The Successor Page 22

  “Hello,” the boy answered quietly.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine.”

  Padilla pressed the back of his hand against the boy’s forehead. It was cool. He glanced back over his shoulder at Cruz. “This boy’s temperature is normal.” Padilla pressed his fingers to the sides of the boy’s neck, checking for inflammation of the glands, but they seemed normal, too. “Gustavo, he doesn’t—”

  “The boy must have made a miraculous recovery, Doctor.”

  Padilla gazed at Cruz for a few moments, then stood up, aware of his bones creaking. He was worn out after his run through the trees. Physically and mentally. He just wanted to get home and get to bed so he could escape the pressure for a few hours. Hopefully, there would be no nightmares tonight as there had been the last two. “What’s going on, Gustavo?”

  “I wanted to get you alone for a few minutes,” Cruz admitted.

  Padilla could hear an edge creep into Cruz’s voice. “Why?”

  “I need to talk to you about one of the men in your group.”

  Padilla’s antennae shot up instantly. “Which one?”

  Cruz motioned for Ruby to leave. The little boy darted to the door and disappeared, shutting it behind himself without having to be told.

  “The older one,” Cruz explained when Ruby was gone.

  The attorney. “What about him?”

  “He was going through my file cabinets.” Cruz nodded toward the window, toward the barn. “Through the files I keep on my cows.”

  Padilla’s eyes narrowed. “How do you know?”

  “I saw him through the little window in that room. He was the first one in there, he was by himself. I was outside with the rest of you. I saw him, I know I did.” Cruz took off his TEAM CUBA baseball cap. Then put it back on, then took it off again. He repeated this several times, smoothing what was left of his hair each time he took the cap off.

  A nervous habit, Padilla recognized.

  “You know about those files, right?” Cruz asked hesitantly when he had put the cap back on for good.

  Padilla nodded slowly. Cruz was making certain that Padilla knew they were falsified, that Padilla knew Cruz could get into a lot of trouble. “I do. The general told me everything.” Padilla put his hand on Cruz’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.” He was careful to say me. Suddenly he didn’t know if he could say us anymore.

  “JUST A SECOND, just a second,” Marshall said loudly, coming out of the bedroom of his apartment, still shaking out the cobwebs as he pulled the robe together and tied it off around his waist. She’d called from several blocks away a little while ago, and she was already here. He’d figured it would have been at least another five minutes. He checked his watch as he reached the door: It was four thirty in the morning.

  He pressed a tired eye to the peephole just to make sure. She was there—her back to him—but he recognized the long blond hair. He was tired, all right, but never too tired for this. He was kind of surprised she’d called. He’d left her there in the hotel passed out, not bothering to wake her up when he’d left to go to his apartment to get the spare key to the Everest lobby. Hadn’t even bothered to leave her a note. But maybe he really was as good as she’d said over and over that night. Maybe she wasn’t kidding, couldn’t resist him. And damn, she’d sounded hot to trot on the phone. This was going to be fun, an unexpected pleasure. And it wasn’t as if he had to get up for anything in the morning now that he’d been put on leave by that bastard Gillette.

  “Come in,” Marshall said smoothly, opening the door. “Guess you just can’t get enough of my—” He gasped and stepped back as the man strode into the living room, gun leveled at his chest. “What’s the—What’s going on here?”

  The man pulled the blond wig from his head and tossed it on a chair as three more men followed him inside. “Weren’t going to tell us you’d been fired, huh?” The last man closed and locked the door.

  “I wasn’t fired,” Marshall shot back, hearing fear in his voice, hoping they didn’t. “What do you want?”

  “This isn’t going to end well for you, Mr. Marshall,” the man said calmly, not answering Marshall’s question. “But you can make it go less badly if you cooperate with me.”

  Marshall swallowed hard, heart pounding. His contacts had given him fifty grand in cash—and promised more. Suddenly he knew it hadn’t been worth it. Knew he should have asked more questions—and demanded more cash up front, then run. “Please don’t hurt me,” he begged, the sides of his throat grabbing at the words. “I’ll do anything.”

