The Successor (27 page)

Gomez moved through the living room and out onto the patio, which overlooked a small ravine. He eased into a lawn chair and looked up at the stars. The villa was nice by Cuban standards. However, it was only something a middle-class family in America would live in—and they’d own it.

But for Gomez, life was absolute on one hand and relative on the other, and he was more concerned with the relative at this point. Maybe the house was modest by U.S. standards, but it was wonderful for here. And if he became president of the Central Bank of Cuba, it would become even nicer. And if he broke the news about the conspiracy, well, he might even become a hero.

He set his jaw firmly, comfortable now with his decision. He’d go to the Secret Six meeting tomorrow night and listen and nod as he always did. Maybe go to one more after that. Then he’d give them all away.

15

“I DON’T GO IN THERE
unless
he
goes in there,” Christian said, making the ultimatum crystal clear to Dex Kelly, gesturing at Quentin, who was standing beside him outside the briefing room. “If you need to talk to your boss about this, let me know, because that might take a while. We’re happy to come back.” He assumed Kelly was reporting directly to President Wood, and contacting the president might take some time. “I made no bones about this when we met in Lower Manhattan. This shouldn’t be a surprise to you.”

Over the years, Christian had learned how to effectively convey to the other side that there was no room for negotiation on a certain point. You did it with your voice—a calm and firm tone, combined with a hint of sincerity, even submissiveness, as though you were reaching out to the other party at the same time you were telling them to pound salt. With your eyes—never taking yours from his or hers. And with your body language—head bowed slightly while you leaned ever so subtly toward the door. Conflicting signals everywhere so you completely confused them. And you did it only once in any session because otherwise you lost your credibility—he’d learned that the hard way on a huge deal right after he’d taken over Everest. He’d tried it twice in ten minutes and the deal had crumbled an hour later, everyone so pissed off at him there was no chance of resurrection. Fortunately, this was going to be a short negotiation. He didn’t have to worry about picking his spot.

Kelly glanced at Quentin, then back at Christian. “Wait here,” he said gruffly, stepping inside the briefing room and closing the door in their faces.

Christian motioned at the door and grinned. “Pleasant guy, huh?”

“He sure isn’t going to win the Miss Congeniality part of the pageant,” Quentin agreed. He pushed out his lower lip, as though he were thinking hard. “Maybe the swimsuit part, though.”

Christian grimaced. “Yuck.”

Quentin chuckled. “Not a pretty image, huh?”

“Pretty
awful.
That’ll stick with me all day.”

Quentin looked around. “I hope this wasn’t a wasted trip, but I’m not letting you get involved in something like this without me.”

“That’s why you’re here, my man, that’s why you’re here.”

They’d left New York City at five o’clock this morning in a rented Chrysler sedan. No planes, no limousines, and no fancy cars like Quentin’s Beamer—per Kelly’s order. They’d driven down the Jersey Turnpike to I-95, then along a few local roads to a nondescript, four-story office building on the outskirts of Crofton, Maryland—which was halfway between Washington, D.C. and Annapolis, Maryland. Driven down a steep ramp on one side of the building to a closed basement garage door, which had opened after they’d been sitting in front of it for about thirty seconds. Then they’d been directed to move ahead to a gate inside the building. As soon as they stopped at it, the garage door had rattled down behind them and they’d been ordered out of the car and frisked by five guards, shotguns drawn, then made to walk through a metal detector. Then led to an elevator by three of the guards, then to this point. Kelly had waved the guards off when he’d emerged from the briefing room after one of the guards had knocked loudly on the door.

“You see Allison last night?”

“Yeah.” Christian wondered why Quentin had waited until now to ask about Ally. He’d been anticipating that question all the way down from New York.

“How did it go?”

“Not very well. Somehow she knew about Beth.”

Quentin raised both eyebrows. “How?”

“I don’t know, I didn’t get a chance to ask. I—”

The door opened suddenly and a man in a suit and tie waved them in. He was much younger than Kelly. Early thirties, Christian judged. “This way.” He pointed at Quentin. “You, too.”

The room inside was bare-bones: gray walls with no art, a plain table, a few plastic chairs, and a television set on a rolling stand in one corner. Besides Kelly, two other men were in the room. The one who’d just let them in and another man who looked about the same age, also dressed in a suit and tie.

Kelly pointed to one of the seats. “That’s your seat, Christian.” A folder was lying in front of it on the table. “You sit beside him,” Kelly said to Quentin. There was no folder in front of Quentin’s chair.

