The Successor (4 page)

“So that was your cow?” Delgado asked Cruz.

Delgado’s voice was so sharp, Padilla thought to himself, it seemed to slice through the air like a rapier. A gravelly, penetrating tone that made you forget about everything else you were thinking of and pay attention solely to him. That had been Padilla’s first impression of Delgado at their initial meeting, and it had stuck with him ever since. Haunted him, really. Gave him goose bumps because he realized that if the long-term plan succeeded, he would be hearing that voice a great deal more in the future.

“Yes, sir,” Cruz answered respectfully. “A cow from the ranch I
run,
” he added carefully, aware that he had spoken too casually, implying that he actually owned the cow and therefore the ranch. No one owned anything here, and to even imply that you did could get you in deep trouble.

Padilla gazed at Delgado in the glare of the headlights. Tall, broad-shouldered, and fit, the general was an intimidating presence. Charismatic because of his handsome appearance, the way he carried himself, and his voice. A man you naturally wanted to emulate. Larger than life, like a movie star. The general was fifty-two, but looked ten years younger. He had an air of quiet confidence about him and would have been in charge of any situation, rank or no rank.

“The ranch you operate is right up the road?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You have hands on the ranch?”

“Yes, sir. A lot of my family, but we also use ten men from the village. And their wives sometimes.”

Delgado glanced at the dead cow. “I want you to slaughter this animal and use it for food. It shouldn’t be wasted.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll cart it up to the ranch right—”

“Wait a minute!”

Everyone’s eyes shot toward the voice. It had come from the man Padilla had noticed a few moments ago stealing toward the scene from the direction of Cruz’s ranch. He was scrawny and wore a cowboy hat that seemed much too big for his head.

“I have information you’ll want to hear,” the scrawny man volunteered.

Padilla snuck a glance at Cruz, who seemed suddenly uncomfortable, tugging at his shirt collar and dabbing at his wide forehead with a blue bandanna. He was sweating profusely.

“Who are you?” Delgado asked, removing a cigar from his shirt pocket, biting off the tip, spitting it into the brush, then slipping the bitten end into his mouth.

“Hector Rodriguez. I run the next farm down,” he explained, waving with his left hand.

“Hector, what are you—”

“I’ll ask the questions,” Delgado interrupted, silencing Cruz. He lit the cigar and took several puffs. “What information do you have, Mr. Rodriguez?”

Padilla saw the hint of a satisfied smile crawl across Rodriguez’s face, as if something he’d been plotting for a long time was finally coming to fruition.

“I witnessed this man lead the cow into the middle of the road,” Rodriguez explained, pointing at Cruz. “He did it on purpose, then hid in the bushes. He wanted the cow to get hit so he could have its meat.”

“No, no, I would never—”

“Quiet,” Delgado ordered.

Cruz was breathing heavily, obviously aware of the penalties he suddenly faced. Obviously guilty of Rodriguez’s charge. After all, Padilla realized, how could he have reached the Chrysler so quickly—just moments after the accident—if the cow had gotten loose on its own? Presumably Cruz wouldn’t have known about the missing animal until morning.

Delgado moved to where Cruz stood, towering over the dairy rancher. “Is this true?”

Cruz swallowed hard several times and shifted from foot to foot, then jammed his hands into his pants pockets. “Yes, General, but I just needed food for my—”

“Lieutenant,” the general interrupted.

“Yes, sir.”

“Take Mr. Cruz into custody. Take him back to the house and wait for me there. Do not let him out of your sight until I get back.”

“Yes, sir.”

The general pointed at the little rancher wearing the big cowboy hat. “You, come with me.” Then he glanced at Padilla. “You’ll wait at the Cruz farm for me to come back, too.”

Padilla was amazed. He hadn’t caught the general glancing at him once during the entire exchange until just this moment. Now he understood that Delgado had been aware of who he was the entire time. He’d seen that flash of recognition in the general’s eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“Let’s go, Mr. Rodriguez,” Delgado ordered.

Padilla watched Rodriguez follow after the general like a puppy after its mother, then glanced at Cruz again. He looked like a man condemned as the young lieutenant snapped handcuffs on his wrists and led him toward the first jeep. Problem was, that could well be the case. Cruz might well be condemned to death for what he’d done. Or spend years in Quivican—which would be worse than death.