  “I’m sure you would,” the man agreed, “but at this point nothing you could do would help me.”

  “I can still get into Everest,” Marshall argued, his voice shaking. “I can still get information for you.”

  “Don’t lie to me,” the man snapped. “We know Gillette’s security people spotted you on the building tapes going back in there the other night. We know they called you and told you that if you tried to come back in again, you’d be arrested for trespassing. We know the guards at the security desk in the lobby of the Everest building have your picture posted on the wall behind them. They’ve been warned to look out for you. You couldn’t get into that building now unless you had plastic surgery.”

  Marshall sank to his knees, his eyes moving from man to man. The only way out of the apartment was the hall door behind them, and he didn’t have a chance of getting past them. “I’ve got kids.”

  The man nodded. “I know, but there’s nothing I can do.” He waved to one of the other men. “Make him write it.”

  The man moved to where Marshall was kneeling, grabbed him by the back collar of the robe, and half-led, half-dragged him to the couch. Then he dropped a pen and paper on the coffee table. “Write,” he demanded.

  “Write what?” Marshall asked, his voice trembling.

  “A suicide note,” the man who’d been first into the apartment answered. “Blaming Gillette.”

  Marshall shook his head hard, fully grasping what they intended to do. He’d caught the man’s quick glance at the sliding glass door that opened onto the small, thirty-seventh-floor balcony. “No, no way.”

  The man walked deliberately to where Marshall sat. “I told you,” he said, looking down, gesturing with the pistol, “this isn’t going to end well for you. But if you don’t do what I want, what happens between now and the end will be worse than you can imagine.”

  Marshall lunged for the gun. It was his only chance, and he caught the man off guard.

  For a few seconds they struggled, Marshall trying to get his finger on the trigger—if only just to squeeze off a round or two as a call for help—the other man desperately trying to keep Marshall from getting his finger on it.

  Just as Marshall finally slipped the tip of his index finger to the slim, curved piece of black metal, one of the other men nailed him with a powerful shot to the chin and he crumpled to his side on the couch, groaning. His face suddenly felt as if it were going to explode.

  “Write,” the man shouted, leaning over so their noses were almost touching, shoving the pen into Marshall’s hand. “Now!”

  “Screw you,” Marshall retorted, his eyes rolling back in his head. “I won’t do it.” His mouth was already starting to swell, and he could feel and taste blood oozing between his teeth and over his tongue. “Do what you’re going to—”

  Suddenly Marshall felt himself being rolled onto his back on the sofa and pinned down. He saw one of the men coming from his bedroom holding a wire coat hanger, beginning to unwind and straighten it. He flailed wildly as the guy brought one end of the straightened hanger to his left nostril. “No, no!” With every ounce of effort he could muster, he turned his head to the right, away from the wire. “I’ll write whatever you want, whatever you want.” The thought of the hanger going down his nose was too much to take. “Please don’t do that to me.”

  “Then write.”

  Marshall sat up quickly, to
ok the pen, and scribbled exactly what they dictated. Just a few words blaming Christian Gillette for the suicide. After that he signed his name.

  Then they picked him up roughly by his wrists and ankles, dragged him across the floor out onto the balcony, and tossed him over the railing.

  And that was that.

  AS USUAL Delgado was smoking a Dominican cigar, calmly inhaling the smoke, tasting it, then blowing it up into the darkness and the broad leaves above them waving slightly in the breeze as they stood at the edge of the beach. Padilla liked the way the smoke smelled, loved the calm, cool aura the general exuded dressed in his camouflage fatigues, black boots, and jungle-green cap, sunglasses hanging from a top pocket of the nylon shirt. Padilla felt better—safer—now that they were together. The way he’d once felt being around his father at night after being at school all day.

  “So you’re worried about the attorney?” Delgado asked.

