Edge of Dawn (26 page)

After relieving the pressure, he washed his face and hands, brushed his teeth, and studied himself in the mirror. A razor would be in order. Whatever he was going to face in Istanbul, he'd better not face it looking like a bum. He pulled his garment bag out of the overhead and retreated to the small office at the back of the plane. The electric razor vibrated against his chin and cheeks and forced him to concentrate on something other than the lost sword, the lost company, his lost way. He hoped a splash of aftershave and a clean, pressed suit in an elegant Prince of Wales windowpane in shades of blue, lavender, and gray would make him seem less like a fugitive and more like a man in charge to whomever he was going to meet. And maybe his kempt outward appearance would convince even himself that he wasn't frantically creating plans on the fly.

He had managed to transfer the subsidiaries, but since he had no money to operate them he was going to have to shutter the buildings and furlough the staffs. Which meant they weren't really viable companies; they were just chits in the game he was playing with his rebellious officers, and mostly with Grenier. A game he didn't, as yet, see any way to win.

He shot his sleeves, straightened the pocket handkerchief, and stepped out of the office.

He went up to the cockpit, where Jerry was on the radio with the tower while Brook manned the controls. A voice on the radio: “Say again?”

“This is N zero zero four three nine GA, registered to Lumina Enterprises.”

“State your position, aircraft type, and souls on board.”

“Nancy zero zero four three nine Gold Apple is a G650 out of Rochester, New York, en route Ankara, eleven on board. Currently twenty miles out from Istanbul Atat
ü
rk Airport. We have an engine light.”

There was a long silence, then the voice, “State your passengers by name, please.”

Jerry shot Richard a look. Richard nodded his assent. “We have Mr. Kenntnis, Mr. Oort, Mr. Cross, Dr.—”

“That's sufficient, GA, you are positively identified. Be advised there is a military helicopter to your west. You are cleared to land on runway…”

Richard left to be sure that Mosi was securely buckled up and belted himself in.

As the wheels kissed the runway, Richard saw the military helicopter out his window. It also seemed to be landing, and quite near to them. “The welcome wagon,” he muttered to Weber, seated at his side.

“Let's hope they're actually … uh … welcoming.”

They taxied to a stop just outside a private hangar. By the time they had the doors open and the steps down, a man dressed in military uniform, liberally decorated with braid, pins, and badges, was already waiting on the tarmac. From the top step, Richard surveyed him. He looked to be in his late thirties with dark hair tinged faintly with red. Richard said over his shoulder, “Lot of cabbage on that coat.”

“Somehow I don't think he's a first lieutenant,” Weber muttered back.

Richard pulled himself to his full height, lifted his chin, and descended the stairs. He extended his hand. “Richard Oort, my security chief, Damon Weber.”

“General Zafer Marangoz,” said the man. “Welcome.”

The handshakes concluded, Marangoz asked, “You have Mr. Kenntnis?”

“Yes. He's still aboard. Unfortunately he's … unwell. I take it you're … ah … a representative of the organization we were told to approach?”

“Yes, I am with the I
şı
k. Light,” Marangoz added helpfully at Richard's expression.

“Ah,” Richard said. “Look, General Marangoz, there's no graceful way to say this. We're in trouble. We're on the run and need a place to go to ground. Can you help us?”

“We know of your troubles. There was a move to have you arrested.” He held up a reassuring hand at Richard's expression. “We have handled that. The military still has certain prerogatives in this country. It is probably best you stay in Istanbul tonight while we make arrangements for your travel to Ankara. Cars will be arriving shortly.” Marangoz paused, then added in tones of awe, “May I see Mr. Kenntnis?”

“Yes, of course, come aboard.”

They reentered the plane. Marangoz gave Mosi a curious but kindly glance, then froze when he saw Kenntnis. “Unchanged,” he whispered.

“Excuse me?” Richard asked.

“There are photos of him with Kemal. He is unchanged.”

“Yes, well, it's rather hard to explain,” Richard began.

The young general gave him a blazing smile. “Do not worry, Mr. Oort, we, more than others, understand he is something more than human. You see, there is a mosaic of him in a villa in Hierapolis, a Roman city next to the modern city of Pamukkale. Perhaps we will stop there en route to Ankara. It is worth seeing.”

