The Successor (33 page)

Sanchez backed off quickly to seventy-five when the radar detector started to ping. It sure wouldn’t be good to be pulled over by the South Florida cops going 110—especially with Mari’s body in the trunk. The movie producer would have liked her a lot, he thought to himself. She was pretty—much prettier than the other woman he’d sent before—and she had a nice personality. She might actually have made something of herself in the movies or on television. But he couldn’t risk Mari living another day. She knew too much. So he’d killed her this morning. He’d dispose of the body later—probably out here somewhere on the way back to Miami.

Sanchez nodded subtly at the trooper car as he flashed past—not that the guy could see him do it, but it was always a good idea to salute your enemy before going into battle. A mile later he cranked the car back up to 110.

“I’M LEAVING,
” Christian said, walking over to Beth and hugging her. “Will you be okay?”

She let out a little sob. “I’ll be fine.” She pressed her head to his chest and squeezed tightly.

God, he felt awful for her. She’d been shattered by her mother’s death. And she wouldn’t even be able to start putting it behind her until after the small funeral next week. He’d move any meeting he had, he was going to be with her for that.

“I shouldn’t be long. I’m thinking Quentin and I will be a couple of hours at most. You should go down to the pool and relax, get some sun.” They were staying at the Ritz Carlton, which was right on the beach a couple of miles north of Fifth Avenue South—Naples’s main drag. They were in separate rooms, though she’d made it clear this morning that it would be okay with her if they stayed together. He’d politely declined. Her room was down the hall. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said, gesturing toward the window. “If you forgot your bathing suit, get one down in the lobby. Put it on my room.”

“Thanks,” she said, pulling back and wiping tears from her eyelids.

He kissed her forehead gently and broke the embrace. “I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Wait, wait,” she said, running past him to where his briefcase sat in a chair by the door. “I have something for you,” she said, holding up an envelope so he could see it. “I want you to know how much I appreciate you doing all of this for me.” She turned her back to him and blocked his view of the briefcase for a moment. She slipped the envelope past the zipper, into one of the open pockets. Then subtly dropped the homing device into another pocket. “Make sure you aren’t around anyone else when you open the envelope,” she said, zipping both pockets shut. Then she picked up the briefcase and brought it to him.

“Why not?”

She smiled slyly as he took it from her. “Oh, there’s a picture of me in there I’d rather you see when you’re alone.” Her smile grew wider. “If you know what I mean.”

CHRISTIAN STOOD UP
as the other man entered the suite. He was short—only about five-seven—and slight—no more than 150 pounds. He had small, round wire-rim glasses, a thin mustache, wavy black hair, and a gentle but competent look in his eye. Christian noticed right away how he was constantly rubbing his hands together, too, as though he were washing them. Maybe surgeons washed their hands so often it was a natural habit to pick up.

“Dr. Padilla?”

Padilla smiled as they shook hands. “Yes,” he said, looking up at Christian. “I hope you are Christian Gillette, yes? If you are not, I think I am in trouble.”

“I am Christian Gillette,” he said, laughing. He guided the other man toward a chair beside the one he’d been sitting in. “Please make yourself comfortable. Would you like something to drink, Doctor?”

“No, thank you.” He tapped his watch as he sat down. “I’m supposed to be observing an operation at five o’clock this afternoon back in Miami. It’s a new open-heart procedure we haven’t seen in Cuba yet. I need to keep this short so I’m not late. Obviously, I…
we,
I mean,
we
don’t want the people who check up on me to get suspicious.”

Padilla’s English was quite good. Choppy in places but a hundred times better than Christian’s Spanish. “Everything go all right with the trip over here?”

Padilla laughed. “Very well. The man they have as my double? Well, he looks more like me than me. If my mother were alive, I don’t think she could tell who was who. He has all of my markings, right down to the moles. It is amazing.”

Christian nodded to Quentin, who was standing in one corner. The guy was a master. He’d created the double with just a grainy picture from that file Kelly had given Christian at Camp David. “Good.” He felt that he already knew Padilla well. He’d spent a lot of time studying the detailed background files Dex Kelly had provided him on each of the Secret Six. “I want to tell you how impressed I am with what you men have done. It takes a lot of courage. President Wood believes very strongly in you. I’m looking forward to meeting the other five as well.”

“Thank you.”

Christian thought he noticed a cloud cross the other man’s face for a moment, but then it was gone. “Well, I have lots of questions. We should get started so you can get back in time.”

