The Successor Read online

  The problem was that the FAR might have found the van before they’d gotten to Cruz’s driveway, Padilla realized. They might have found it, then left several soldiers here to wait for members of the Secret Six to show up. They might be hiding in the bushes at the edge of the clearing, just as he and the deputy minister were. Fear gripped Padilla. They might be equipped with night-vision capability, might be watching the two of them right now.

  Padilla gritted his teeth. The attorney from the Ministry of Justice. Bastard. It had to be him, he had to be the spy. Padilla had always suspected the man, and now he replayed those first few moments of chaos back to himself. He remembered glancing over at the attorney right after Cruz had burst into the room and shouted about the lights at the end of the driveway. The man hadn’t seemed that flustered—not the way the rest of them had been. He’d raced out of the meeting, too, but he’d been the last one out the door.

  “Dr. Padilla, what are we going to—”

  “Shut up!” Padilla hissed. “What are you doing saying my name?”

  “Sorry, sorry, but I—”

  Padilla stood up and pressed his hand hard over the other man’s mouth. “Shut up.” The deputy minister nodded and Padilla slid his hand away from the man’s face. The deputy minister was sweating, too, and Padilla wiped the perspiration off his fingers onto his pants, feeling the van’s keys in his front pocket as he did. He’d driven. It was a hospital van. “Maybe we should—”

  Then Padilla noticed two dark figures break into the clearing. He squinted, trying to make out who they were.

  FROM INSIDE the foyer of the walk-up, Melissa watched Christian pull away from the curb in his limousine. Every day she was hating Beth Garrison more and more—because every day Melissa Hart was falling more and more in love with him.

  The magazines were right about his business acumen, at least from what she could tell. He was brilliant; she knew that even though she didn’t understand much about business. He knew so much about so many things, but she loved the way he never made her feel stupid, didn’t try to intimidate her when she didn’t understand. Just took the time to explain to her what he was saying when she didn’t get it, just let her find him attractive at her own speed. And the more he explained, the more she was intrigued by what he did, by the immense power he wielded. And, understanding him as she did now, she knew he wasn’t telling her half of how much he influenced. Partly, because he probably couldn’t. More important, because he didn’t want her to think he was impressed with himself.

  She’d always adored that in a man—not needing others to be impressed with him. Maybe because for years she’d witnessed her father’s desperation. Even from an early age she’d realized how incredibly insecure he seemed and how silly that was because he didn’t need to be. He was already one of the most important men in Hollywood by the time she was ten years old.

  The magazines were right about Christian’s ability as a businessman, but they were wrong about his coldness. He definitely wasn’t a man who opened up easily—so maybe the reporters were justified in what they’d written about him—but he was a warm and genuine man when he did. A man who couldn’t do enough for his friends, Wayne had told her as they’d waited in the limousine outside the restaurant for Christian to come out. A man who was color-blind when it came to race, who made certain that women got every opportunity they could. And it wasn’t as if he hoarded all that money he made like some kind of Scrooge, either. Quite the opposite. He gave to charities frequently and generously.

  She grimaced and looked down at the tiny tiles of the foyer. The man was so busy, but he was going to come all the way to Baltimore to see her sick mother—a woman Melissa had never met. A woman the people behind all this were paying a lot of money to for her cooperation. Melissa bit her lip. Christian was going out of his way to make time for her, and she was screwing him. And getting paid to do it.

  “You ass,” she hissed at herself, moving back out through the first door and down the steps. “You total ass.” All of a sudden she hated herself.

  Hated herself because she was allowing herself to be played, to be tempted by money. Just as she’d thought about turning her back on it all and losing herself in some small town in the Midwest, they’d come to her with a bigger, better offer. It was as if they could read her mind. Now she was making real money again. Not what she’d make as an Oscar-winning actress, but not too bad, either. And they were still promising her a huge bonus when it was over. They hadn’t been specific, but “seven figures” were mentioned.

  She’d been thinking of losing herself in that small Midwestern town with no idea what she would do to earn a living. And she’d found out that not knowing how you were going to support yourself, not knowing where your next meal would come from, was scary. Something she’d never experienced. So she’d sold out again, agreeing to this charade, agreeing to the money.

  “I hate you,” she muttered to herself as she moved slowly along the sidewalk toward Third Avenue.

  They hadn’t told her what this was all about, why they were so damn interested in Christian Gillette. Just that she was to get as close as possible to him and stay as close as possible to him so they could track his every move. They hadn’t told her what was going to happen to Christian in the end, either. Whatever it was, she knew it couldn’t be good.

  PADILLA PEERED through the darkness from behind the palm tree, with the deputy minister of agriculture breathing down his neck. He was trying to determine who was standing by the van. In the back of his mind he was still thinking about the Communists who’d torture him, then cut him up into little pieces, if they found out what he was doing. Then one of the men by the van coughed and swore and instantly Padilla recognized the voice. As Padilla stepped out from behind the tree and into the clearing, the deputy minister tried to grab him, tried to hold him back.

  “What are you doing?” the deputy minister demanded under his breath. “Come back here.”

  Too late. The figure by the van had already spotted the movement through the gloom and smoothly drawn a pistol.

