The Successor (16 page)

“A
big
problem,” Bixby confirmed.

“Am I right? That this isn’t just about President Wood?” Graham had sensed over the past few years that Lloyd wanted Christian’s head, but he’d never explained why. “That Lloyd wouldn’t mind seeing Christian crash and burn, too?”

“Priority number one is Jesse Wood,” Bixby said firmly. He hesitated for a few moments. “But you’re right, Senator Dorsey would love to see Christian Gillette go down in flames, too.”

“Why?”

“Long story.”

Graham crossed her arms over her chest and stuck her jaw out. “I’ve got plenty of time. You’re the one with the plane to catch.”

After a few seconds Bixby gave in. “Look, Christian’s been a pain in the ass to the establishment for a while. For starters, a few years ago some senior people inside the government, inside a very clandestine cell of the intelligence sector, were carving a cutting-edge technology out of a secret government research group. So they could move it into the private sector and clean up financially.”

Graham had heard rumors about those kinds of diversions—government insiders secretly transferring federal research projects to friends in the private sector, then getting shares of stock in the company so they could make tons of money in the IPO—but, until now, she hadn’t heard of a specific example. “What did the research deal with?”

“Nanotechnology, specifically on the bio side. It was unbelievable, it would have been a blowout IPO with just a year or two more of development. A lot of people were going to be paid back for a lot of years of crappy government wages when they could have been in the private sector making millions all their professional lives. Anyway, Christian screwed that whole thing up. He found out about what was going on and ruined it. Pissed a lot of people off and cost a couple of men their reputations.”

That sounded like Christian. Black-and-white—no gray. By the book or bye-bye. “I can see him doing that.”

“Well, the establishment didn’t like it,” Bixby retorted angrily. “And what made it really hard for people, what people couldn’t understand, was that his father, Clayton, was a big conservative before he died in that plane crash.”

“I remember,” she said, brushing a few strands of hair from her face. A slight breeze had picked up. “They were talking about Clayton being a lock to win the Republican nomination for president at some point.”

“The men in charge thought Christian understood that, thought he got it, so they couldn’t understand what the hell he was doing by getting in the way of a little payback to their friends.” Bixby looked around.

As if he thought there might actually be microphones out here, Graham mused, wondering how people could become that paranoid. Maybe that was just what happened to you when you’d been in Washington for so long.

“There’s more,” Bixby continued.

“What do you mean?”

“Do you remember a guy named Sam Hewitt?”

Graham rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. Samuel Hewitt was chairman and CEO of U.S. Oil for a long time.” U.S. Oil was a Texas-based energy company, the biggest industrial company in the world. “He was the only person ever to be the
Forbes
most admired executive more than once, I think.”

“Exactly right,” Bixby confirmed.

“Hewitt died a couple of years ago, didn’t he? Of a heart attack or something?”

“Well, that was the
official
story.”

Graham glanced up. “Oh?”

“I know you remember Senator Massey from Texas.”

“Sure,” she agreed, wondering where all this was leading. “Massey was actually Lloyd’s mentor. He was the one who got Lloyd interested in politics in the first place. Got Lloyd to consider running in that first race.” She put a finger to her chin, trying to remember the news account she was thinking of. “Massey drowned in a boating accident or something.”

“He was fishing at a lake in Oklahoma, by himself. The lake was way back on a friend’s property, in a very remote area. He did die by drowning, but he was murdered, just like Sam Hewitt was murdered. There was indisputable evidence proving murder in both cases,” Bixby said. “Nothing the public ever heard about, of course. The bottom line is that Hewitt and Massey were working together to keep Jesse Wood out of the White House. They’d gotten hold of something that they were certain would destroy him. A film clip or pictures of him, and they were going to release it to the press.” Bixby paused for a few moments. “But they were murdered first…and Christian Gillette was involved.”

“I don’t believe it,” Graham said firmly. “Christian would never be involved with something like that. It’s not in him.”

“If you don’t believe me,” Bixby said sharply, “then I suggest you talk to my boss. He has the details. He spoke to Samuel Hewitt just before he died. He’s also seen the evidence that proves Hewitt and Massey were murdered.”

Graham gazed across the fields. The man had finished cutting and was steering the tractor back toward the barn where they were heading. “I will talk to Lloyd.”