“Please,” Padilla said, opening his arms wide, “ask me all your questions.”

For the next hour Christian did exactly that, rapid-fire. At times it was frustrating because Padilla couldn’t provide the level of detail he was looking for when it came to how certain of the ministries were run, or how the black markets were set up, whether the men of the Six really understood the dynamics there. But he had expected that. After all, Padilla was a doctor. A man who saved lives. Not a man involved with capital markets, production levels, and currency reserves.

At the end of the hour, Christian leaned forward, smiled, and patted Padilla on his knee. “Thank you, my friend. This has been very helpful.” The most important thing Christian had learned during the hour was that he trusted this man—completely. You could never be 100 percent sure, but Padilla certainly seemed like a man who was deeply committed to a democratic Cuba—and to the rebellion that would make the island free. Nervous, even scared—as he should be—and apologetic when he realized by the look in Christian’s eye that he probably wasn’t giving Christian all the information he wanted. But Dex Kelly had been confident about this man. Now Christian saw why.

“We’ll help you,” Christian assured the doctor. There was one more element to all of this—that clandestine trip into Cuba to meet with the rest of the Six as well as the general—but Christian was confident all that would check out. That he would recommend these men to President Wood. “I’m looking forward to meeting the rest of your associates.”

Padilla smiled widely, revealing two rows of bright white teeth. “Thank you, Mr. Gillette,” he said gratefully, reaching into his suit pocket. “Take this,” he said, handing Christian the cow’s identification tag Delgado had given him. “You need to bring it with you to Cuba. You need to give it to the general when you meet him. It is the signal that you are real. You must show it to him. He’s very careful.”

THE MEETING
with Padilla had been held at the Naples Beach Hotel and Golf Club. Like the Ritz, the club was located right on the ocean. But it was much closer to town. It consisted of a hotel by the beach—an older wooden structure that was just two stories tall—a pool area, and a bar that overlooked the white sand beach and the smooth Gulf waters beyond. And, on the other side of the first hotel, on the east side, another hotel with a golf course and tennis facility close by.

Christian and Quentin headed down the outdoor stairs from the second floor of the hotel near the beach, one of Quentin’s men in front of them, the other two behind. As they reached the ground level, the bar and the pool were to their left, and in front of them was a wide, beautifully manicured grassy area where the club hosted wedding receptions and parties. The tall palm trees surrounding the area swayed in the light breeze and provided nice shade for the walkway that bordered the grassy area.

Christian looked up through the wide leaves at the clear blue sky and took a deep breath of the fresh sea air. “God, it’s nice down here, Quentin.” He glanced over as they walked. Quentin was checking messages on his cell phone. “Maybe we should move the office,” Christian kidded. “What do you think?”

Quentin held up one finger and stopped walking. “Just a—” He interrupted himself, pressing his palm over the other ear, the one he didn’t have the cell phone up to.

Christian stopped, too, watching Quentin’s face intently. His expression had turned so serious. “What is it, pal?”

Quentin pulled the phone from his ear and stashed it in his pocket. “Remember the day we first met Beth? In Maryland?”

“Of course. Why?”

“You told me there was a state police chopper, right?”

“Yeah,” Christian answered. “Flew right over us. The guy who was chasing Beth and me was aiming his gun at us right by the river. Scared the hell out of the guy, scared him off basically. Back into the woods.”

“You called 911 while you and she were running through the woods, right?”

“Yeah. You told me you did, too. So what?”

Quentin tapped the pocket he’d shoved his cell phone into. “I got a message from a buddy of mine at the Secret Service. He’s got a friend who’s a Maryland state trooper out in Frederick. It’s a town close to where we were that day. The trooper did some digging and found out that the call that got the chopper in the air wasn’t either of the ones we made. It came from someone else a few minutes before we called.”

Christian swallowed hard. “Who made it?”

“He doesn’t know yet, hasn’t been able to trace the number.” Quentin hesitated. “There’s something else.”

Christian was starting to get a bad feeling. That once again he’d been a fool not to follow Quentin’s advice. “I hate to even ask. What?”

“My buddy also asked the state police if there was a tree down on that road that went by Grayson’s Market the day we were there. Remember? That’s why we went back to the store to get a drink, because it was going to be a few minutes before we could get through?”

“I remember.”

“No record of it, and typically the police would have been the ones to get the 911 call about something blocking the road, right? They would have been the ones to dispatch the guys to get the downed tree out of there. And there would have been a trooper on-site directing traffic.”