LUCK HAD BEEN
with Steven Sanchez tonight. The obnoxious, whining young man from New York he’d been forced to sit next to on the plane to Miami hadn’t had a limo waiting for him after all—as Sanchez had feared. He’d been forced to hail a cab like every other bloke—giving Sanchez a chance to stay with him. Taking a cab maybe meant the kid wasn’t as wealthy as he’d bragged about—but that didn’t matter. Being wealthy had nothing to do with anything at this point.

“You just want me to stay with this guy?”

“That’s right,” Sanchez said to his driver, digging into his bag for the photograph of Christian Gillette. He’d snagged the cab right after the young man had gotten his. “Don’t lose him, stay right on his ass.”

“Do you mind if I ask what we’re doing?”

“I don’t mind at all,” Sanchez snapped, “but I’m not going to give you an answer. Not unless you’re willing to trade it for your fare.”

“No,” the cabbie answered quickly. “I’m not.”

“Then drive.”

“Yes, sir.”

Sanchez gazed down into his lap at the photograph. Gillette was a handsome man in his early forties who was reportedly worth billions. Now that was
real
money. He chuckled to himself. But even with all that money Gillette could never truly be safe. Not with men like me in the world, Sanchez thought proudly. He could get to anyone given enough time. Even the president.

He smiled as he watched the cab turn into a neighborhood ahead. Once they’d found the man’s house, he’d direct the driver toward the poor side of town. He needed to rent that house.

4

GENERAL DELGADO
drove the jeep himself, sending the lieutenant who acted as his driver along with the other two officers up to the Cruz farm in the first jeep to wait for him. When the little cowboy had hopped into the passenger side, Delgado turned the jeep around and headed back down the road the way he’d come. Roaring ahead through the darkness once he’d made it out of the S-turn.

“Thank you for your loyalty tonight, Mr. Rodriguez,” Delgado spoke up after a few minutes of silence. He was convinced Rodriguez wasn’t a member of Department-VI, the army’s counterintelligence unit. Convinced the scrawny rancher with the big hat was simply guilty of making a selfish play tonight. “The Party appreciates what you’ve done, comrade.”

“Yes, thank you, General. I’m very loyal.” Rodriguez hesitated. “If the Party sees fit, I would be happy to take over the Cruz operation. Mr. Cruz is not loyal like me. He underreports his output, and he probably has double the number of cows on the farm as he claims. I would never do that.”

Definitely not D-VI, Delgado thought to himself. If Rodriguez had been D-VI, he would have said something else. And the little bastard was probably selling at least as much milk as Cruz on the black market and probably had twice the number of cows he claimed to have as well. But Rodriguez had seen an opportunity and seized it. “I understand. I’m sure you wouldn’t.” Delgado guided the jeep to the side of the road just in front of a small bridge that spanned a narrow creek.

“What are we doing?” Rodriguez asked, peering around as the jeep came to a jerky halt.

“I want to ask you about a piece of property I’ve been looking at for a few weeks,” Delgado explained. It wasn’t uncommon for senior Party members—especially senior FAR officers—to receive land as additional compensation. It wasn’t actually deeded to them—it couldn’t be since only the state could own land in Cuba—but they could do whatever they wanted with it. “It’s up on a hillside overlooking this stream. I figure you know the land around here pretty well.”

“
Very
well,” Rodriguez bragged, jumping out of the jeep.

Delgado eased out, too, and strode around to the passenger side, making certain he’d been right about the terrain here. “It’s that way,” he said, pointing up from behind the little man with his left hand.

Rodriguez squinted, trying to follow Delgado’s finger. It was late but there was a full moon, so he could make out the dark shapes of hills in the distance. “Where?”

Delgado pulled his pistol from his belt with his right hand, aimed it at the back of Rodriguez’s head, and fired. The cowboy hat flew off as the little man tumbled limply down the ravine to the creek.

Delgado took a deep breath and slid the pistol back into his belt. He hated snitches, even ones who were just doing it for selfish reasons. Not as much as the D-VI people, but almost. This way of life—neighbors spying on neighbors—had to end if Cuba was ever going to be a place where people really wanted to live. He glanced down the ravine to see if he could spot the body—he couldn’t—then turned and headed back toward the driver’s side.