“He was hoping you’d want to. In fact, he was hoping you’d come back to Washington with me tonight. He was hoping you might be able to stay a few days as he’s, well, free.”

Graham knew what that meant. It meant the senator had enjoyed their night together after the state dinner. Enjoyed the two other nights she’d spent at his house in Georgetown since then and wanted more. “I may be able to help Senator Dorsey,” she said, “may be able to get him the information he needs on Christian Gillette. I’ve arranged for someone to be very close to Christian.” She watched a smile creep across Bixby’s face. Suddenly he seemed like a completely different man.

“Great,” Bixby said happily. “So, will you come back to Washington with me?”

11

“JIM MARSHALL
is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, Debbie, send him in.”

Christian switched off the intercom and closed the file he’d been looking at. It was a file he’d been handed on his way out of the lodge at Camp David by a man President Wood had introduced him to—Dex Kelly—after they had left Richard Hart on the porch. Kelly had informed him that the contents were strictly for his eyes only, that he was to look at it only when no one else was around. The file wasn’t thick—just five pages—and he’d gone through it twice in the last ten minutes. Not extensive, but what was there—a summary of President Wood’s plan for Cuba—was incredible. Sensitive information about how the initiative would be carried out—coordinating with both the Cuban military and the civilian sectors—and who would be involved. Including the name of the civilian Christian would meet with soon—a surgeon named Nelson Padilla—who was clandestinely working with a general in the Cuban army, code name Zapata. According to the file, the doctor was heading up a group called Los Secretos Seis, which included high-level civilians from several of the major ministries who would take over after the coup had been carried out.

It had surprised Christian to actually see a name in the report because he hadn’t officially committed to helping President Wood yet. He had every intention of doing so, but it seemed odd that Wood’s people would jump the gun like that. Of course, you could never really be sure what was going on when intelligence people were involved—he was well aware of that because the CIA had used two of Everest’s portfolio companies as conduits. Secretly paying intelligence officers in foreign countries using portfolio company accounts to transfer the money. Maybe the name of the Cuban doctor wasn’t real. Maybe Wood was using Christian as a decoy, hoping someone would get the file and see the name, sending them off in the wrong direction.

His eyes narrowed. The file even mentioned the city where he would meet Dr. Padilla: Miami. Well, that was going to change. Quentin Stiles would see to that. No one would know where the meeting would take place until the last minute—that was how Quentin worked. And it sure wouldn’t be in Miami. Who knew how many people had gotten this file? If Dex Kelly and the president didn’t like that, too bad. He was willing to take chances, but not stupid ones.

Just as Christian locked the drawer, the office door opened—sooner than he’d anticipated—and Marshall appeared. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed as if the other man had glanced at his hand as it moved away from the handle. “Come in.” Christian motioned toward the chair in front of his desk as he slipped the drawer key into his pocket. “Have a seat.”

Marshall was older than Christian—fifty-one—and Christian had always sensed that Marshall was uncomfortable reporting to a man eight years his junior. Marshall looked his age—he had a full head of hair, but it was completely silver. He was tall and distinguished-looking, and, until the last year, he’d been a solid performer. The Everest portfolio companies he was responsible for had always done fine—nothing spectacular, no grand slams like Laurel Energy—but they’d always hit singles and doubles, as people in the firm referred to solid but not outstanding results.

“How are you, Jim?”

“Fine, thanks,” Marshall answered in a subdued voice.

As if he knew what was coming.

As Marshall sat down in the chair in front of the desk, Christian couldn’t help wondering again how well Marshall and Allison had gotten to know each other in the last few months. Christian knew it wasn’t fair, but he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy, either. Allison was right, he hadn’t been paying much attention to her lately, so it wasn’t as if he could say anything about her looking elsewhere for attention—if there was anything going on between her and Marshall, or her and
anyone
else for that matter. Still, he didn’t like thinking about the possibility that she and Marshall had become more than just friends now that Marshall was divorced. A few times in the past she’d mentioned having a thing for good-looking, older men. Marshall fit that bill. A bit plastic-looking in Christian’s opinion, but he could see how women might be attracted to him. “Thanks for coming in,” he said.

“Sure.” Marshall fiddled with his cuff links for a second, making sure they were fastened securely.

