The Successor Page 24

  “YOU KNOW WHAT I find amazing?” Dorsey asked, gazing through the one-way glass into the now empty room. The naval officer was gone and both of the older men were sitting with him. “The Democrats are going to shoot themselves in the foot with their own gun.”

  “How’s that?” asked the man who’d been in the room with the officer.

  “They were the ones who put through the legislation prohibiting a president from ordering or approving, even knowing about, assassinations of foreign citizens,” Dorsey explained. “Civilians at any time and military people if war hasn’t been officially declared. It was a footnote in that big immigration bill a while back. I was fighting like mad not to have it in there, but no one would listen to me. Now we’re going to nail Wood with it.”

  “It’s an impeachable offense under the Constitution at this point,” confirmed the man who’d been in the room with Dorsey. “There’s nothing Wood will be able to do once we’ve got the evidence.”

  “But will a copy of the order be enough to prove his involvement?” Dorsey asked, nodding at the folded piece of paper in the man’s shirt pocket.

  “It’ll be plenty enough for the House and the Senate to call for an investigation. The Republicans will scream bloody murder when the signature is confirmed as Wood’s. They’ll demand an investigation. Not you, of course. You’ll stay out of everything, let the younger Turks on our side of the aisle do the dirty work. When they question the witnesses from the Pentagon, that’ll put the finishing touches on it. The vice president will take over after the impeachment vote, but we all know he doesn’t have a chance against you. You’ll win the next election in a landslide.”

  “I don’t understand why President Wood would do that,” Dorsey said, shaking his head. “I don’t understand why he’d sign that thing. He can’t be that ignorant. His advisers must have told him what he was doing, what he could be getting himself into.” He caught the two older men looking at each other. “What? What is it?”

  “Several of his senior military advisers told him they had to have the assassination order if they were going to win in Cuba,” one of the men explained. “If they were really going to get the job done with no chance of the Communist people coming back into power. Men who are loyal to us told President Wood that. They told him they couldn’t move the project forward without it, but they also told him there was an out. They told him that the definition of civilian was gray. That if anything ever came out, they’d swear that the Cubans on the list were really military people, regime members, FAR regulars masquerading as civilian ministers. And they swore there wouldn’t be any evidence of U.S. Special Forces being involved in any assassinations. Which, of course, there will be. Plenty of tapes clearly showing our guys carrying out the president’s assassination order. Our forces summarily executing people on this list,” he said, holding up one of the pieces of paper. “Rangers and SEALs doing what their president has told them to do.” He smiled. “Really at our direction, of course.”

  “The president’s been trying to get closer to the Pentagon ever since he got into office,” the other man added. “The military was clear with him right up front. A couple of the Joint Chiefs told him in private they weren’t happy about him being in the Oval Office based on his inner-city campaign speeches. The crap about how he’d make sure no social program ever took a backseat to a weapon. They told him in no uncertain terms a few days after the inauguration they were worried about him trying to make cuts in the defense budget and moving those savings over to social programs. Wood took all that to heart. He wanted to be close to the military. He understood that no matter what country you’re talking about, even the United States, ultimately you need the full backing of the military.” The man smiled evilly. “He took direction from what happened to Jack and Bobby Kennedy. They gave the Pentagon the finger and look where they ended up.” He laughed coldly. “Oh, yeah, Wood was ripe for this. Besides, he thinks he’s doing the right thing by liberating Cuba. Not only for the Cuban people, but also the U.S. He’s worried about China putting missiles on the ground.”

  “He is doing the right thing,” Dorsey murmured. “China is a threat.”

  “Maybe, but this is how politics is played, Senator. You know that as well as anyone.”

  Dorsey did know that. All too well.

  “Let’s talk about Victoria Graham,” the other one spoke up.

  “What about her?” Dorsey asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Does she have someone watching Christian Gillette? You weren’t sure she had followed through the last time we spoke.”

