The Successor Page 4

  “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 t
o 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?”

  5

  May

  CHRISTIAN GAZED out at the Catoctin Mountains from a screened-in porch of Camp David’s main lodge. It was a warm, crystal-clear, late-spring afternoon, and the trees blanketing the rolling hills of western Maryland were bursting with blossoms and new leaves—a lighter green than they would be after they were fully grown in.

  “Can I offer you something to drink? A beer, maybe? I’d have one with you, but it’s probably not a good idea.”

  “That damn nuke thing, huh?” Christian asked.

  President Jesse Wood grinned. “Yup. You’d have to worry about it, too, if you’d been my running mate. One good reason to be glad you aren’t the vice president.”

  “Hey, I’ve got my own issues.”

  “I know you do,” Wood agreed, gesturing toward a Secret Service agent standing by the door, hands clasped tightly behind his back. “Mr. Gillette will have a bottled water. It’s been a while and I forgot. He doesn’t drink alcohol.”

  “Yes, sir.” The agent disappeared inside.

  Wood glanced back at Christian. “I know
you’re a busy man, Chris. Probably almost as busy as I am.”

  As chairman of Everest Capital, Christian had a lot on his plate. The Manhattan-based investment firm owned thirty-eight companies that operated in a wide range of industries—from high-tech to pharmaceuticals to heavy manufacturing. Together, the companies had sales of more than $80 billion—which would have ranked Everest in the top twenty-five of the Fortune 500 if all the companies had been combined into a single entity. Along with running Everest, Christian also chaired twelve of the Everest portfolio companies, and six months ago he’d finished raising Everest’s latest leveraged-buyout fund—a $25 billion pool of equity capital that had stunned Wall Street with its size.

  “Which was one of the reasons I didn’t want you on the ticket,” Wood continued. “All those issues.”

  Jesse Wood had been elected president two and a half years ago—the first African American in history to occupy the Oval Office. His initial eighteen months as commander in chief had been rocky, made especially difficult by partisan conservatives who’d tried everything they could think of—ethical, unethical, even criminal—to derail him. But now Wood was riding a wave of popularity after crafting a Middle East peace accord that had gotten traction despite dire predictions, and being credited by many in Washington and the press with jump-starting a stagnant economy. Initially, Wood had chosen Christian as his running mate, then changed his mind a few weeks later, just before the Democratic convention.

  “You still mad about that?” Wood asked quietly. “About me picking you as vice president, then changing my mind?”

  In the months leading up to the convention, Christian and Wood had spent a lot of time together. But this was their first contact since Wood had won the nomination. They’d gone almost three years without speaking—not because of any lingering animosity, as far as Christian was concerned. But he’d been surprised when Wood had called. He hadn’t held the decision to switch running mates against Wood—it had never been publicly announced. But it wasn’t as if he’d been happy about the decision, either.