The Successor (21 page)

CHRISTIAN HELPED BETH
out of the limousine, then reached back inside and grabbed her bag off the bench seat next to the bar. She had come up from Washington on the train again this afternoon to see her “friend” here in New York. She still wasn’t being forthcoming about things, and Quentin wasn’t coming up with much of anything, either. Christian had pressed her on one simple question—where she’d gone to college—but she’d managed to avert the answer to that one, too. He couldn’t decide if she was just that unegocentric—which was great—or really didn’t want him to know things about her for some reason.

At least she’d told him tonight what she did for a living in Washington—she was an administrative assistant for a Maryland congressman. He’d excused himself after they’d finished their entrées to go to the restroom, where he’d called Quentin to let him know about her job. Quentin text-messaged back a few minutes ago that he’d confirmed her story with a friend and that he’d follow up in the morning with the congressman’s office to get more details.

“I had a great time tonight, Chris,” she said as they moved to the top step of the stoop in front of a six-story walk-up. The building was on Fifty-third on the east side of Manhattan.

“I’ll carry your bag upstairs,” he offered.

She shook her head. “No, I can get it.”

“I’d like to meet your friend.”

Beth grinned. “No way. She’s very pretty and
very
money hungry. She’d be all over you the minute I left New York. I’m not letting her anywhere near you.”

He gazed at her. They’d had another wonderful dinner, full of laughs and light touches. “She can’t be any prettier than you.” He watched her smile disappear, replaced by a soft, searching expression. As if she was trying to figure out what he was looking for and what he was really about, he thought to himself. The problem was, he still hadn’t figured that out himself.

“Thank you,” she said, moving close, kissing him on the cheek, then hugging him. “I had a really cool time tonight.”

He smiled at her use of the word. It reminded him of the young lawyer at the Laurel closing. “Me, too,” he said, slipping his arms around her. She was so small and delicate, and he thought he could feel her slim body shaking.

She leaned back and looked up at him. “Would you…well, um, would you…” She moaned. “No, I can’t ask you to do that.”

“Do what?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“You’re too busy.”

He shook her shoulders gently. “Spill it, will you?”

Still she hesitated. “I was hoping you’d come down to Washington,” she finally admitted. “Well, Baltimore actually. That’s where my mom’s in the hospital. I was hoping you’d come with me to the hospital to meet her,” she said, her voice rising with excitement. “I’ve been telling her all about you, and she’d love to meet you. She’s never met a celebrity before.”

He put his hands up. “I’m not a celebrity.”

“Oh, yes, you are. She’s been reading all those articles about you in
Forbes
and
Fortune.
I think she’s started her own Christian Gillette fan club. You’d make her millennium if you’d come to see her, believe me.” Beth paused. “You’d make me very happy, too. I know it’s a lot to ask, but…”

He nodded. “Of course, I will. I’ll check my calendar in the morning. Call me before noon, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

She grabbed him tightly again. “Christian, you make me so happy.”

“Easy, easy,” he chuckled. She seemed ecstatic, like a child on Christmas morning. And there were always people he could visit down in Washington anyway—senators, congressmen. Maybe he could combine seeing Beth and her mother with that trip he was going to have to make to see Dex Kelly. “We’ll have fun.”

She kissed him one more time on the cheek, grabbed her bag, and headed inside the building. As if she didn’t want to give him a chance to change his mind. Well, he wouldn’t. He’d make that trip no matter what. If he could raise her and her mother’s spirits a little bit, hey, that was the least he could do.

Before he eased into the limousine he gave her one more wave—she was still waiting inside the foyer for her friend to buzz her inside the second door.

“Where to, sir?”

“Everest, Wayne.” Wayne Tyson was one of Quentin’s men. Wayne was sitting up front with the driver.

“Everest? It’s almost eleven thirty. Don’t you want to go home?”

“I sure do,” Christian answered, taking out his cell phone as they pulled away from the curb. He glanced up the stairs one more time. Through the door window he could see Beth still standing there. “But I’ve got some things to finish up at the office first.”

“All right.”

