The Protégé Read online

  Faraday nodded.

  “Yes, Karen,” Gillette said as he reached the door, Faraday’s voice piping up in the background.

  “Mr. Walker needs to see you in your office right away.”

  Gillette headed quickly down the corridor. “What is it, Derrick?” he asked as he came through the doorway.

  Walker was just putting down the phone. “That was the Coast Guard. They’ve called off the search.”

  “YOU ALL RIGHT?”

  It was four-thirty, and Gillette was sitting alone in a corner booth of the Irish bar on the first floor of the Everest building. It was a bar Faraday frequented but Gillette had never been to. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, hands over his eyes. At the sound of the familiar voice, he dropped his hands slowly to his mouth and opened his eyes. Faraday was sliding onto the bench seat opposite him.

  It was dark and almost empty in here, just a couple of early birds at the bar and two QS agents in the next booth, drinking water. “Been better,” Gillette muttered.

  A waiter appeared at the table. “Hello, Nigel.”

  “Hi, Mickey.”

  “Long time since I’ve seen you down here this early.”

  “Things change.”

  “What’ll it be?”

  “Guinness.”

  “Not a Scotch?”

  “Guinness,” Faraday repeated.

  “Tall or small?”

  “Small.”

  “You got it.”

  Faraday glanced at the full shot glass in front of Gillette on the scratched, wooden tabletop. “Scotch?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Been a while, hasn’t it?”

  Gillette nodded.

  “I know this thing with Stiles is really bothering you. I know how close you two were. I’m sorry. But should you—”

  “I should do what gets me through.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence until the waiter returned with Faraday’s beer. Faraday picked up the mug, touched it to the shot glass in front of Gillette, and took a long guzzle. “What did you need to talk to me about?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That you needed Debbie to get me out of the meeting for.”

  “Stiles.”

  Faraday took another gulp of Guinness. “Well, I . . . I mean I’m honored that you want to confide in me, Christian. I know you miss him; he was a good man.”

  “He was shot, Nigel.”

  Faraday had been looking toward the bar. His head snapped left at this. “What?”

  In his mind, Gillette replayed the image of Stiles falling to the deck so many times. Replayed the way Stiles hadn’t held out his hands to break his fall, just went down like a board. Because he was already dead when he was falling. Already shot. It had come to him after Derrick Walker had told him the search had been called off. It was almost a perfect murder, Gillette thought. The gale-force winds had drowned out the report of the gun, and visibility was so terrible that he hadn’t seen blood fly from the wound or spilled on the deck afterward because the torrential rains had washed it away immediately. Whoever killed him had shot him, then tossed him overboard, assuming his body would never be found. “He was shot on board, after he saved the kid. I’m sure of it.”

  Faraday’s face contorted into a look of disbelief. “By who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why would someone shoot him?”

  “Revenge.” Gillette’s fingers closed around the shot glass. He slowly turned it a full revolution but didn’t pick it up. “I’m pretty sure Tom McGuire was behind it.”

  “No shit.”

  Gillette relayed the story of the gang attack outside the Grill and how he believed McGuire was still out for him and Stiles. “You must have really seen him that day on Park Ave.”

  Faraday nodded glumly. “So you think maybe he got to one of the yacht’s crew.”

  “Yeah. Probably paid them, like Stiles and I think he paid the Brooklyn gang.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Here’s the point, Nigel. If all that’s true, I’m in danger, even with the QS guys around.” Gillette started to pick up the shot glass but didn’t. “So I’ve got to let you in on a few things, in case all of a sudden I’m not around.”

  Faraday straightened up in his seat. “Okay.”

  “First, we need to talk about the NFL franchise.”

  “What about it?”

  “I think the Mafia’s trying to get involved.”

  “How?”

  “Construction initially, of both the stadium and the casino. They’ll extort us to keep people on the job and the equipment running. Then they’ll try to get involved with the casino and the team. The NFL doesn’t think so, but Stiles did some checking and I do. I’m meeting with some consultants when I go out there this week. People who’ll run interference on that, but I think it’s still going to be a problem. I’ll keep you informed.”

  “Should we just get the fuck out of it?” Faraday asked. “Tell the NFL we don’t want it?”

  “No. It’s going to be a huge win for us, even if the Mob is involved. We just have to figure out how to handle them.”

  “Okay.”

  Gillette could see Faraday’s fear. He’d never come close to dealing with the Mafia. “The second thing I want to talk to you about is Apex,” he said, slowly turning the shot glass another revolution. “As you know, I’ve been through the Apex portfolio with Russell Hughes, and I think we have a real opportunity.”

  “Right.”

  “What you need to understand is that one of their portfolio companies is a cutout for the CIA.”

  “What’s a fucking cutout?”

  Gillette quickly explained the concept.

  “Which company is it?” Faraday asked.

  “Omega IT. They do computer hardware and software system installation and integration. One of Omega’s foreign subsidiaries has lots of clients that are Middle Eastern banks. According to Hughes, the Omega sub installs things in the computers that the banks don’t know about so people in Washington can watch money flows.”

