The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (15 page)

He slowed a bit, but kept moving, staring ahead. Then he heard steps behind him too, clacking to intercept. Just before hands gripped his shoulders on either side, he stopped.

"We need to show you something," another deep voice said in a Russian accent.

 
~ * ~

He recognized the big blond guy as one of Swann's bodyguards, a man who looked like an aging Rambo nemesis, complete with cold, unblinking eyes, but minus any overt threat except for a tendency to dip his head like a prizefighter about to rope a dope. The other man was a middle aged Aussie in a gray suit who wanted to be called Malcolm. His neatly trimmed goatee accented an intelligent, rugged and symmetrical face above a trim but lithe physique. In the security office Malcolm pointed at a video monitor as Swann's humorless stand-in touched a controller. The screen lit up, showing the photo of an empty elevator.

"This is the shot taken six minutes after the one with you and the man you claim said he was C.I.A.. You'll notice the outline of a woman's head just in the middle bottom, there. She was standing up against the door, and must have been pressed against it. It's the only blind spot in the space. The only thing we know from this picture is that her hair is long and dark. However. . ." He motioned for the Russian to click ahead. "However, you'll see that we have other images of a woman fitting your description taken at other times in other elevators. Is this the woman you mean?"

"Dragon lady," David confirmed, as the images appeared, showing the tall Japanese hooker he remembered from the El Haj, standing amid other riders. "Yes, she's the one with a dragon tattoo on her ankle. What about Vaughn?"

"Vaughn," the security man repeated to the blond.

The images moved back to stop at the photo of a clean shaven Arab man in a white
dishdash
. The man's head was bowed away from the camera, and in the elevator photo he had turned completely away while David stood in front of him.

"I didn't notice that," David said.

"Go figure," said Malcolm. "By the way, the elevator camera is mentioned nowhere in the building's literature, but both this guy and the girl knew when to hide, and where the blind spot is."

"So he. . .
they
. . . really are C.I.A., then?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No, the C.I.A. isn't this clever, and what would be their motive? We have a complete dossier on
Shakil
Nasheed
, and they've never asked for it." He paused. "We also know that the girl really is a hooker, because we have images of her going round to other floors in this building over the past three months. Would the C.I.A. have a real hooker on their payroll? Well, I suppose it's possible, but it's unlikely. And now here's another thing. We have an image of your man Vaughn leaving, but he's leaving alone. The girl isn't with him. In fact, Mr.
Leiter
, your dragon lady hasn't left the premises at all. We have video of all exits to prove that." He paused as the monitor went dark. "She's still here, in the building, continuing her usual good work."

"Is this my problem?"

The two men exchanged glances. "Obviously you don't think so," Malcolm said. "But aren't you curious, considering what just happened?"

"No," David lied, "I'm not. Not if my life is at stake."

The man nodded. "So you're not planning to go to the police?"

Remembering the passport again, David said, "Actually, I. . . suppose I am. I have to. Unless you think you can get my passport back."

"Who has it?"

"A man named
Muaz
Salik
."

"I believe I've heard that name before. What if I tell you that if you help us I'll get your passport back for you?"

"You can tell me anything. Doesn't mean it's true."

Swann's bodyguard leaned down, his minty breath a heat on the back of David's neck. "So you're not going to cooperate?"

Considering the odds, he said, "Maybe if the price was right."

"And what would that price be?" Malcolm asked, eyebrows narrowing, a hint of amusement in his tone.

"You tell me."

The security head motioned for the bodyguard to leave the room. When he was gone, Malcolm rubbed an index finger over his lips, then said, "I'll tell you what, Mr.
Leiter
."

"Call me David."

"David. Right. Okay. If you help us out here, I'm sure we can pick up your plane fare back to the States."

"I'm not going back to the States," David informed him.

"No? Where, then?"

"Paris."

"Okay. Paris."

"Sorry, not good enough."

Malcolm took in a breath and let it out, slowly. "Okay. How about this. We fly you to Paris, and put you up in a Swann property there for. . . say, two weeks? All expenses, of course."

"Not even close," David said.

Malcolm narrowed his eyes this time, both hands raised to his hairline as though he were looking through a tunnel. "You'll have to excuse me, Mr.
Leiter
. I mean
David
. Just what exactly do you want?"

David stood, and for a long time considered it, before he reached down for the handle of his suitcase. "One million dollars," he replied, at last, "and my passport by tomorrow."

The laughter exhibited by Swann's security men subsided when he told them what he wanted to do with the money. After explaining that the full million wasn't needed--that it only had to look or sound like a million in a leak to the press--he didn't need to explain to them why the word
million
itself had a magical impact on those hearing it, or that anything less might prove ineffective. With only a kernel of his idea cracked open, each man then offered their own contribution to the hasty scheme, which flowered quickly. Swann himself was contacted next, and the full situation carefully detailed, along with what David and Etherton had both seen. After five tense minutes Swann called back and approved the plan, which now involved a surprise engagement party for an unnamed Bollywood star, like one Victor
Seacrest
was known to admire, at a restaurant near the
Seacrest
Tower. Speculation from the anonymously leaked tip-off would swiftly circulate like a virus through the local press, who would wonder whether it was
 
Nadira
Babbar
,
Suchitra
Patil
, or indeed Rhea Kumar who would show up. The venue, Swann decided, would permit ample use of cameras at the event, and his own added stipulation was that a room in the
Seacrest
be obtained for the unnamed star, which would provide access to the building itself. Swann's own men could then mingle with the paparazzi, survey
Seacrest
Tower, and move into it with the principals.