Marshall always dressed nattily. Today it was a blue shirt with a white collar, French cuffs, those sporty cuff links, suspenders, a sharp tie, and a chalk-stripe suit. Too much for Christian’s taste. He liked things simple and straightforward, didn’t like all the extras. “I’m making the Laurel distributions today.”

Marshall nodded. “I know. The word’s out all over the firm. Not much work getting done out there.” He waved toward the office door. “People are excited about it, including me. It’s the whole reason I came to Everest, the whole reason I gave up my career at KKR.” Kohlberg Kravis Roberts was another large private-equity investment firm based in Manhattan. Marshall had forfeited his small piece of the KKR partnership to join Everest. “I left a lot of money on the table over there when I joined this place, Christian,” he said, his voice rising. “I didn’t have a big piece, but even a small piece of KKR is like winning Lotto. Pissed some people off when I left there. Can’t go back, that’s for sure.”

Marshall was making his case, trying to preempt the bad news he was clearly anticipating. Trying to make it as hard as possible for Christian to leave him out in the cold on the Laurel profits. “Jim, I want you to—”

“Got a kid in college, too, and I—”

“Just got divorced,” Christian cut in.

Marshall’s expression sagged, as though that wasn’t what he’d been about to say. As if he didn’t want Christian to know about the divorce and was shocked that he did.

“Yes, I heard.”

“How?” Marshall asked.

“Those things are tough to keep quiet. People talk. You know that.”

“Damn it, did Allison tell you?”

“No,” Christian replied flatly. He couldn’t roll over on her like that. “Jim, you aren’t getting anything out of Laurel.” It was better to get the bad news out there right up front than to let this go on any longer.

Marshall gazed at him for several seconds, mouth wide-open, as though he were about to gasp for breath.
“Are you joking?”

“I’d never joke about something like that, Jim. It’s tough to hear, but we both know your companies haven’t been doing well lately. Which is why you didn’t get a bonus this past February.”

Marshall gritted his teeth. “You can’t leave me out in the cold like this, Christian. I’ve been counting on this money. I’ve gotta have it.”

“You’re going on paid leave, Jim.” That one hit Marshall like a freight train. Christian could see it all over Marshall’s face. Anger, then panic, then fear—all the emotions registering on his face one right after the other in a matter of seconds. “You need to get your life back on track, you need to dry out. I’m going to send you to one of the best clinics around, and I’m doing it on my own dime. I’ll throw you an extra three hundred grand while you’re in there so you can pay your bills. I know about everything. We’re going to get you well again.”

“Well again? What the hell are you talking about?”

“You know what I’m talking about. You’re a drunk.”

Marshall leaned forward in his chair. “My God,” he whispered, “are you really that greedy? Don’t you already have enough?”

“Wait a minute—”

“You’re going to make up some ridiculous story about me drinking so you can take my share of the Laurel profits? That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Don’t even go there, Jim.”

“This way it doesn’t look so bad,” Marshall continued, eyes bulging. “How much are you taking, Christian? What, half? Four hundred fifty million?”

“I’m not taking any of it. Not a damn cent.”

“
Bullshit!
It’ll get to you somehow, probably through a charity or something. You’ll make a big donation to it for the cameras, won’t you? Get lots of pub about what a great guy you are. Picture of you in the
Times
handing somebody a big check and all that. Then you’ll suck every drop of it out the back door and into your pocket so you can buy another mansion somewhere.”

Christian’s first instinct was to lay into the other man, to rake him over the coals. But he held back, reminding himself that denial was usually the first reaction. “That’ll be all, Jim,” Christian said curtly, pointing to the door. “Maybe we’ll talk later, when you’ve cooled down.”

Marshall shot up out of his chair. “You better pay me, Christian!” he roared.

“I told you what I’m doing, Jim. Be glad I’m not firing you.” Christian stared up at Marshall, knowing he shouldn’t say this. “We found your stash. I know you’re drinking on the job.”

“You went in my desk?”

The office door opened and Debbie leaned in. “Everything all right?”

“Everything’s fine, Deb.” Christian motioned for her to close the door. “Yeah,” he admitted when she was gone, “we—no,
I,
went through your desk. You didn’t give me a choice.”

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyer. I’ll bury you, you prick.”

“Calm down,” Christian warned, his anger starting to boil over.

Marshall smiled slyly. “There’re a lot of people who want to know about you, Christian. You shouldn’t make enemies so fast right now.”