Christian’s eyes narrowed. “What does all that mean?” he asked, knowing exactly what it meant.

Quentin glanced around, then grabbed Christian’s shoulder and began tugging him toward the parking lot that was across the quiet street that separated the two hotel facilities. “It means that Beth Garrison is a setup,” he said loudly as they jogged. “If that’s even her real name. It means that whole thing at the store was arranged so that you’d meet her in a situation you’d remember, under stressful circumstances so you two would have a bond. It’s classic stuff.” Quentin snapped his fingers and held up, pulling Christian to a sharp stop. “Did Beth give you anything before you left the Ritz today?”

Christian hesitated. “Yeah, an envelope.”

“Where is it? Back at the hotel?”

Christian shook his head and slid the briefcase strap down his shoulder. “It’s in here.”

“Let me see it.”

She’d warned him about letting anyone else see what was inside the envelope. “Quentin, I can’t—”

“Let me see it!”
Quentin roared.

Christian unzipped the briefcase pockets and rooted around for a moment. “Here,” he said, holding the envelope out.

Quentin grabbed it and ripped it open, pulling out a provocative photo of Beth. On the back of the photo was a short note, telling Christian how much she loved him. “Damn it.” He handed the photograph back. “Sorry.” He put his hands on his hips, frustrated. “Let me see your briefcase,” he snapped.

Christian handed it to him. “Here.” He’d never seen Quentin like this.

Quentin grabbed the briefcase and knelt down. Suddenly he pulled out what looked like lipstick. “Something you’re not telling me?”

“What the…?”

Quentin stood and held the small case up, inspecting it. “It’s a damn homing device,” he said, turning it off by depressing the top.

Christian grabbed it and stared at it for a few moments in disbelief. Beth had been faking everything, and he’d bought it all. Unbelievable.

“Come on!” Quentin yelled, pulling Christian along again. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

The five men sprinted toward the parking lot, toward the rental car they’d driven down from the Ritz. Christian hopped into the back, a bodyguard on either side, while Quentin and the other bodyguard clambered into the front.

The last thing Christian remembered was a loud pop and the car suddenly filling with a foul-smelling gas. Then his eyes rolled back and everything went black.

19

VICTORIA GRAHAM
sat in her office, watching the baby boa stalk a small gray mouse she’d picked up at a pet store on her way into Manhattan this morning. The life-and-death struggle fascinated her—it always had. The way it played out every second of every day somewhere in the world. Survival for one—the end for another. And, though it was terrible to admit, she liked having a hand in the outcome. From facilitating the mouse’s death to preventing Christian’s.

Steven Sanchez was a seedy character, but it was far better for Christian to be in his hands than to go to Cuba and be murdered. She knew the men backing Dorsey would kill Christian if he actually made it to Cuba—she’d seen it in Dorsey’s eyes when she’d asked the question: What’s going to happen to Christian? But she’d really known it way before then. When she’d found that file in Dorsey’s desk in the Georgetown house. Back in the fall of last year when she’d been snooping around looking for something to convince her Dorsey was serious about divorcing his wife. Instead she’d stumbled onto a manila folder in a desk drawer with a lot of handwritten notes Dorsey had taken.

They hated Christian for what he’d done to their cronies and them—exposing the nanotech scam and interfering in their plot to derail Jesse Wood’s election. Which had ultimately resulted in the deaths of a couple of their close pals—Samuel Hewitt and Stewart Massey. So they’d decided to use Christian, then kill him. A double score in their eyes. Perfect revenge.

Jesse Wood was president of the United States, but that didn’t mean he controlled what went on at the CIA or the Pentagon, Graham knew. In fact, it was the other way around. The old-boy military machine controlled Wood. They’d been able to manipulate Wood into signing the assassination order for Cuba because he desperately needed their support—and the damage was done. They’d told Wood and his advisers they had to have the assassination order to carry out the Cuba offensive, and Wood’s administration had bought it—apparently. Christian was a chess piece in all of that—and wouldn’t survive the game.

So, through an acquaintance, Graham had arranged for Steven Sanchez to kidnap Christian, then demand a huge ransom—$25 million. Which would, of course, never be paid. Sanchez already had half his money—five hundred grand. He’d get the other half in a couple of weeks. She was expecting the bogus ransom note tonight. There’d be nothing in it related to Cuba, just some babble about the perpetrators being allied with an Iraqi terrorist group. It would have to be viewed by Wood and his administration as just terrible luck. An act of aggression within the United States’ borders that they’d want to keep silent. No one would ever interpret it as in any way related to Cuba—which was all that mattered.