  “Hands up!” he shouted.

  “Mr. Cruz!”

  The figure froze. “Amigo?”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Oh, Jesus.” Cruz shoved the nose of the pistol back down into the holster he was wearing on his leg. “I almost shot you.”

  They shook hands, more out of relief than anything. “It’s okay,” Padilla said soothingly. He could tell that tonight had been almost more than the gentle rancher could handle. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Cruz shook his head. “It was nothing, all my fault. The car at the end of the driveway was an old man’s. He had a flat tire. I helped him put on the spare, then got him going again. I’m sorry I caused you all so much panic.”

  Padilla waved. “It’s okay, it’s what we asked you to do. Don’t worry about it. Do you know where the others are?”

  “Everyone else is back up at the house.” Cruz glanced past Padilla as the deputy minister moved toward them. “They are all fine.”

  “Good, good.”

  The deputy minister put a hand on Padilla’s shoulder. “Well, Doctor, you gave me quite a scare.”

  Cruz’s eyes flashed to Padilla’s. “You are a doctor?” he asked quietly.

  Padilla hesitated. “Yes.”

  Cruz leaned close to Padilla and whispered, “My son’s boy is sick, he has a fever. My grandson, it’s the little one. He’s just four. Would you mind seeing him for a few moments?”

  Padilla’s eyes narrowed. A slip of the tongue by the deputy minister that could cost him his life. “I’m happy to take a look at him.”

  “CHRIS? ”

  Christian glanced up quickly from his computer screen at the sound of a soft knock on the open door, startled. It was after one in the morning, and he’d thought he was the only one still left here at Everest. He’d called Wayne on his cell to send him and the driver home. Wayne had sent the driver home but was still waiting downstairs in the lo
bby. Quentin was clearly worried about something.

  “Ally! Jesus.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

  “What are you doing here?” He motioned for Allison to come into the office.

  “Just taking care of a few things,” she answered, sitting down in front of him. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  Still, she seemed tired. Distracted, too. He’d been in the office plenty of times with her at one in the morning over the past few years and she was usually more upbeat. Joking, telling a story, something.

  “What are you working on?” she asked.

  He grinned and reached for the printer on a small table beside his desk. “Something I think you’ll be excited about.”

  She gave him a curious look.

  “Here.” He handed her a copy of the memo he’d been drafting. “That’ll go out later today to every employee and all of our investors.”

  Allison’s eyes widened as she read the three paragraphs. “I can’t believe it,” she said, her voice growing stronger. “You’re really going to make me vice chairman?”

  “It’s official. The documents are already drawn up. I just have to sign them in the morning. So do you.”

  “Thank you. I…I don’t know what to say. I really appreciate your faith in me.”

  “Well, I needed a little push from Victoria Graham, but that’s all right. I need a push sometimes. You know that.” He gestured at the memo shaking slightly in her hand. “You’ll be number two around here from now on. With this promotion I’m going to ask you to take over a lot of the admin stuff. Which won’t be a lot of fun.” He chuckled. “Maybe you want to reconsider.”

  She shook her head. “No. I want to help you with that. It’s nuts and bolts and not very exciting, but you need a break from it, Chris. Everyone thinks so. And I’m more than happy to do it. I’ll take care of it, I promise.”

  “And I didn’t even have to give you a raise.”

  “Of course not. You know I’ll do it—”

  “But I am giving you a raise,” he interrupted. “A hundred thousand bucks a year. You deserve it, you’ve done a great job. Of course, after the Laurel Energy payout, a hundred grand won’t mean much to you.”

  “It means plenty. And it’s got nothing to do with the amount.” Allison gazed at him for a few moments. “You’re amazing.”

  “Nah. This should have happened a while ago. I shouldn’t have taken so long.” He laughed loudly. “Maybe it was just that I didn’t want to draft the memo. You know how much I hate doing that stuff.”

  “Some of the managing partners might not feel very good about this,” she said, holding up the piece of paper.

  He waved, as if she shouldn’t be worried about that at all. “It’s okay. I talked to all of them except Jim Marshall, and they’re fine with it.” He snapped his fingers. That was another memo he needed to draft. The one letting everyone know Marshall wouldn’t be around for a while.

  “What?”

  Christian hesitated. He wanted to find out if Allison already knew about Jim Marshall’s being on paid leave—he hadn’t told anyone else yet—but he was too tired. “The reason Marshall hasn’t been around for a few days is that—”

  “You put him on paid leave,” Allison interrupted. “I know.”

  “You do?”

  “Uh-huh. I had a drink with him. He told me. He’s pissed.” She put the memo down on the front of Christian’s desk. “But now that I’ve had a chance to think about it, I probably would have done the same thing you did. I hate to admit it, but you were right. You can’t have a guy like that around here. He needs help.”

  Christian couldn’t help but wonder if she really thought that or she was just saying it because she’d just been promoted. If in the euphoria of becoming the number two person at the largest private-equity firm in the world, she was saying what she thought he wanted to hear. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment. He hated always wondering about people’s motives. Maybe he needed more than just a break from the admin stuff around here, maybe he needed to get away completely for a while. After he was finished helping President Wood in Cuba, he’d take a vacation—a long one. The question was—with whom?