  “They’re trying to catch fucking terrorists.”

  “Exactly. Anyway, I’m supposed to meet with Hughes’s CIA contact, probably when I get back from the West Coast at the end of this week. If something happens to me, you do it. Call Hughes and tell him what you know.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to you, Christian.”

  “I hope not, but we can’t be too careful at this point.”

  Faraday shook his head. “You deal with a lot of fucking shit, don’t you.”

  This time Gillette almost picked up the shot glass, but again he resisted the temptation. He was testing himself, he knew. “I’d say you don’t know the half of it, but now you do.”

  Faraday finished his beer. “Now there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Gillette looked up. “What?”

  “Allison.”

  “What about her?”

  “I don’t like her,” Faraday said bluntly.

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “Nope. I don’t trust—”

  “You guys want anything else?” Mickey asked, sauntering up to the table.

  “I’ll take another beer,” Faraday said.

  “What’s your problem with Allison?” Gillette asked angrily when Mickey was gone.

  Faraday shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t trust her. It’s hard to explain. Maybe it’s the way she’s tried to move in so fast.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Pushing Veramax so hard, for instance.”

  “It’s a great deal.”

  “She had it teed up before she came here so you’d think she was good.”

  “So what?” Gillette snapped. “That’s just good business. She wanted an early win. First impressions are important anywhere. She knows that, she’s smart. And,” he continued, holding up one hand, “she’s already got another deal going.”

  “Well, look
who her fucking family is, for Christ’s sake. It’s easy for her, almost like she’s cheating.”

  Sour grapes, Gillette thought. A normal human reaction, but he hadn’t expected it from Faraday. “And we want to take advantage of that. It isn’t like we’re playing T-ball here and everyone gets a chance to bat. This is the big leagues.”

  “And I don’t like the way she’s tried to move on you,” Faraday added. “It makes me want to puke.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Saturday on the boat she was all over you. And I wasn’t the only one who noticed, let me tell you.”

  “Nothing’s happened. Nothing will.”

  “People are talking,” Faraday said. “They’re worried that you and she are getting too close too fast, and that she’s going to start having more and more influence on you. Maybe even helping to call the shots pretty soon. People don’t like that.”

  “What ‘people’?”

  “The other managing partners.”

  Gillette was about to answer, but Mickey showed up carrying Faraday’s beer. When he was gone, Gillette said, “She’s not going to start calling the shots.”

  “She’s twenty-five percent of the new fund. Five billion dollars. That’s a big advantage over everyone else here. You might get addicted to the money, and the bikini,” Faraday muttered.

  “I deserve more credit than that, Nigel,” Gillette shot back. “I’ve—”

  “And I don’t like this thing with the Iranian guy,” Faraday interrupted. “Call me prejudiced, but I don’t think it makes sense to bring him in here.”

  “Careful.”

  “It’s a feeling, Christian. I don’t like—”

  “Hi, guys.”

  Gillette and Faraday looked up at Allison.

  She slid onto the bench seat beside Gillette. “I’m surprised, Christian,” she said, “leaving the managers meeting to come to a bar. Either you’ve got all the newspapers in this city snowed, or there’s something big going on.” She put her hand on his arm. “Or you miss your friend,” she said quietly. “Sorry.”

  “I’m going back upstairs,” Faraday said, giving Allison a forced smile. “I’ll take care of that stuff we talked about.”

  “Call me Chris, Nigel.”

  Nigel already had one foot out of the booth. He stopped. “That was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen anyone do, Chris. You and Stiles going out into that storm after that little boy. I wanted you to know that. I just wish both of you had come back.” He nodded at Gillette, then gave Allison another quick smile. “See you upstairs.”

  When Faraday was gone, Allison picked up the shot glass in front of Gillette and sniffed. “Oh, God,” she said, almost gagging.

  “What can I get you, ma’am?” Mickey was back again.

  “Chardonnay. Your best by the glass.” She put her hand on Gillette’s thigh when Mickey was gone. “I’m sorry, I know it’s—”

  “Tell me about Hamid,” Gillette interrupted, moving his leg. He didn’t want any more pity. “What’s his background?”

  Her eyes stayed on him a moment, then she shrugged. “He worked in Citibank’s mergers and acquisitions department for the last three years. Before that he went to business school at the University of Michigan. I don’t remember where he was before that. Why the interrogation?”

  “How did you find him?”

  “Friend of a friend.”

  “What friend?”

  “A friend from Chicago. Look, I don’t have to answer—”

  “How did you know I was down here?”

  “Debbie told me.”

  So she and Debbie really were talking. “What friend in Chicago?”

  She rolled her eyes. “A guy I used to date, if you really must know. He works at Harris Fulmer. It’s an investment bank.”

  Gillette felt a strange pang. “I know Harris.” It felt like jealousy.

  Mickey returned with Allison’s glass of wine and set it down.

  “How did this friend of yours know Hamid?” Gillette asked.