The negotiation with Sanchez would take weeks, and the president would be forced to delay the initiative because, without Christian, he’d have no way to assess the capabilities of the Cuban civilians who were supposed to take over the government after the Communists were ousted. Ultimately, the president would have to choose someone else as his emissary when the phantom negotiations broke down. At that point, when Wood chose another emissary, Christian would be safe. Sanchez would let Christian go a few days later, get the second half of his money, then disappear forever. And the establishment would get Wood.

Christian had saved her career—her life really—by turning down the Ohio insurance company deal. And by standing up for her in her darkest hour. The fact of the matter was that two of her MuPenn board members had uncovered what she was trying to do independent of Christian—
not
because Christian had told them. A senior executive at the target—at the Ohio insurance company—had figured out that Victoria was trying to execute an end run around the state regulators—then called the MuPenn board members and told them. Christian had met with the two board members at their request—without even telling Victoria—and convinced them she was acting on the up-and-up and that the senior executive at the target company had concocted the lies about Victoria because he was worried that if she got the company, he would be fired. Christian had put his reputation on the line for her, and she’d never forget it.

She’d been mad as hell at first when she thought Christian had screwed her. Then promised herself she’d never let him down when she realized the truth. She’d played along with Dorsey these past few months, because what else
could
she do? If he had known where her loyalties truly lay, it would have ruined everything between them. Wouldn’t have done Christian any good, either. Might just have gotten him killed faster.

The easiest thing to do when she’d found out what the establishment boys had in mind for Christian would have been to tell him. The problem was, she still wanted Lloyd Dorsey—despite what he was helping do to Christian. She loved Lloyd and she wanted to be with him. He’d made it clear he was going to leave his wife soon—he’d shown her a draft of a letter he intended to send to Dallas asking for a separation—and she didn’t want to screw up her chance at ultimate happiness. But she couldn’t give Lloyd information on Christian, and she couldn’t tell Christian what was going on because Lloyd might ultimately find out she was the snitch. Then she’d have no chance with him.

What she needed was someone to get close to Christian, and Melissa had been the perfect candidate. She was young and beautiful, in dire need of money, and one great actress. An Oscar winner. Who could be better for the job?

Graham had gone to great lengths to create another life for Melissa. A fake background for Beth Garrison that Quentin Stiles would have a difficult time piercing. It had taken some doing, but she had friends in that small Missouri town and at the University of Nebraska—through the insurance world—and she’d made it happen. Even made certain the woman who had played Beth’s mother had known the background. According to Melissa, Christian had started asking the woman questions at the hospital once, but she’d sidestepped the whole thing beautifully by going into a coughing spell so he hadn’t had the chance to dig into details.

Christian and Melissa’s “chance” meeting in the forest east of Camp David had gone perfectly. The men had chased them to the edge of the Potomac River, then the chopper had come roaring in just in the nick of time. They’d had a harrowing experience together, which was a perfect way to begin a passionate relationship. Christian had been the knight in shining armor, Melissa—Beth to Christian—the damsel in distress. He’d fallen for it so fast, and she’d played it so well. Graham shook her head. Melissa had suggested the whole dying-mother routine herself, even after being bedside when her own mother had died. Amazing. Well, it just went to prove that the Hollywood types were a little off.

It had all fallen into place so neatly, and now it was all actually happening. Graham had gotten word five minutes ago that Sanchez had Gillette in the trunk of his car and was heading back toward Miami from Naples.

AS CHRISTIAN STARTED
to regain consciousness, he figured he was in an oven: It was pitch-black and 150 degrees in here. Loud, too, and it smelled like rubber. There was something soft beside him. It felt like another person. Maybe it was Quentin.

When his mind was clear, he realized he was actually in the trunk of a car. A car going fast, judging from how loud the noise of the wheels was. He moaned loudly when he tried to move. His head was killing him—from whatever gas had exploded in their faces right after they’d shut the doors of the rental car—and the arm he’d been lying on for however long he’d been inside here was asleep. He tried to scratch an itch on his nose, but his hands were tightly tied behind his back.

“Quentin,” he hissed. “Quentin.” No response. He started to call again, then he remembered. The transponder.