  “She says she does.”

  “Who is it?”

  Dorsey shrugged. “I don’t know,” he admitted, watching the intense irritation zip across both men’s faces. They needed as many moles as possible, especially with Dex Kelly buffering everything over at the White House. “I really don’t. She wouldn’t tell me. But you guys are getting your information on him. You have that other person watching him.” He raised one eyebrow. “Well, you did have him watching Christian.”

  “It doesn’t matter what or who we have,” one of the men said. “We need to know who Victoria Graham is working with and you need to find that out for us.”

  Dorsey glared at them. “You want Gillette so badly?”

  They glared back for a few moments. Finally, the one who had interviewed the naval officer spoke up. “Christian Gillette has a lot to answer for. A hell of a lot.”

  Dorsey nodded, his harsh expression weakening. He could understand why they hated the guy. They’d spent their careers protecting the United States, taking huge personal risks and earning a lot less than they would have in the private sector as senior executives for one of the big defense companies. They were supposed to have earned all that lost opportunity back with the nanotechnology deal, supposed to have gotten penny warrants before the IPO. After they’d lifted the technology out of the government and hid it in a private company. But Gillette had gotten in the way, totally derailed that huge potential payback by figuring out what was going on. And they blamed him for the death of their friend Sam Hewitt, the former CEO of U.S. Oil.

  “Let me get this all straight,” Dorsey said respectfully. He’d never asked for a full accounting before tonight, but if he was going to commit to this fully, he wanted to know everything. “The guys in D-ring at the Pentagon are the planners, right?”

  The two men glanced at each other, then folded their arms across their chests.

  Not promising, Dorsey thought. But he gave them a minute to soften up.

  “That’s right,” the one who had been interrogating the officer finally confirmed. “You heard the man in there,” he said, gesturing toward the glass. “The president’s been careful on this, as he should be after signing an assassination order. He set up D-ring with his own people. They’re the planners, and they’re insulated from us.”

  The older men shared a triumphant laugh.

  “At least, they’re supposed to be insulated from us,” the one who’d been speaking continued, holding up a copy of the assassination order. “They coordinated with intel on the ground in Cuba and with the people who met with Dr. Padilla when he came to the States.” He rolled his eyes. “And the president put Dex Kelly in charge over at the White House. Kelly has authority to change any part of the plan right up until the meeting with Padilla in Miami is done. Then we take over. Then it’s our show. Then we coordinate with the Rangers and the SEALs. That’s when it’ll get fun.”

  Dorsey’s eyes narrowed. “You guys aren’t really retired.”

  They shared another loud laugh.

  “Gee, Lloyd,” the man who’d sat next to him during the interrogation said. “Guess that’s why you’re going to be the next president. You’re sharp as a fucking tack, aren’t you?”

  “Hey,” Dorsey snapped angrily, “I don’t need to—”

  “Easy, Senator, easy,” the other one said smoothly. “Officially, we are retired. Unofficially, we’re as active as we ever were
at the Company.” He smiled again. “This arrangement just makes it a little easier to set things up. The only problem is, it makes things harder to control, too.” He pointed at Dorsey. “Which means you’re exactly right. We need as many moles as possible. As many people as possible helping us get Gillette to Miami. Telling us what he’s doing all the time, watching him to make sure the Cubans or anyone else aren’t planning something. Once we take over,” he said calmly, holding up the assassination order, “everything’s jake. But we have to make absolutely certain it gets to that point. We have to take any step necessary. Because if we don’t, if somehow things get fucked up, everything’s lost. Including you becoming president.”

  Dorsey set his jaw firmly. He’d call Victoria tonight when he got home and promise her anything to get the information from her—whom she had working on Gillette. Even tell her that he’d asked his wife for a divorce. This was a chance to realize his greatest dream. Nothing was going to stop him.