“This is Quentin Stiles,” Christian explained to the two younger men. “He’s my head of security at—”

“At Everest Capital,” the one who had let them in interrupted. “We know. We saw him when we were up in New York.” He nodded at Kelly. “When you met with Mr. Kelly in Lower Manhattan. Mr. Stiles drove you downtown, then kept an eye on you while you were meeting with Mr. Kelly on the street.”

Christian and Quentin exchanged a quick glance. Maybe these guys were better than they had thought.

“Open the file, Mr. Gillette,” Kelly ordered brusquely. “We’ve been testing you. You should have expected that.”

Christian opened the folder. On top of the paper pile was a headshot of a man.

“That’s Dr. Nelson Padilla,” Kelly explained. “As you read in the first file we gave you, he’s the head of a small group operating inside of Cuba called the Secret Six.”

“I do remember that,” Christian said, “and what each man does. From what I remember, they’ll be leading the civilian effort in coordination with a senior army officer who’ll lead the military side. The officer wasn’t named in that first file.”

“His code name’s Zapata, but you won’t find out his real name until your trip into Cuba. You’ll meet him then.” Kelly pointed at the file. “There’s a lot of backup data behind that one, which you’ll get when you leave here today. So you know each man in the Secret Six like you’ve known him all your life by the time you get to meet him. You’ll get his complete curriculum vitae, psychological profile, personal financial statement detailed right down to the penny. Everything. My guys have done a great job on this.”

“When are we going?” Christian asked bluntly. “When does it start?”

“Next week in Miami.”

Quentin leaned forward. “It won’t be in Miami.”

Kelly blew a burst of hot air through his nostrils, like a bull about to charge. “What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said,” Quentin answered calmly. “It won’t be Miami.”

“Listen, pal,” Kelly snarled, pointing at Quentin, “I know about your hotshot reputation in the Rangers, at the DIA, and in the Secret Service. But let me tell you something. I’ve got some pretty big stripes across my arm, too. I’m not going to let you dictate what goes on here.”

Quentin pointed at Christian. “My boss has asked me to keep him safe. It won’t be Miami.”

Kelly gritted his teeth. “Christian, I—”

“What Quentin says goes,” Christian cut in quickly, “or I don’t.” He could see Kelly was seething, but he didn’t care. He’d thought a lot about what Quentin had said. He was going to do anything he could to keep from being kidnapped or caught in Cuba by the regime. And at this point he trusted Quentin’s instincts a lot more than he did Kelly’s. “I’m willing to do all I can for my country, but I’m going to listen to this guy.” He sat back in his chair. “It’s your decision, Dex.”

Kelly shifted in his chair, then let out a frustrated breath. “Where will it be?”

“I haven’t decided yet.” Quentin pointed across the table. “One more thing. I’ll be in charge of getting Dr. Padilla where he needs to go that day.”

SANCHEZ TAPPED
on the keyboard quietly, accessing his temporary unlisted e-mail account. When it cleared and the in-box screen came up, he clicked the
SEND
/
RECEIVE
icon and waited, smiling thinly when the message appeared. Heavily coded, of course, but it indicated exactly what he’d been led to believe all along: Miami. It was going to happen in Miami within a week. Beautiful. He was all settled in here, didn’t have to change his base of operations. Except for that one trip he needed to make, he could stay right here and enjoy some more sun and ocean. But that trip shouldn’t take long. If luck was with him, he’d be able to leave tomorrow morning and be back tomorrow night. Worst-case scenario: a one-night stay-over.

Mari moaned and he clicked away from his e-mail. She was on her side on the bed, facing away from him, naked, sheet down around her knees. He gazed at her. Her curves were stunning. They’d been having sex every night since he’d told her he had her all set up for an appointment in Europe. That he’d even sent some pictures he’d snapped of her with his digital camera to the big producer he knew and claimed that the man was eager to see her. But he hadn’t really set up anything. He’d been lying to her, and for a moment he felt remorse.

He hadn’t felt that emotion in a long time. Maybe it was just that he was getting older. He grimaced. He and Mari had been together outside the room too much. He’d taken her to dinner a few times, regrettably, but he’d seen that she wouldn’t stand for any more straight to the room and bang-bang without it. Even with the possibility of meeting a big-name movie producer, Mari had her limits. Someone could easily have been watching, seen them at dinner, and might be able to get information out of her. He’d have her for a few more nights, then cover his tracks.

