The Power Broker (30 page)

Roth said nothing, just glared at Harrison.

“What’s going on?”

Still Roth said nothing.

“Do you know who these men are?”
Harrison asked, his voice shaking as he gestured around the lodge. “They’re incredibly powerful. And three of them are dead.”

Roth’s gaze snapped up from the floor. “What?”

“Yeah. Franklin Laird, Stewart Massey, and Richard Dahl. I recognized them from the photo I took out of the kitchen. Laird was chairman of the Federal Reserve, Massey was an ex–U.S. senator from Texas, and Dahl was a five-star Army general. Laird was killed in a hit-and-run incident in northern Virginia, Massey drowned in a lake in Oklahoma, and Dahl was killed in a terrorist attack a few weeks ago.”

“Jesus.”
Roth never had any idea who they were. He’d never let himself think on it, just wanted to live a quiet life on an island for a while and forget. “Who are the others?”

“I don’t know yet, but I’m working on it.” Harrison paused. “Except for the old man, the one who came to me in the bar that night.”

“Are you sure it was him?” Roth asked.

“Positive. You saw that picture I left here. It’s the same guy in the picture you had on the counter in the kitchen. The one I took.”

Roth let out a long breath. So actually four of them were dead. He’d carried Benson’s cold body himself. Four dead that he knew of anyway.

“So, Don, what are we going to do?”

FLEMING SMILED
as he watched Faraday trudge toward the subway. Nigel actually thought there was a chance Black Brothers might not sell Laurel Energy. He had no idea how it all fit together. When it came down to it, Nigel only cared that he was going to be chairman of Everest Capital—which was perfect. His greed made him malleable, and that was what the Order needed him to be.

Nigel thought this whole thing was about keeping Christian Gillette off Jesse Wood’s presidential ticket. Part of it was, but only a small part of it. The bigger part had to do with honor and loyalty, with doing the right thing, with protecting a son of the Order when the man of the Order couldn’t do it himself, with protecting a country from itself. Clayton Gillette had been a man of the Order when he died in that plane crash twenty years ago, a man Samuel Hewitt had admired, even before Hewitt was initiated into the society. So, Hewitt had taken it upon himself to help Clayton as he lay in his grave. To keep his son, Christian, from making a huge mistake, to keep Christian from helping destroy what the Order stood for. Preserving the status quo. Preserving control of the nation by whites.

And Christian could have done it, too, Fleming thought to himself. Could have wrested control from the Order. Christian had that charisma. He could have pulled enough whites to Jesse’s side to get the man elected. Thank God Hewitt had figured that out long ago—and taken the appropriate action. Christian Gillette wouldn’t be running with Jesse Wood. Hell, in a few weeks, Jesse wouldn’t be running at all.

Fleming chuckled as he watched Nigel disappear down the subway stairs. He could have given Nigel a ride back to Manhattan, could have dropped him off somewhere out of the way on the West Side. But it was too much fun to think about him riding in a subway car, sitting next to some half-drunk stinking Mexican headed somewhere deep into Brooklyn, headed to some hovel he called home.

“Driver,” he called, “take me back to Wall Street.”

22

“I’VE GOT A FEW FOLKS
coming out from Dallas tomorrow night for poker. I hope you can stay, Christian.”

Hewitt, Three Sticks, and Christian were sitting on the porch of the huge house, gazing up at the vast night sky glittering over Texas. The sun had been down for almost an hour, but the stars were brilliant, casting a glow on the fields sweeping down from the ridge the house was built on. Horses and cows were visible in the distance, dotting the field like gray ghosts. Christian had kept to water while Hewitt and Three Sticks had worked on a bottle of Scotch together, but he’d allowed himself the pleasure of a good Cuban cigar from the humidor just inside the double doors. It had been a long time since he’d done that and it tasted good.

“We think the stakes are pretty high,” Hewitt continued, “but you won’t.”

Christian glanced at Three Sticks. The kid was bleary-eyed, staring straight ahead, his glass balanced precariously on one leg. Hewitt was breaking the kid in young, getting him ready to drink his mates under the table. Hopefully, he wouldn’t kill the kid in the process. “What’s the ante?”

“Hundred bucks a hand.”

“Any limits?”

“Nope.”

That was rougher than the game back in Manhattan. At least those guys had a ten-grand limit per hand. Good thing he didn’t drink. You always had a better chance in poker if you didn’t drink. In anything, really. “Yeah, I can stay.” Christian felt a relaxing buzz from the cigar coming on. “That’d be fun.”

“Nice out here,” Hewitt murmured, “don’t you think?”

“Yeah.”

“Nice way of life. Wouldn’t want to ever see it change.”

Christian could feel Hewitt trying to draw him into a political discussion. Of course, that was going to happen more often now. He shut his eyes tightly. Unless the SEC came after him. Damn it. He’d almost been able to put it out of his mind. The lawyers hadn’t heard back from Vivian Davis today. If they didn’t by noon tomorrow, they were going over her head. Then it was anybody’s guess what would happen. “Can we talk about Laurel Energy for a minute?”

“What about it?”

Hewitt had swallowed his share of Scotch, too. Christian could hear it in his voice, a trace of meanness creeping in. “Price.”

Hewitt groaned. “Everything’s always gotta be about price, doesn’t it?”

“Of course. So what’s yours?”

“Well, let me tell you what happened. I got my CEO over the hump as far as
buying
Laurel but not over it as far as paying five billion. He agreed to four point three billion, but not—”

“Let’s not screw around,” Christian said calmly, glancing at Three Sticks. The boy’s eyes were slits. “The last thing I want to do is be rude, Samuel. You’ve let me enjoy this wonderful place, fed me a big meal, and I’m smoking a great cigar. But we both know your CEO is just a guy taking up a desk and an office in downtown Dallas. He wouldn’t argue with you if you told him the sun rose in the west and set in the east, let alone if you told him you wanted to pay five billion for Laurel Energy. Let me be as polite as possible. You’re bullshitting me, Samuel.”

