--" Another moment, followed by a look of shock, morphing into horror. "You
what?
Get out,
Shakil
! Get out now! No, no, you probably can't hear it in there, you--"

The unmanned drone finished banking, and leveled out. Accelerating, its engine now whined as it shot like a spear toward Swann Tower.

"
Shakil
, you have to--"

Two seconds later the UAV plunged into glass and chrome, detonating on impact. A blinding flash of white light preceded a deafening explosion. A billowing flare of yellow and red burst outward, bulging. Shards of debris arced down like tracers from a fireworks display, leaving behind a roar of flame that dribbled liquid fire down the side of the building.

Etherton stared down at his cell phone as though he'd just heard an obscenity. Then he let the thing fall from his hand like holding on meant being burned. They both stood motionless, staring up at the Swann, where a fire now raged in incendiary engulfment. With this biggest explosion yet, it seemed as if some liquid had also combusted.