  Padilla nodded, watching a wave roll up onto the beach. There was a full moon tonight and the water glittered in front of them like confetti. “Cruz claimed the attorney was going through his cattle files when the attorney didn’t think anyone was looking.”

  Delgado chuckled softly. “Ah. I’ll bet old Gustavo almost had a heart attack. He could get in a lot of trouble for that.”

  “He’s definitely worried.”

  “He doesn’t need to worry.” Delgado tapped ash onto the sand.

  Delgado had never met any of the other five members of the Secret Six, mostly because he didn’t want them meeting him. They knew who he was, knew his name, but he would be able to deny everything if one of them ever accused him of being part of the conspiracy by claiming that they were all just raving lunatics. The way Padilla saw it, the only man who could possibly link everyone together now was Gustavo Cruz, and he was sure Delgado saw it that way, too. If Delgado ever got a whiff that anything was going sideways with the Incursion, Cruz wouldn’t last long. Which was one reason he’d hesitated about contacting Delgado regarding the attorney. He didn’t want to effectively sign Cruz’s death warrant because Delgado suddenly decided to cover his tracks and cut the link. But after thinking about it for a while, Padilla felt he had no choice, not if he was truly committed to the Incursion’s succeeding. As they’d all agreed up front, if sacrifices had to be made, so be it.

  “Do you have that picture?” Delgado asked.

  Delgado had told Padilla to secretly take pictures of all the other men early on, but had never asked for one until now. “Yes.” Padilla pulled the photograph of the attorney out of his pocket. He’d snapped it one evening downtown with a telephoto lens as the attorney was coming out of the Ministry of Justice. Padilla gazed at the grizzled face of the man with the silver, slicked-back hair for a few moments, then held it out. “Here.”

  “Is this the only one?”

  “No.”

  “I’ll keep it then.” Delgado slipped it into the pocket his sunglasses were dangling from.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Ernesto Martinez.”

  The general nodded. “I’ll do some checking for you.”

  Padilla’s shoulders sagged. “Thank you, General.” He shook his head and looked out to sea again. “I feel terrible doing this. It’s probably nothing. Mr. Martinez is probably very loyal and I’m overreacting.”

  Delgado wagged a finger at Padilla. “Don’t feel terrible, you’re doing the right thing. You have to be careful. We have to be careful.” He hesitated. “You’re a good man, Dr. Padilla. Go home and kiss your children, then make love to your wife. They’re the most important things in the world. Never forget that.”

  Padilla looked over at the general through the moonlight. He’d never asked the general anything personal, mostly because one of the first things the general had ever said to him was that they could never be friends. Not because they couldn’t find things in common, but because it protected them not to know anything meaningful about each other. Delgado had told him that the state’s interrogators could pick up on how well you knew someone, no matter how good a liar you were. And once they did, they wouldn’t stop until you told them everything.

  “Are you married, General?” Padilla watched Delgado’s eyes narrow, watched his expression harden. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  “I was once,” Delgado answered, his gaze turning distant. “She was beautiful, the love of my life. We had four children.” He swallowed hard. “They all died two years ago in a plane crash. I still remember the last time I kissed Maria. I’ll never kiss another woman.”

  Padilla glanced down at the sand under his feet and pushed it around with the toe of his shoe. He’d never imagined that the general could be a sentimental man in any way. Which, of course, he realized now was silly. Delgado had to be extremely sentimental to be willing to risk everything for a free Cuba. The general probably had a damn good life, as senior as he was. He could have most anything he wanted, but he’d chosen to risk it all for 11 million people he didn’t even know.

  Sometimes life worked in mysterious ways, Padilla thought to himself. If Delgado’s wife and children hadn’t died, he probably wouldn’t be willing to take such a huge risk, fearing the retribution they might suffer. But now the general was a lone wolf, with only himself to worry about.

  “Now that I think about it,” the general spoke up, emotions trickling through his voice, “why don’t you get me the pictures of the other four men, too? Much better to be too careful than not careful enough.”