Christian relaxed into the seat, thinking about dinner. It was almost overwhelming how much Beth reminded him of Nikki. Which made anything romantic impossible. It just wouldn’t work now. But it didn’t make him want to see Beth any less. In fact, more. He’d loved Nikki, but he’d missed all those years with her because Lana had cut him off. Maybe this could be a way to reconnect.

He took out his cell phone and text-messaged Quentin, asking him to make certain he didn’t raise any eyebrows when he spoke to the congressman’s staff about Beth in the morning. He didn’t want Beth finding out that they were checking up on her. By the time he’d sent the message and looked at his new e-mails on his BlackBerry, they were back to Park Avenue and Everest Capital.

“Wait down here for me, okay, Wayne?” Christian said. “I won’t be long. No more than twenty minutes.”

“Yes, sir. But I am walking you to the door. Stiles’s orders.”

Christian climbed out and moved to the front entrance of the building with the young man, who nodded to him and stayed by the door once they were inside. As Christian moved through the revolving doors into the lobby, he noticed a young woman talking to the guards behind the security desk. A few strides closer and he recognized her: Sherry Demille. She was casually dressed in a T-shirt and jeans. As he neared the desk, he realized some kind of argument was going on. He didn’t know Sherry that well, but her voice seemed high-pitched, irritated. And the guard was definitely mad, sticking his chin out, arms crossed tightly.

“Hello,” Christian said calmly as he reached the desk. He caught Sherry’s surprised look when her eyes snapped to his. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing,” Sherry said quickly. “Everything’s—”

“Miss Demille forgot her swipe card, Mr. Gillette,” the guard interrupted. “She wants me to let her upstairs anyway.”

“You know I work here,” she said angrily to the guard.

“No tickie, no laundry,” the guard retorted, aggravated at the young woman’s attitude.

“I’ll take her up,” Christian said, glancing at the guard’s name tag. “I appreciate your being so careful.”

“Rules are rules, especially in this day and age.”

“Absolutely. Keep up the good work, Henry.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gillette.”

Christian smiled at Sherry and nodded toward the elevators. “Come on.”

“Thanks for saving me,” said Sherry as they moved into the waiting car.

Christian swiped his card through the slot and pressed the button for the Everest floor. “No problem.” He could tell she was nervous. She was twirling her hair like mad. “Where’s your card?”

“At home. I left the office around eight tonight. About a half hour ago I got this idea about a deal I’m working on with Allison, right before I was going to bed, and I couldn’t wait to see how it worked through my projection model. But I left so fast from my apartment to get over here I forgot my card. I tried calling upstairs from the security desk. I thought maybe someone might still be working, but I couldn’t find anyone.”

Christian smiled. “I like your dedication.”

“Well, I love Everest. It’s the best place in New York to—”

“Let me ask you a question,” he interrupted. “Did you tell Allison Wallace I offered you a ride in my limo last week?” He almost had to hide a grin because her face went white so fast. She was suddenly caught in a bad spot. She didn’t want to lie, but she didn’t want to admit to him that she’d made up something to make Allison jealous, either.

She nodded slowly. “Yes. That’s what I thought I heard you say. Didn’t you?”

Christian stared at her for a few moments as the elevator doors opened to the Everest floor. She actually seemed as if she believed what she was saying. It was like a friend of his had said to him one time:
It’s really not a lie if you believe it.
Clearly, Sherry Demille adhered to that misguided theory. He’d have to have a conversation with Allison about her. Couldn’t have a liar working at Everest.

He gestured to her. “After you.”

ANTONIO BARRADO
gazed up into the crystal-clear night sky at the vast array of stars above him and his Everglades camp. He was lying on his back, hands behind his head, inside one of the roofless shacks. He was cozy inside his sleeping bag—it still got cool at night out here in May—on top of his canvas cot. He’d brought a cot for each of the other men who were with him now, and he made sure they used them. The cots weren’t very comfortable—in fact, the ground would have been a lot softer—but they were necessary. If you slept on the ground out here, snakes could easily crawl into your sleeping bag, seeking warmth, and coil up beside your legs. If they were
poisonous
snakes—water moccasins, corals, rattlers—and you rolled over during the night or kicked in the morning getting out of the bag, you had a problem. Being bitten by a poisonous snake wasn’t good anywhere, but out here, a long way from help, it could easily be fatal.