  CHRISTIAN HAD ALWAYS LIKED the 21 Club. It was cozy, like being in someone’s living room with its big upholstered chairs and long, thick drapes dangling next to the windows. And people gave you your space here, no matter who you were. It was nice that way.

  He was sitting at a small table in front of one of the tall windows. It was pouring rain and windy outside—a late-May deluge brought on by a cold front roaring in from the west. Which was probably why Allison was fifteen minutes late. People were hurrying along the sidewalk, hunched down beneath umbrellas, bundled up in trench coats. It had gotten chilly today when the cold front reached the city.

  He turned away from the window and sipped his orange juice, watching people talk—mostly business types—at the crowded, dark wood bar in front of the far wall. There’d probably been a lot of megadeals put together at that bar over the years, he realized. Mapped out in principle on paper napkins after a six-pack of Scotches or martinis. He was becoming so much more attuned to history as he was getting older. He could almost see the Manhattan deal-making titans of the past and present—Rohatyn, Gleacher, Peterson, Wasserstein, Trump, Kravis, and Schwarzman—standing at that bar bartering billions.

  He glanced down and took a deep breath. God, he felt awful about Jim Marshall. He’d never seen it coming, never even considered the possibility that the man might commit suicide. It was just that the idea was so foreign to him—a human being taking his own life. How could things get that desperate? But Marshall had done it, and now Christian was feeling wave after wave of guilt crash onto his shores.

  “Hi, there.”

  Christian looked up. “Hi, Ally.” He stood up as she propped her wet umbrella against the wall. “Let me get that.” He helped her off with her raincoat and draped it over the back of the third chair around the table. “Bad night, huh?”

  “Terrible,” she agreed, sitting down after Christian pulled the chair out for her. “But the rain’s supposed to be gone by tomorrow morning. Tomorrow’s supposed to be beautiful.” She waved to a waiter. “Grey Goose martini, straight up, please.”

  “Working late?” Christian asked, settling back into his chair.

  “Yup.”

  “With Sherry?”

  “Yup.”

  Allison still seemed uptight, still not herself. It was as if they just couldn’t get past this wall that had suddenly risen up between them. And it seemed to be getting higher and wider all the time. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Still pretty shook up about Jim’s suicide. I keep thinking about him taking that leap off the balcony, actually being so unhappy he could do that.”

  “Me, too.” Christian’s eyes dropped to the tabletop. “It’s awful,” he said, his voice barely audible over the background music and the dull hum of conversation. “I feel sick about it. I misjudged him, I thought he was stronger.”

  “Yeah, well…”

  “I know you were close to him, I know you cared about him.”

  “I felt bad for him,” Allison said. “He was going through a lot.”

  Christian glanced up, still wondering exactly how close she’d been to Jim Marshall. But her expression wasn’t giving him any answers, and, even though he wanted to, he couldn’t ask her if they’d ever been intimate.

  They were quiet until the server delivered Allison’s martini.

  Christian waited for her to take a sip, then spoke up. “You know, people are—”

  “What’s your—”

  They’d started talking at almost the same instant. Christian motioned for her to keep going.

  “No, no,” she said. “You go ahead.”

  “I was just going to say that I think people are excited about you becoming vice chairman.” Most of the e-mails he’d gotten about her promotion had been very positive. But a couple of the big investors—older men—had questioned the decision. They’d asked in their replies to the announcement if a woman in her early thirties was really ready to run Everest Capital when Christian wasn’t around. He’d replied that she was absolutely ready, italics and all. “A lot of people at Everest have come up to me and told me they think it’s great. I didn’t know if I would before I made the announcement, but now I kind of like having an official successor.”

  “What about the big investors?” she asked. “I’ve heard from a lot of people, too, which is nice. But a couple of the bigger investors haven’t called or e-mailed. Other than Victoria Graham.”

  “It’s all good.” He didn’t want to tell her about the doubt, didn’t want to do anything to dampen the mood. It was the first time they’d been alone like this in a long while, and he suddenly realized how much he’d missed it. How much he’d missed her.