"And all you want for yourself from this is a limo sent for each of the two men you mentioned to
Aazad
?" Malcolm summed up, his tone skeptical.

David nodded. "They'll be our real life Bollywood stars. They just won't know it. They'll think the party is a surprise for each of them."

"What would be the occasion for that?" the security man asked, awe in process of replacing any last remnant of derision.

"A book deal, of course."

"You mean with a million dollar advance offer?"

"Exactly. For an exposé of their respective industries, where they can also vindicate themselves in print. Of course I'll say as little as possible."

"You?"

"I'll be with one of the drivers.
Cashman
, I think. I'll be a publishing representative making the offer, just in from New York. I'll tell him there's others waiting to meet him, including a film star."

"What about the other driver?"

"He'll say the same thing. When they get there, naturally everyone will be waiting for the secret star and his or her entourage, who never arrive. In the meantime, they'll enjoy the party they would have attended at the El Haj anyway, moved there for insurance reasons.
Cashman
and Innes won't learn the truth until they get inside, and begin talking to people."

"And you'll be there to watch?"

"I won't just duck out the back. Maybe I'll interview them too, in a private room."

"Interesting," said Malcolm. "And I suppose it'll look good to have limos arrive with other celebrities. Give the impression our star's really going to show. As well as, shall we say, providing a couple exciting false starts, just like in the movies?" The security chief held out his hand. "Malcolm
Wurley
," he said, as though introducing himself for the first time. "From Brisbane."

David took the hand and shook. "David
Leiter
," he said, "from Tucson. But, like here, it's a dry heat." He looked down at the place on his wrist where his Timex watch used to be. "Better hurry now, Mr.
Wurley
," he added, "or I'll be forced to dial nine one-one. So to speak."

~ * ~

After the building's nurse tended to David's injury, calls were made, and several unconnected platinum credit card numbers repeated. Within half an hour caterers were preparing hors d'oeuvres and several open bars, although at four times the going rate due to the late hour. A substantial fee was paid to procure the main room at the Chanticleer Club, next to
Seacrest
Tower, and yet another fee promised if tight secrecy was maintained. Meanwhile, known El Haj party goers were contacted with word of the move, along with promises of free liquor for the inconvenience. Then the engagement party news was leaked to the press.

When Etherton finally came down, he and David sat in the lobby, in big white leather chairs facing a six foot pedestal bearing a bronze statue of Gregg Swann, who appeared to leer down at the spire of a building poking up through the clouds at his feet.

"They just told me the plan," Doug said, in amazement. "They said it was basically your idea. Is that true?"

"I suppose it is. Not having much of a choice."

"Well, I knew you had an imagination, but how did you get Swann to agree to it?"

"I didn't. Apparently he didn't think he had much of a choice, either."

Etherton shook his head, trying to comprehend it. "So. . .Swann really believes that. . ."

"Who knows," David said. He closed his eyes and leaned back. "We're all just flying blind, aren't we? I think he's moved past denial and grief directly to the anger phase. If he grieves at all. Either way, he has incentive, just like any hanging judge with a grudge. Thing is, though, how do we know
Seacrest
doesn't imagine the same thing we did?"

"What, you mean that Swann is behind this?"

"Granted, it's even
less
likely, but what if the UAV that hit Swann's family was supposed to hit another part of the building? What if
that's
the error here? It would mean
Seacrest
believes he's next, and that Swann's diversion either failed or succeeded spectacularly, depending on how cynical and paranoid you are."

"From what I hear," Doug said, "
Seacrest
is pretty paranoid. And you'd have to be, wouldn't you, to think that Swann and
Nasheed
. . ." He paused, chuckling. "This whole thing's got nothing to do with either of them, does it?"

David shrugged. "Look at that statue. Does he really believe in his own immortality? I don't think so. I think it's just propaganda."

"You saying that's why he has no choice? Because he's vain, or because he knows he's not a god?"

"Both. It's like we're all locked into this media fantasy we've created. Or we've adopted, consciously or not. I shouldn't be here either. But here I am."

"Maybe it'll be okay. Maybe nothing will happen."

"Shit always happens to blind people coasting downhill."

"Listen to you," Doug said with a grin. "And I was almost gonna say maybe you'll find the woman of your dreams, too."

David sighed. "You know, I remember reading about this ghetto tour company in Mumbai. They take rich people around the slums for a fee. Show them diseased Indian kids sorting garbage while their mothers work as prostitutes. It got popular right after the movie
Slumdog
Millionaire won the Oscar. I remember wondering what motivates people to take such a tour. Do they give more to charity afterward, or does it make them feel more alive somehow. . . like they're not just another homeowner from upscale suburbia with a different color Lexus than the one next door. Maybe they want to scare themselves into working harder. Maybe some life insurance sales manager or business book author takes the tour for research. Or maybe if you went on the tour yourself, you'd be seated next to some smarmy little aluminum siding baron planning to take his top producers on the tour to goad them to greater triumphs."

"What did you decide?"

"That there's really no difference between those slum kids and the people in the tour vans. We're all obsessed with survival."

"Is that why you thought about killing yourself?" Etherton countered.

"Yes, you're right," David said. "To end the fear. To meet the thing head on."