Tomorrow’s project would be to repair the roofs of the three shacks. Pretty soon thunderstorms would start rolling into the Everglades like clockwork every afternoon at two, and the downpours could be monsoonlike. There was no telling how long they’d be out here, and he wanted to be comfortable. He’d been involved with a couple of these things down in the rain forests of Central and South America, and he knew what it was like to be wet for a week at a time. He didn’t want to live that experience ever again.

He smiled and shut his eyes. It was all going well. Now they just had to wait for the word.

VICTORIA GRAHAM
closed the hall door of her hotel room and locked both locks—doorknob and dead bolt—making certain three times they were securely latched before she finally turned away. For a moment she even considered switching rooms so he wouldn’t be able to find her if he decided to come back for some reason.

She’d never met a scarier individual than Steven Sanchez. If she’d known what she was in for, she would have had half a dozen armed security guards with her—and she still might not have felt safe. Something about him told her he was one of those few men who could never be killed by anyone but God. Of course, that scariness convinced her he knew what he was doing, too. And, hopefully, this would be the only time she’d have to meet with him.

She swallowed hard as she moved through the dark room and climbed into bed, wondering if Dorsey had gotten that other thing right. Making certain that the man who was to die tonight wrote a suicide note blaming Christian Gillette. She hated that he had to die, but there was no other way.

NELSON PADILLA
peered out from behind the smooth trunk of a palm tree, trying to see if it was all clear. Trying to see if there were any unfriendlies milling around the van he’d parked in the clearing that Gustavo Cruz had suggested.

“See anything?” The deputy minister of agriculture stood behind Padilla, looking over his shoulder nervously, back the way they’d come.

Padilla wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “No.” He was sweating profusely. They’d been feeling their way through the jungle for over an hour now, pushing huge ferns and broad leaves out of the way as they snuck ahead. Wondering the whole time if they were suddenly going to be blinded by brilliant spotlights and ordered to throw their hands in the air by rifle-wielding FAR soldiers. “It’s too dark,” he whispered, holding his hands up in front of his face. His fingers were bleeding from the sticker bushes that had been clawing at him.

After Cruz had burst into the meeting to tell them that he’d seen a vehicle at the end of the driveway, they’d all raced from the barn and scattered into the tree line behind the building. Padilla and the deputy minister had literally bumped into each other a few hundred yards into the forest—scaring each other to death—then stayed together, slowly moving back toward the clearing, giving the barn and the driveway a wide berth. Stumbling onto the paved lane just as a pair of headlights swung around a curve. They’d raced back into the brush and watched as an army transport vehicle had roared by, ready to spring from their hiding place and sprint away into the woods if the truck looked as if it were going to stop. But it hadn’t stopped. They had no idea if the truck was headed to the Cruz ranch as part of a team that was trying to find them, or if the vehicle was simply headed from one FAR installation to another or was on a normal patrol.

They had come out onto the lane too far from the Cruz ranch, had given the driveway too wide a berth. So, once the truck was gone, they’d headed back into the woods and cautiously made their way toward the clearing. It would have been easier to head down the lane to the dirt road that would lead to the van, but they didn’t want to be out in the open like that.

Padilla knelt down, wiping his forehead again as he gazed through the darkness at the faint outline of the van fifty feet away. The humidity, combined with the physical exertion of fighting through the jungle and the terror that shook him, was nearly melting him.

It was the first time during this whole thing he’d come face-to-face with the reality of what they were doing, and of what they could accurately be accused of—treason against the state—and for which they would be executed. Until now, the Incursion had seemed like a romantic mission. Fraught with danger, but nothing he couldn’t handle. However, as he’d been stumbling wildly through the trees in those first few seconds after Cruz had burst into their meeting, branches ripping at his face and hands, he’d imagined men like General Delgado on the other side. The side loyal to the Communists. Men just as cold and just as driven as Delgado who would think nothing of torturing him for information, then shooting him in the back of the head and throwing him down a ravine—the same way Delgado had the little rancher from the next farm over.