  “Are you telling me the truth?”

  Christian took a swallow of orange juice. “There will always be doubters, Ally. People doubted me when I first took over Everest Capital, when Bill Donovan was murdered. You just have to prove them wrong.” He laughed. “And damn, it’s not like I’m going anywhere anytime soon. So I wish we could get off this.” But he saw that she still needed encouragement. “Look, all that matters is that I think you’ll do a great job if, for whatever reason, I’m not around.”

  “Thanks.” She fiddled with the paper napkin beneath her martini glass for a few moments, folding each corner over before looking up. “Hey, what’s your favorite movie?”

  Christian put his head back and laughed. “You’ve been hanging around Victoria Graham too much lately.”

  “I’m serious, what is it?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “Come on, Chris.”

  Ms. Graham asked him that question every time he saw her, but he’d never come clean. It was a game between them at this point. “What did you tell her yours was?”

  “If you’re not going—”

  “Maybe I will if you tell me.”

  “Out of Africa.”

  “That one with Robert Redford and Meryl Streep?”

  She nodded. “Now you tell me yours.”

  He grinned. “Well, I…” His voice faded.

  “See, that’s the trouble,” she snapped. “I give but you don’t give back.”

  “Come on, Ally, I don’t—”

  “I was thinking maybe your favorite movie would have something to do with a man going through his midlife crisis.”

  Christian’s eyes snapped to hers. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, maybe I’ve heard about you seeing a woman half your age.”

  Christian caught his breath. “Okay, I’ve had a couple of dinners with someone.” There was no reason to deny it. Obviously, she knew. He’d find out who the informant was later. “She’s a friend.”

  Allison glared at him for a few seconds, then stood up and grabbed her coat. “I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow at the office.”

  Christian didn’t even watch her walk away this time. He closed his eyes and rubbed them. Actually, she wouldn’t be seeing him at the office tomorrow. Early in the morning he was headed down to Mar
yland to meet with Dex Kelly—and to see Beth.

  ALANZO GOMEZ had no intention of keeping the business of Los Secretos Seis a secret. He had worked many years to become a first vice president of the Central Bank of Cuba. Too many years to get where he was to blow it on some silly idea that Cuba could be free of the Party. As everyone knew, that was an utter impossibility. And, if everything worked out as it looked like it would, he would be president of the bank soon. The current president had only one year left before retirement, and it was clear that Gomez was his successor. Everyone said so. As far as he saw it, he had every incentive to make certain Los Secretos Seis didn’t stay a secret. And it wasn’t that he was worried that they might actually succeed, it was that he figured he could curry favor from the highest of ranks by exposing the conspiracy.

  Gomez unlocked the door of his modest villa and moved inside quietly, his wife and two beautiful teenage daughters upstairs asleep. He’d been working late tonight on a top-secret project—a loan from China. The Chinese government had approached the regime a few months ago with a proposal, a good proposal for a $20 billion ten-year loan Cuba badly needed—though only a few people inside the government really knew how badly the island needed the money. Basically, the infrastructure was falling apart because glue and duct tape could get you only so far. But glue and duct tape were all they’d had for decades without Big Brother—without the Soviet Union. Now they wanted Big Brother back, even if it wasn’t the same one.

  China’s proposal had seemed perfect on the surface, when they were secretly negotiating the major points verbally around the table in a glistening conference room full of antiques and fine art at the last meeting in Paris. But, as always, the devil was in the details. There were several clauses buried deep in the first draft of the three-hundred-page document that Cuba couldn’t abide by—no matter how badly they needed the money. At least, that was what he had been told initially. The clauses included the pledge of all assets held in foreign banks; the pledge of certain Cuban land, actually requiring the government to subrogate its sovereign rights to China; and allowing China to influence domestic policy if the Central Bank of Cuba ever fell behind on payments or broke a major covenant.