Slowly he moved both hands to the right side of his body and was able to slip two fingers into his front pocket. He could feel the intense pressure ratchet up on the ligaments in his left shoulder as he stretched, but he was able to shift slightly in the trunk to give himself more flexibility, to allow his fingers a little more play. Still he couldn’t feel it. Maybe whoever was driving had found it and gotten rid of it. Maybe the person had known it was there because he or she was the one who’d been tracking him—with Beth’s help.

“Damn her,” he muttered, pushing one more time as deeply as he could into his pocket. There it was. His fingers curled around it, and he managed to pull it close to the top of his pocket. But he had to make sure it didn’t fall out. He’d never find it if that happened.

Then he felt the car begin to slow down. He kept trying to pull the top of the transponder up, time after time, so he could engage it, but it was almost impossible to do with just two fingers. It was maddening. Then the car suddenly slowed down, and it rolled him forward. His head hit something sharp—probably the trunk hinge. He almost yelped, but managed to muffle his cry. He nearly had the damn top up, almost to the point where he could flip the tiny switch. Jesus,
come on.
The car screeched to a sharp stop, banging his head against metal again. He shook it off and kept trying. Just a little more.
Just a little more.

Then he heard the car door open.

SANCHEZ HOPPED
out of the car, supremely satisfied with himself. It had been so easy to outwit Gillette’s security team, to break into the rental car. And the canisters of chloroform had worked perfectly. Five unconscious men seconds after he’d set off the tiny charges remotely. He’d hauled Gillette across the passed-out bodyguard and out of the backseat, thrown him into the trunk of his car beside Mari’s body, and tied his hands behind his back. Then calmly driven out of Naples and back to Alligator Alley. Now it was time to get rid of Mari’s body.

He’d pulled off into a deserted, trash-strewn rest area. There were no amenities here, it was just a place to stop if you were tired. But it was bordered on one side by something important to him: a canal.

Sanchez glanced around, making certain no cars were coming. He popped the trunk—glad to see that Gillette was still passed out—picked up the heavy cinder block with the rope attached, and lugged it to the fence by the side of the canal. Then he jogged back to the trunk, picked up the woman’s body, laid her down next to the cinder block, and tied it around her waist. Giving a grunt, he hoisted the block over the waist-high fence and let it land with a thud. He did the same with the body, then reached down and gave the block a strong push. The block rolled and, after an odd moment of stillness, the body followed it over the bank and into the water. She disappeared beneath the surface. A couple of days with the gators and there’d be no trace of her, not even bones. Problem solved.

Now it was time to send the communication to Victoria Graham that would blow her mind.

MELISSA HART
trotted through the impressive lobby of the Naples Ritz Carlton, past a huge arrangement of fresh flowers, and out the front door into the warm Florida sunshine. She just wanted to get out of here as fast as possible. She’d even left her bag up in the room. There was no need for it anymore. Besides, she didn’t want to keep anything that reminded her of Beth Garrison.

An attractive young man dressed in blue shorts, a beige golf shirt, and tennis shoes smiled at her. “Can I help you?” he asked. “Do you have a car with us?”

She shook her head. “I need a cab.”

“Where you going?”

“The airport in Fort Myers.” The Fort Myers airport was the big, regional airport—about thirty miles north of here. The Naples airport was more for general aviation and corporate jets. She hadn’t even decided where she was going yet, but she already couldn’t wait to get there. “Quickly.
Please.
”

“Sure.”

She watched the young man jog out from under the porte cochere and down the driveway, waving toward a small parking lot at the bottom of the gently sloping hill. A minute later a cab pulled to a quick stop in front of her. “Thank you,” she said, handing the young man two ones. She could tell he wasn’t happy about how small the tip was, but too bad. He was lucky to be getting anything at all. She’d never see him again. “Fort Myers airport,” she said to the driver.

“Got it.”

At the bottom of the hill that led down from the hotel, the driver turned right.

Melissa had been checking in her purse to see how much cash she had, happy to have made it out of the Ritz. At this point, Christian, Quentin, and the bodyguards had probably been incapacitated—that was the plan. But she’d been worried that somehow it wasn’t going to be that easy. Quentin had been suspicious of her—that was obvious—and he was careful. She didn’t know much about him, but she knew that.

“Excuse me,” she said, looking up. “Aren’t you going the wrong way?”

“Wrong way?” the driver asked. “What do you mean?”

“When we came into the hotel this morning, we came from that direction,” she explained, pointing back over her shoulder. “From Vanderbilt.” He was slowing down behind a black sedan parked by the side of the road. “
Hey,
what are you—”