  “I’m sure he is pissed, but, hey, I could have fired him.”

  “He knows that. He knows he owes you big-time. Deep down he’s really just mad at himself.” She waited for a few moments. “How was Quentin about it, about you making me vice chairman?”

  “He thought it was a good decision. Told me he thought you were the best person for the job. Quentin likes you a lot.”

  “I wish you still did,” she whispered.

  “What?”

  Allison looked away for a few seconds. “I miss you,” she murmured. “So much.”

  He felt bad, he hadn’t told her anything about Beth. “Look, I know we haven’t had much chance to see each other lately, but—”

  “I don’t mean that,” she broke in, standing up. “It just seems like we’re not on the same page like we used to be. We used to be so close, and I don’t feel like we are anymore.”

  He stood up, too, as she came around the side of his desk.

  She didn’t ask, she simply moved right up to him, put her arms around him, and pressed her body to his.

  She was small like Beth. A little taller, but delicate in the same way. And her long blond hair smelled like a spring afternoon, fresh like the air that had rushed over and around him in the car on the way back to Washington from Camp David.

  What was wrong with him? He had everything he wanted right here, but he wasn’t pushing it, wasn’t closing the deal. Maybe down deep he realized that once he committed to her, it was over: other women, doing anything he wanted whenever he wanted. Maybe he was afraid of that much commitment in his personal life. He’d been on his own so long maybe he wouldn’t really know how to take care of someone else the way Allison wanted to be taken care of—ought to be taken care of.

  She looked up at him. “What is it with you?”

  Crazy. She could read his mind. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your body language is all wrong. It’s like I’m hugging a tree for God’s sake.”

  “Um…well, I don’t—”

  “Is there someone else?” she demanded, stepping back from their embrace, her eyes flashing. “Is there?”

  “What? I thought we said we’d tell each other if we ever—”

  “Stop it!” She held her hands out toward him, then slowly let them fall to her sides. “You know what? I can’t take this anymore, Chris. Wondering what’s going on with us, what you’re doing behind my back. Well, you’ve got your wish,” she snapped, cutting him off again as he was about to say something. “We’re business partners from now on and that’s it. I’ll be the best damn business partner you’ve ever had, and I won’t try to start anything between us again.” She turned and stalked to the door. “Have a nice night,” she called over her shoulder, “partner.”

  This time he didn’t try to stop her from walking out the door. It wouldn’t have been fair. She was absolutely accurate about everything she’d said. The whole time Allison had been holding him he’d been thinking about how maybe there was someone else out there for him. Maybe even someone younger. Not Beth specifically, but someone like her.

  He moaned as he collapsed into the leather chair, let his head fall back, closed his eyes, and ran his hands through his hair. He’d always thought men who’d talked about going through a “midlife” crisis were just weak. Men who hadn’t measured up to the success they or others had expected. He’d always promised himself he wouldn’t fall victim to it. So what was he supposed to call this?

  PADILLA FOLLOWED Gustavo Cruz up the narrow staircase of the main house. The other five members of the Secret Six were waiting for him outside, ready to scatter into the jungle again if there was another alarm. All of them were fidgety, glancing around constantly. All of them except the attorney, Padilla thought.

  They all looked exhauste
d, too, as if they’d just finished a marathon—and for all intents and purposes they had. But the attorney hadn’t looked that way at all when Padilla had finally caught up with him again outside the house’s main entrance, after traipsing all the way back down the lane and up the driveway. The attorney had been sweating a little, but not like the rest of them. And he was the oldest of the group by at least ten years. He should have been ready to collapse.

  At the top of the stairs, Cruz turned left down a hallway, then left again into a room with two bunk beds each stacked three mattresses high. On the bottom bunk of the bed nearest the door sat a young boy.

  “This is Ruby,” Cruz said, closing the door after Padilla.

  Padilla moved to where the four-year-old boy sat and knelt in front of him. He enjoyed treating kids because he hated seeing them sick or hurt. He was a devoted Catholic, never missed a Sunday service no matter where he was in the world, but he’d never been able to resolve the conflict of seeing small children in pain, particularly the cancer victims slowly losing their awful battles. Not really understanding what was going on—which was probably better. Cheerful and loving—never bitter—right to the end.

  He’d asked many priests to explain it to him: why a child should suffer so terribly. But none of the men in robes had ever been able to give him a satisfactory answer. One that put his mind at ease and allowed him to accept that there was truly a purpose to the agony borne by such innocent human beings. It was the only conflict that gave him even the slightest doubt about his faith, the only thing that even came close to making him question the existence of the Holy Trinity. Though he’d never admitted this doubt to anyone—which of course he knew was incredibly irrational. It didn’t matter what others thought—only what God knew. And God knew if his faith was solid whether Padilla said anything to anyone else or not.

  “Hello, Ruby,” Padilla began in a friendly voice, making certain as he always did when he spoke to children not to talk to the boy in some silly, high-pitched voice. Even more aware of treating him respectfully because he had the serious, piercing expression of an adult beneath his dark brows.