When he got back to the Cruz farm, he would order the three lieutenants out to the jeeps, then inform Mr. Cruz that Mr. Rodriguez had suffered a terrible accident and would no longer be able to manage his farm. That Mr. Cruz would now manage the Rodriguez farm, too. It was a small battle he’d won tonight—not even a skirmish, really—but you had to start somewhere. He’d learned that during his years as a military officer. You couldn’t take Rome in a day. Or Havana.

Delgado slowed down as he neared the accident scene, easing to a stop when he spotted the dead cow lying beside the road, barely visible in the deep grass and brush. He jumped out of the jeep and hurried to the animal, kneeling down beside its head and pulling out a knife. Then he cut away the small metal tag that had hung by a leather strap from the animal’s neck for many years, checking the state-issued serial number etched into it before slipping it into his pocket. This would be the sign.

MELISSA HART
sat on the young man’s lap—the seat filler she’d made eyes at before she’d won her Oscar. He was cute and nice and they’d hooked up at a party in Beverly Hills after she’d left Elaine’s. She hadn’t returned to her seat once she’d shocked everyone in the Kodak Theatre, so she’d sent him a message via another seat filler before taking off in the limo to meet her four friends. Now it was after nine thirty and the Oscars had just ended. She’d been up since early this morning, so nervous about what she was going to do, but she wasn’t tired at all, just exhilarated. She couldn’t remember how many glasses of champagne she’d drunk, but the hell with it, this was her night. Victory
and
retribution all at once.

God, she felt good. She’d won the Oscar and she’d gotten back at him—in front of the whole world. Now everyone knew what a real shit her father was. Maybe it would break his grip on Hollywood. Maybe people wouldn’t be so damn afraid of him anymore now that the press really had something to dig their teeth into about him. There was more, too, more where that had come from—not just what he’d done to her mother. She intended to tell the press what that was.

As Melissa turned back toward the young man, someone tapped her on the shoulder. She looked up. It was Bo Martin, one of Hollywood’s biggest directors and not a big fan of her father’s, though Bo kissed the ring when he had to, she knew. “Hi, Bo.” She’d been looking forward to his congratulations.

“Hello, Melissa.” Martin smiled grimly. “Quite a performance tonight. Maybe even better than the one you got the Oscar for.”

“Thanks.”

Martin glanced around uncomfortably.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Right, look, here’s the thing. I need you to send that script back to me. The one I overnighted you last week.”

Melissa sat up, suddenly aware of how much she’d had to drink. Her head was spinning and she grabbed the young man’s leg to steady herself. “
What?
Why?” She loved that script, mostly because she was going to be the star. No more supporting actress with a quarter of the screen time.

“You know why, Melissa. You don’t embarrass the king in front of his court like that on national television and expect life to go on normally, even if you are his daughter.” Martin turned to go, then stopped and glanced back at the seat filler. “Son, if you ever want to work in Hollywood, you better get your ass as far away from this young woman as possible.
Right now.
”

“HERE YOU ARE, VICTORIA.
”

Victoria Graham took the Scotch and water from Lloyd Dorsey as he sat down beside her on the couch. Close to her, so their thighs were almost touching. Closer than friends would. “Thank you.”

They were relaxing in the second-floor living room of his impressive four-story Georgetown home just a few miles from the Capitol. Beautifully decorated with lovely antiques and expensive artwork, it was really his home away from home. He was a senator from Texas—the Republican minority leader and the most senior member of the Armed Services Committee.

“You look beautiful.”

Graham smiled. “You’re full of compliments tonight, aren’t you, Lloyd?” He was gentle, kind, magnetic, and so handsome. The man she’d wanted for so long—ever since college. She gazed at him a little longer, then looked away and shut her eyes tightly. He was so perfect—and
so
married. “I do all right for fifty-seven.”

“
All right?
You’re incredible. You were the best-looking woman there tonight. By far.”

“What did you think of President Wood’s speech after dessert?” she asked, trying to change the subject. She loved Dorsey’s compliments—and hated them. Loved them because they made her feel so good. Hated them because she heard them so infrequently. “I thought it was pretty interesting.”