Richard gazed at Kenntnis. “Yeah,” he said slowly. “I'd very much like to see that.” He wondered if Kenntnis saw an early image of himself, if it would stir some memory or reaction. It was worth the chance.

There was the sound of car engines outside. “Come, let us be away,” Marangoz said.

Brook and Jerry caught them. “What do we do with the plane?” Brook asked.

“I can't afford to refuel it and send you back.”

“Who said anything about wanting to go back?” Jerry asked. “I'm sticking with you.” Brook nodded.

“Okay, then. Lock it and leave it.”

There was bustle and confusion as they prepared to debark. Richard found Brook at his side. “Um … my name. It's Knadjian.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That's Armenian.”

“Ah … oh,” Richard added as the very unpleasant history between Turkey and Armenia came forcibly to mind. “Is this going to be a problem?”

“Not unless they make it one. It's probably a good thing my grandfather isn't here. He wouldn't be polite.”

“How about you?”

“I've never been to Armenia. I've been inoculated.” He paused for a moment. “And isn't that an example of what we're fighting against anyway?”

“Yeah, I guess that's true.” Richard added in an undertone just to himself, “I just wish I felt like we were winning.”

*   *   *

It was an unconscionably early hour when Grenier's phone rang. He heaved himself to the side of the bed, groping for the receiver, and knocked it to the floor. Cursing, he rolled out of bed and tried to bend down for the fallen phone. His distended belly made that impossible, and he had to drop to his knees to be able to pick it up. He fumbled with the buttons but got back the buzz of a disconnected line. Grunting with effort, he used the edge of the mattress to return to his feet and checked the time: 3:40
A.M.
Then he noticed the red light flashing on the phone, indicating a message.

It was Kenzo, and even with only two words—
Call me
—he sounded extremely put out. Grenier called him. “Should you be calling me at home?” Grenier asked when the CFO answered.

“It doesn't matter now. Richard is out as head of Lumina. He has taken actions that Gold and I believe to be actionable if not criminal.” Anger crackled around the words. “In the meantime, we wish you to take over management of the building and personnel in New Mexico.”

“What's happened? What has he done?”

“There is no need for you to know the details.” The tone was arrogant and dismissive.

“To borrow a phrase of Richard's, I refuse to be treated like a mushroom.” Grenier broke the connection.

Smiling, Grenier walked to the kitchen, pulled out a carton of milk, and took a long drink. He mentally kept count. At about the two-minute mark, the phone rang again.

“You hung up on me.”

“Yes. I will not assume responsibility without authority.”

“And I will only accord you the responsibility appropriate to your level of authority. Accept or don't, but those are the terms.”

It wasn't in Grenier's best interests to alienate the CFO. He changed tacks. Suffusing his voice with sympathy, Grenier said, “Richard must have humiliated you rather profoundly for you to be this angry. I've never before heard you lose control. It's not your style.”

A sigh gusted across the phone line. “Forgive me, it has been a trying period. I spent part of yesterday and most of the night locked in a storeroom.”

“Good God!”

“Richard seems to have been planning this for some time. He's transferred all the subsidiary companies into a new sole proprietorship he created. He didn't attempt to move Lumina. We would have been alerted to that.”

“My understanding is that Lumina subsidizes most of those companies,” Grenier said.

“Quite true. He will find himself financially underwater in short order, but meanwhile we have lost control of the feeder companies actually doing R&D work.” Kenzo paused, then grudgingly continued. “I never thought Oort was terribly bright. What I hadn't realized is that he's cunning.”

Oddly, the criticism rankled. “Oh, he's bright.” Grenier almost went on to say, “
He played me brilliantly,
” but in the last second he realized such a reminder of his perfidy and his past was perhaps not the wisest move. “It's Richard's insecurities that make him seem vapid.”

“So you'll take over governance of the main headquarters?” Kenzo asked, returning to the pressing issue.

“Yes, but you'll need to inform key personnel. They won't take my say-so,” Grenier warned Kenzo.

“It will be handled,” Kenzo said.

“Quickly?”

“Immediately.”