  Allison was about to pick up her glass. “What’s your problem? Is this really racial profiling? Was Hamid right?”

  Gillette was thinking about the al-Qaeda conduit who, according to Norman Boyd, had approached one of the people on the DARPA nanotech project. And he was thinking about how uncomfortable Faraday was with Hamid. “No.”

  She took a sip of wine. “What’s in Richmond?” she asked out of nowhere.

  Gillette glanced up. “Huh?”

  “Why did you go to Richmond the other day?”

  “How do you know I went to Richmond?” he demanded.

  “I told you,” she answered calmly. “I’m Allison Wallace. Now, what were you doing there?”

  “Research on a company. Like I told you.”

  She sighed and took a sip of wine. “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “You should sell Everest’s medical products company to me.”

  Gillette’s eyes zipped to hers.

  “What’s it called?” she asked.

  “You mean Beezer Johnson?” It was the company with the division in Minneapolis that Boyd wanted to hide his nanotech project in.

  “That’s it.”

  Gillette turned on the bench seat so he was facing her. “Why do you think we should sell Beezer Johnson?”

  “It’s a great company, and it’s about time you had another win.”

  “What are you talking about? We’ve had several big wins lately. Like we talked about when you, Gordon, and I met.”

  “Actually, it’s been a few months since you’ve sold anything. We need some good press.”

  “We’re about to announce our intent to sell Laurel Energy. That’ll create a fantastic buzz.”

  “But it’ll be a while until you actually sell it. Probably six months before all the documents are completed. We want to keep the positive momentum going.” She took a swallow of wine. “Here’s the deal. My family has an investment in a medical products company, too. I can convince the board of that firm to make a very nice offer for Beezer Johnson. Very nice. And the whole thing can be wrapped up in sixty days.”

  Gillette grimaced, thinking hard about what Faraday had said—that he didn’t trust her. How she knew he’d been to Richmond and how there were suddenly GPS trackers on his planes. How it suddenly seemed so coincidental that she’d want to buy Beezer Johnson just as Norman Boyd wanted to use it as a cutout.

  She smiled back at him. “So, what do you think?”

  “It would look like an inside job,” he countered. Maybe Allison wasn’t protégée material after all. Maybe she was an enemy. “The market wouldn’t give us credit because your family controls the buying company.”

  “But technically we don’t control it. We made that investment through a number of different entities. No one would ever be able to figure it out. I’ll prove it to you.” Her smile grew broader. “Now what do you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She cocked her head to one side and leaned close to him. “Well, I’ll tell you what I think,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “I think you and I make a great team.”

  IT WAS LATE, ten-thirty, and everyone else had left for the night. Gillette slipped into Cathy Dylan’s cramped office and shut the door. “Hi.”

  She looked up from a spreadsheet she’d been working on. “Hi.”

  “Thanks for staying.” He’d slipped her a note that afternoon.

  “Sure. What do you need me to do?”

  “I need you to call our doctor friend in Richmond again, and I need you to make me an appointment for Friday. Whatever time he can do it.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll be in Las Vegas and on the West Coast most of this week, so e-mail me when you and Dr. Davis talk.”

  “Okay.”

  “But don’t mention his name. I want you to call him Mr. Jones in the e-mail, and I want you to use another day, some day in the following week. The only th
ing that will be accurate in the e-mail will be the time. Don’t tell anyone we’ve spoken about this. Just like before. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she said hesitantly.

  Gillette could see it was all she could do not to ask.

  Maybe someday I’ll tell her, he thought. But right now, the less she knew, the safer she was. There were enough people in danger. One was already gone.

  SHE SAT ON the floor of Gillette’s living room, between his legs, as he sat behind her on the sofa and rubbed her shoulders. It was late—they were watching Letterman sign off—but Gillette didn’t want to go to bed yet. He was tired, but he knew he’d never get to sleep. Too much on his mind.

  “That feels so good, Chris.” Faith moaned and ran her hands up to his, then turned and rose to her knees so she was facing him. “I’ve missed you so much. I’m glad we’ve got tonight, at least.”

  Faith had gotten back from London a few hours ago, and Gillette was leaving for Las Vegas tomorrow. Then he was going on to the West Coast to meet Marilyn.

  She gave him a deep kiss. “Let’s go to bed,” she whispered, taking his chin in her fingers and shaking it gently when he didn’t answer. “Hey, boy, I just propositioned you.”

  He smiled. All she had on was one of his dress shirts. She looked so sexy.

  She hugged him. “I’m so sorry about Quentin, honey. I know you loved him.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did it happen?” she asked. “You told me he went overboard, but how?”

  “He was trying to get to his girlfriend’s little boy. The kid went after his dog when the thing ran out onto the deck in the storm.”

  “That’s awful.” Faith moved onto the couch beside him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Who else went with you on the cruise?”

  Gillette took a deep breath. “Faraday and his new girlfriend, David and Peggy Wright.”

  “That’s all?”

  Gillette gazed at her. He didn’t want to get into it now, but he couldn’t lie to her, either. “Well, I—”