They’d been at a state dinner all evening honoring the new president of Brazil. Graham had come down from New York City this afternoon after Dorsey had called yesterday to invite her. Dorsey’s wife was back in Dallas—where she was more and more these days after spending many years in Washington with him—but he’d still gotten an extra chair at his table. They’d arrived at the White House separately and done their best to make it look innocent all evening while they sat next to each other. Touching fingers beneath the table, never so anyone could see. Dancing with other people when the orchestra struck up its first tune and making certain they carried on long conversations with the other ten people at the large, round table. They’d even left separately. But now they were here alone, they didn’t have to put on appearances anymore.

“Ah, I can’t stand the guy,” Dorsey muttered. “You know that. Spewing all that liberal crap all the time.” He shrugged. “Of course, what can you expect from the first black president in the history of the United States? I mean, he doesn’t have much choice about how to act. He’s got to cater to his constituency.” Dorsey’s expression turned determined. “But we’ll get him next time around.
I’ll
get him next time around. There won’t be any second term for Jesse Wood.”

“You sound pretty confident.”

“I am.”

“But his approval rating is so high.”

“Won’t be for long.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

She took a sip of the single-malt Scotch. It was smooth, smooth enough to cloud her vision—and her judgment. “I don’t know, Lloyd. I heard a lot of support for the military in the president’s words tonight. That isn’t usually what a liberal would—”

“He knows they hate him. The whole national security team does. The military, the CIA, the NSA, everybody. He’s desperate to get in their good graces, but it won’t happen. They’ll never be in his camp. They’ll make him
think
they are, but they won’t ever really be. They’re establishment,
we’re
establishment. He’s the enemy.”

“But I thought—”

“I love you, Vicky,” Dorsey said softly, interrupting her again as he took her hand. “I always have.”

She stared into his eyes for a few moments, then looked away again, pulling her hand from his. She couldn’t bear it. He was going to ask her to stay the night with him, she knew that was coming next. It had played out exactly the same way last time she’d come to Washington, right here on this same couch. The same way it did every time. It was so predictable, but she couldn’t resist him. She hadn’t said it back yet, but she loved him, too.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

“You do?”

“Of course. You think I’ll never leave my wife.” He wrapped his fingers around hers again. “You think I’m just giving you lip service. Well, I’m not,” he continued before she could say anything. “I’m going to make it happen.”

She wanted that so badly.
God,
she wanted it. And she’d do anything to get it—almost.

“Let me ask you a question,” Dorsey said, picking up his bourbon and water off the coffee table. He’d been forced to make a separate trip to the bar in the next room for each of their drinks because he walked with a cane. “What do you think of Christian Gillette?”

She didn’t have to think about her answer for long. “He’s one of the most capable men I’ve ever known. All the hype about him isn’t really hype. He’s that good.” She’d been expecting that question from Dorsey for a while. “I have a lot of respect for him.”

“But I thought he screwed you a couple of years ago. On that Ohio deal. Almost cratered your career with your board of directors, right?”

Her eyes narrowed and she bit her lip. “Maybe.”

“Then how come you like him so much?”

Her expression soured. “I didn’t say I
liked
him, I said I
respected
him. There’s a difference. A
big
difference.”

Dorsey nodded. “Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh?” She gazed at him over the rim of the glass poised beneath her lips. “Why?”

He took another sip of his Jack Daniel’s. “Because I want your help with something. Something very important. Something that involves Gillette.”

CHRISTIAN TAPPED
the table as he waited for the other person to come on the line. Typically, he didn’t put up with this. Didn’t take a call from someone’s secretary, then wait around while the other person took his time coming to the phone. He didn’t do that to others, didn’t like it done to him. But this was different.

“Hello.”

Christian sat up in the chair. “Hello.”

“Chris, is that you?”

Christian hesitated. “Yes, it is, Mr. President.”

“Well, how the hell are you?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Glad to hear it.” There was a short pause. “I need an answer about that thing we talked about last week, Chris. Sorry to be so direct, but I’ve got the president of Brazil waiting on me downstairs. First time tonight we’ve had a chance to talk privately.” There was another brief silence. “So, you going to help me out?”