“How are you going to proceed?”

“We're filing suit against Richard, both civilly and criminally, but he's taken the plane and is on his way to Ankara. We've contacted law enforcement in Ankara. They'll be waiting when they touch down. And there is an extradition treaty between the U.S. and Turkey. On a more mundane level, we're withdrawing the offer to purchase Gaia. We simply can't afford it until we get our financial house in order. We'll be in touch. Call me with any problems,” Kenzo concluded, and the connection was broken.

Tapping a finger against his front teeth, Grenier considered, then dialed Richard's cell number. “This number is no longer in service,” the robot woman informed him. Grenier had a sudden image of an expensive iPhone in a garbage can somewhere in Rochester. He should have expected this. Richard was a policeman. He knew that phones could be used to trace and to locate.

He tried to go back to sleep, but after an hour of tossing and turning, he rose, showered, dressed, and made waffles from scratch, liberally mounding them with blueberries and whipped cream. It was still only six o'clock. He paced, checked the clock. There would be no one at Lumina beyond security and the chef, Franz, until eight, and they needed to get the word. By seven, he couldn't contain his tension and anxiety. He drove to the Range Cafe, where he treated himself to a second breakfast of eggs con queso. The cheese and green chili sat heavy in his gut, so he ate some oatmeal as a stomach settler.

By then two hours had passed, and he felt he could safely assume that word had been given to the Lumina staff. He was certain of it when he entered the lobby and Paulette glared at him. Joseph opened the door to the security office and stared at him with the expression of a man contemplating dog shit on his shoe. Joseph shut the door without uttering a word. Grenier moved to the elevator.

In his office, he gathered up his files and the few personal items that adorned his desk—the crystal paperweight, a pair of antique bookends in the form of an old man seated in an armchair with a book on his knee that supported his reference books.

Grenier still persisted in using a dead tree dictionary and thesaurus over going online. There was just something about the feel and smell of actual books. Some of that was personal preference, some dictated by his role as televangelist. Fundamentalism feared change and advancement and celebrated a golden age embodied by the past, so he had continually attacked technological advancement and atheist science on his show. At its base, though, there was a very mundane reason why he chose paper books over electronic readers—magic played holy hell with high-tech items, so there wasn't much point keeping them around if you were a sorcerer.

He lifted the stack of books, then decided it was beneath his dignity to lug them. He would send someone to pick them up. When he stepped off the elevator on the sixth floor, Jeannette's expression was stiff, frozen. “Mr. Grenier,” she said formally, but her eyes revealed her despair, resentment, and contempt for him. Grenier decided in that moment whom he would assign as pack mule.

“Jeannette, please go down to my office and bring up my books. And I'd like Chinese for lunch. Bring me a menu from Chow's. In fact, I'd like you to start a menu book for the office.” Issuing orders to the haughty personal assistant felt very good.

She ducked her head and momentarily pressed her lips together. “Very good, Mr. Grenier. Are you planning on firing Franz?”

“No, and while I enjoy haute cuisine, I have an eclectic palate, and I want variety.”

He went into the office. The faint scent of Richard's aftershave, Stefano Ricci Classic, still lingered in the room. He moved to the piano, folded back the lid, and gently touched a key.
Where are you?
he wondered.

He moved to the broad granite desk, placed his paperweight and the bookends, then took the chair. Because of Richard's rather diminutive height, it was set too high, and his stomach pressed against the edge of the desk. He grabbed the handle and lowered the chair, adjusted the back, laced his fingers on his belly, and surveyed the room. Contentment washed through him.

 

Chapter

FIFTEEN

T
HEY
were taken to a hotel in the old city. It was a four-story sandstone building that wore its age like a dowager wears jewels and dignity. There was no elevator, just worn stone stairs. The mullioned windows held thick glass, and magnificent carpets covered the floors. On one wood-paneled wall there was a fireplace with a hood of beaten copper and set all around with magnificent painted tiles in shades of blue and green like peacock tails. The desk clerk, a young woman whose head scarf was a frame for the perfect oval of her face and her pale green eyes, greeted them and handed out keys. “There will be tea in the breakfast room on the upper floor. Once you are refreshed, please come and be welcome.”