Christian stood up, too, not taking his eyes from Marshall’s. “Jim, go back to your office and get whatever you want to take with you. I had Debbie put a couple of boxes in there while we were talking. Pack them up, and we’ll have them delivered wherever you want. When you’re off the sauce for good, you’ll still have a place here.” The intercom went off. Christian assumed it was Debbie giving him an excuse to cut the meeting short, but he pushed the button down anyway. “Yes?”

“Pick up.”

Christian reached for the receiver and brought it slowly to his ear, still staring at Marshall, who hadn’t looked away either. “I’ve got everything under control in here, Deb. There’s no need to—”

“That’s not it. That person is on the phone,” she explained. “The one you told me to put through no matter what you were doing or where you were.”

THE AMTRAK TRAIN
pulled slowly away from the Philadelphia station heading north, clattering and shrieking as it negotiated the labyrinth of switches at the head of the yard, bouncing passengers around. It would have been nice to take a speedier and more comfortable Metroliner to New York, but Melissa was surviving on a much smaller budget these days—a long way from the limousines and champagne she’d grown accustomed to in Hollywood. She couldn’t afford the extra several hundred dollars a round trip on the Metroliner would cost. Her benefactors had her on a fixed monthly allowance, and when she exceeded it, she needed a good explanation. Even when some of her expenses involved playing the role of Beth—as they would tonight. The big payday wouldn’t come until the end, they’d told her. Until then the stipend would only be enough to get by on.

She hated being beholden to these people, but right now she had no choice. She’d put calls in to a few Hollywood agents this afternoon, before she’d boarded the train—lesser agents she knew would have done anything to represent her a few months ago—just to see if she got a nibble. But she hadn’t heard back from any of them. One of them had been in his office when she’d called—she’d heard him in the background, asking his assistant who it was. When he understood, he’d told his assistant to cut the call off immediately. Her father had been frighteningly thorough.

Melissa gazed out the window at the urban landscape as the train picked up speed, wondering how many people out there had seen her Oscar-winning performance. Wondering if she’d ever have a chance to get back what she’d had. God, she missed California. Missed the life. It had been fun, and profitable.

An eerie chill suddenly enveloped her like a cold fog, and she glanced around quickly, looking for whoever was staring at her. She’d gotten good at picking up on that—when someone was watching her. Probably because she’d been stalked several times in Santa Monica. But she didn’t see anyone suspicious, just an elderly woman on the other side of the train reading a magazine.

MARSHALL WAS SITTING
on the edge of the hotel room bed in just his boxers when the knock came. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated for her to get up here, and suddenly he was relieved—and very turned on. He jumped up and trotted across the carpet, yanked open the door, grabbed her roughly by the wrist, pulled her into the room, and pinned her against the wall beside a painting, pulling the leather purse strap from her fingers and dropping the bag to the floor. It had been a long time and the taste of her soft lips was delicious thanks to the flavored gloss she had on. They’d spent an hour at the bar downstairs, way in the back, drinking martinis and flirting, until he’d finally suggested this. To which she’d quickly agreed.

The trendy little hotel was in TriBeCa—just a hundred rooms, used mostly by German and Austrian tourists—so he was fairly certain they wouldn’t run into anyone from Everest. Especially that bastard Christian Gillette. Still, Marshall had insisted that they leave the little table in the back corner separately, in case anyone was watching. He was worried about that these days, about being watched, and for good reason. From what he could tell, this thing was crazy, much bigger than he’d initially thought. They hadn’t given him many details, but the way they were acting and whom they claimed to be made him suspicious and careful.

That Christian had put him on leave this afternoon was too coincidental. Christian had to suspect something. It couldn’t be just that he was pissed off about the drinking. Especially because he’d made such a big deal to his assistant Debbie about getting Marshall’s key to the Everest front door, and his magnetic swipe card that activated the elevator to the floor. Losing the key wasn’t a problem. Marshall had already made a copy of that and it was back at his apartment. But losing the swipe card was a problem. He’d tried to order another one last week, just in case Christian fired him, but it hadn’t come. He had to be able to get back into Everest, if for no other reason than to go through Christian’s desk. The men who’d hired him last week would find out quickly that he’d been dismissed. He needed to have something to trade with right now.