  Padilla considered the request for a second. For some reason he didn’t want to do that. “I don’t have any reason to think the others might be doing anything wrong. I mean, I really don’t think Ernesto’s done anything wrong, either, but I—”

  “Get me the pictures,” the general instructed. “We’ll meet tomorrow right here, same time.” He hesitated and touched his cap. “Until then, Doctor.”

  Padilla watched the general disappear into the darkness. It was the second time in a few hours that he’d felt a deep, overwhelming terror. It hadn’t been what the general had said, it had been how he’d said it.

  14

  TYPICALLY, Lloyd Dorsey didn’t get behind the wheel. Typically, Bixby drove the Caprice Classic while the senator read reports and belted out directives over one of three cell phones to his aides back at the Russell Office Building—a stone’s throw from the Capitol. Having three cell phones wasn’t about making sure Dorsey had coverage wherever he went. It was about each woman he was having an affair with being identified by a separate number so he was certain not to mix them up when they called—he had a name taped to the back of each phone and made sure to check that name before answering any ring. If they felt scorned in any way, they might go to a reporter, which could be disastrous. He’d almost had to deal with exactly that situation once a few years ago. But he’d managed to squirm out of the tight spot by giving the reporter an exclusive on a pending piece of controversial anti-immigration legislation he was going to sponsor—which he hated doing. Hated ever giving anyone an exclusive about anything in his life. In return, the reporter had told the woman she didn’t have anything anyone would be interested in.

  The cell phones weren’t in his name, they were in Bixby’s wife’s name. So any reporters snooping around on their own wouldn’t find out how many different cell bills he had and ask him an embarrassing question out of the blue at a press conference. God, he hated reporters, always had. Even the good ones, even the one who’d helped him out of that tight spot. Life on the Hill would be so much better without them. He laughed at the irony. Maybe there were a few good things about Communism after all.

  Dorsey switched lanes without flicking on his turn signal and almost ran into another car in his blind spot. “Damn it,” he muttered, swerving away from the sharp sound of a horn. He was definitely out of practice.

  Over the last two months it seemed as if he’d driven himself more miles than he had the previous ten years p
ut together. All because the men he was working with didn’t want to take any chances of being discovered. Dorsey had tried to convince them early on that Bixby was unquestionably loyal and would never try to expose them. That Bixby would stay in the car the entire time they were meeting and never try to see their faces, even if his bladder was bursting and they’d forbidden him to pee in the flower garden or anywhere else on the grounds, for Christ’s sake. But they’d shaken their heads and sternly forbidden Dorsey to let anyone else accompany him.

  Forty-five minutes ago he’d crossed the Chesapeake Bay Bridge headed east—away from Washington—and reached Maryland’s Eastern Shore just as the sun was caressing the horizon in the rearview mirror. Now he was cruising slowly through the darkened streets of Centreville, a three-hundred-year-old fishing village of a few thousand people built on the headwaters of the Corsica River. He was close.

  A half mile on the other side of town he made a left onto a narrow, bumpy road, then drove exactly two miles down the lonely, tree-lined lane as the caller had directed him to this morning. Drove until he found a private drive marked by a little yellow sign that read GOLDEN RETRIEVER CROSSING where he turned left again. A few minutes later he pulled up in front of a huge brick colonial.

  He climbed out of the car—stiff from the ride—reached into the back for his cane, then limped up the unlit slate path between the boxwoods. Pretty shrubs, but he hated the way they smelled. Like urine, he’d always thought. His grandparents had lived outside Philadelphia on a big spread on the Main Line that had lots of boxwoods, and he’d remembered hiding from his dad in between them during a game of hide-and-seek when he was a boy. Always hated that ammonia smell. Like hundreds of cats had marked in there.

  Dorsey didn’t need to knock. The big wooden door swung open toward the inside before he reached it. An older man he recognized ushered him into the foyer, then, after closing and dead-bolting the front door twice, led him through the dimly lit, rambling mansion to a den in the back.