He smiled as he brought up some porn on the computer, proud of himself. The remorse was gone, replaced by the intrigue of figuring out how he was going to make her disappear.

“BETH,
you remember Quentin Stiles.” Christian gestured back and forth between them. “Quentin, Beth.”

Quentin gave the young woman a polite smile and shook her hand. “Hi.”

“Christian’s told me so much about you since that day we rode back into D.C. together,” Beth said. “
So
much.”

“Um, great. I hope it was good.”

“Terrible,” she replied, winking. “Says he can’t figure out how he ever got mixed up with you in the first place.”

She was trying hard, Christian could tell. A little
too
hard. “We’re going upstairs to visit Beth’s mother for a few minutes,” he explained. Quentin already knew that, but it was the only thing Christian could think of to say. “Then I thought we’d all go out to dinner.”

They were standing in a parking lot of the Greater Baltimore Medical Center. It was a sprawling hospital facility, located in Baltimore County about twenty miles north of downtown.

“Sure.” Quentin glanced back at the car. “I’ve got plenty to do out here with that new project we’ve got. Lots of stuff to review.”

“Thanks, pal. We shouldn’t be more than an hour.”

“Take your time.”

Beth slid her arm into Christian’s as they turned and headed for the huge brick building. “I like him,” she murmured as they walked, moving her hand down and slipping her fingers into his, leaning against him a little as they walked. “He’s very cool. I know that sounds silly, but I don’t know how else to describe him. It’s like he’s out of a movie or something.”

Her hand felt so small, and she seemed to be shaking. She was probably nervous about introducing him to her mother. “Doesn’t sound silly at all, Beth. I know exactly what you mean. I tried calling him Shaft in the beginning, but he didn’t like it.”

“What
do
you call him? You must have a nickname for him.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s obvious that you two are really close. And all the guys I know who are real good friends usually have nicknames for each other.”

She was right. “Yeah, I call him Q-Dog sometimes.”

She scrunched up her face, as though she didn’t like it. “
Q-Dog?
No way. He’s more like a Silk, or a Smooth. What does he call you?”

“Chris.”

“Well, that’s real original,” she said sarcastically.

“What should my nickname be?” They’d almost reached the main entrance.

“Grumpy,” she answered as they moved through the automatic doors, punching him gently in the arm.

“
What?
Now that’s not fair. Why would you—” Christian interrupted himself. She’d headed to the reception desk and started talking to an older man behind it. Telling him who they were and whom they were here to see. When they were down the short hallway and inside the elevator, he finished off the question. “Why Grumpy? That’s not very nice.”

“You seem pretty sensitive about it,” she observed, moving close to him when the doors were shut. They were the only two in the car.

She was right, he was sensitive about it. In the past he’d heard whispers that he was too serious, that he could never seem to let loose and really enjoy himself—Ally had even said something about it a few times. But people didn’t understand. A lot of times you had to sacrifice civility for efficiency. It wasn’t that he was trying to be rude, but he could understand how people would interpret it that way.

“It’s better than Dopey,” she said, slipping her hands around his neck and pressing her body to his.

“Sounds like you have a dwarf fetish.” She was gazing up at him with a faraway look in her eyes. He wanted to tell her it wasn’t going to be a romantic thing, but now wasn’t the time. “Don’t start calling me that,” he warned.

“What should I call you?”

“Chris is fine.”

“I want a nickname. Something that’s just ours.”

He grinned and ran his fingertips slowly up the side of his neck several times. “How about Godfather?” he asked in a raspy voice. She was shaking her head hard. “No? Well, what about Cool Hand Luke? Or Dirty Harry?”

She put her hand to her mouth and burst into laughter. “Sorry. I know every guy in his forties wants to be Clint Eastwood and carry a .44 magnum, but I don’t see you as a Dirty Harry.” The car was slowing down. “Do you like movies?”

He did, very much. It was a great release every once in a while just to lie back on the couch in his apartment and watch one, even one he’d seen many times before. “I do.” The doors opened.

“What’s your favorite movie of all time?”

Christian hesitated for a moment in the car, an eerie feeling overtaking him as her words echoed in his head.

She stopped in the hallway outside the elevator and turned around quickly, her short skirt flaring high on her thighs as she twirled. She motioned for him to come on. “What’s wrong?”