Hewitt laughed. “That was
very
polite, Christian. I appreciate the way you put it.” His smile disappeared. “Now get the hell out of here.”

Christian’s eyes raced to Hewitt’s.

“Just kidding, son.” Hewitt put his glass down on the arm of the chair and slid his feet into a pair of slippers lined with rabbit fur. “Obviously, you’ve done your homework. Unfortunately for you, so have I. Trenton Fleming can brag all he wants about ginning up a bunch of other buyers for Laurel, but he won’t.”

“What’s wrong with Laurel that I don’t know about?” It was a brutally honest question and it made Christian look very vulnerable, but he had to ask. “How do you know Fleming won’t be able to get me any other buyers?”

“There’s nothing wrong with Laurel, it’s just that I put out the word.”

“Put out the word?”

“I made sure people in the industry who mattered wouldn’t make you an offer.”

It seemed inconceivable for Hewitt to think he could keep an entire industry away from Laurel. Christian had run into people who had a lot of power, but this sounded over the top. “And how exactly can you do that?”

“I just can.”

“Sorry, but I don’t believe—”

“How long have you had Laurel on the block?” Hewitt cut in.

“A while,” Christian admitted.

“Any offers?”

“A few.”

“Any
real
offers?”

Christian shook his head.

“Anything wrong with Laurel that
you
know of? Be honest with me.”

“No, I told you that. It’s clean.”

“Had all the best engineers in the world confirm your reserves, right?”

“Yes.”

“Had Morgan Stanley give it the seal of approval, too?”

“Right.”

“They couldn’t figure out what was wrong, either?”

“No,” Christian agreed impatiently, “they couldn’t.”

“I rest my case.” Hewitt rose from his chair. “Come on, let’s go inside.”

“What about your grandson?” The boy was snoring softly.

“He’ll come inside when he gets cold. He’s a smart boy,” Hewitt said with a laugh.

They moved through the double doors into a comfortable living room. Hewitt picked up the television remote and switched it on to the Democratic convention. “Just about time for your boy to accept the nomination.” Hewitt eased onto a couch and put his slippers up on the coffee table. “Why aren’t you there?”

“They didn’t want any rumors starting.” Christian sat in a chair beside the couch.

“When is Jesse going to announce you as his running mate?”

“They’re not sure yet, probably a week or so.”

“Wanted him to have solo time in the spotlight, huh?”

Christian nodded. “Why did you tell me you didn’t know Laurel Energy was for sale when we met in Princeton?” he asked. “Obviously you did if you put out the word on it.”

Hewitt stared at the television, watching the governor of New York take the stage. The governor was a close friend of Jesse’s and was going to officially nominate him as the party’s candidate for president. “It’s complicated, Christian,” he finally answered, “very complicated.”

“I’ve got time.”

“Tell you what, I’ll give you your five billion for Laurel. Full price. Which means nine hundred some odd million for you guys at Everest. Let’s leave it at that.”

“That’s great, but I still want to know why you didn’t tell me.”

Hewitt grimaced, then the phone on the table beside him rang. He snatched it quickly. “Hello.” A few moments later he hung up, then stood. “Sorry, Christian, but I’ve got to get to Dallas for a meeting. U.S. Oil has a situation in the North Sea.”

FORTE COULD
barely control himself as he watched Jesse take the stage on the hotel room television. The dream was actually coming true. “I can’t believe it, Heath.” He heard his voice shaking, felt his heart pounding, his throat going dry. He hated showing emotion, but right now he didn’t care. This was history, and he’d made it happen. “Jesse Wood is going to be the next president of the United States. It’s incredible.”

“Sure looks like it,” Johnson agreed quietly.

“It’s amazing,” Osgood spoke up.

Forte, Johnson, and Osgood were watching the nomination together in Forte’s hotel room. When the convention was over for the night, Osgood was heading downstairs to the ballroom for an after party, but Forte and Johnson were staying up here. Forte still didn’t want to be seen anywhere near Jesse. They were so close to making it all happen, he couldn’t take the risk.

“A tribute to you, Elijah,” Osgood continued. “You’ve made this all possible.”

Forte glanced from Johnson to Osgood. Osgood was the traitor, the one who’d turned on him. Forte was sure of that now. Stephanie had tried to get in touch with Samuel Hewitt several times, but Hewitt had turned her down. Because Hewitt didn’t need Stephanie anymore, he had Osgood. That was why he’d declined her offer. There wasn’t any hard proof Osgood was the rat, but Forte could feel it. Osgood was being too much of a kiss ass, too deferential for a man who knew he was going to be out on his ass after Jesse won the election. For a man who was going to fall one tiny step short of his own dream.

“Thanks, Clarence,” Forte said calmly.

Forte never thought he could hate anyone as much as he did the man who’d done those awful things to his mother, but he was wrong. He hated Clarence Osgood more. He’d take care of Osgood when the time was right, but the more immediate problem was Samuel Hewitt. Hewitt almost certainly had the clip of Jesse—thanks to Osgood.

Forte’s expression turned to steel. He’d done his homework on Hewitt ever since Stephanie had told him she’d been approached. Hewitt was a powerful man—and a racist. It had taken Forte a while to dig that up, but there was no doubt about it. Obviously, Hewitt had approached Stephanie for information in an effort to derail Jesse Wood’s campaign. Probably had a blood pact with his racist buddies in Texas to keep Jesse out of the White House at any cost and now that he had Clarence Osgood in his hip pocket, figured he had everything under control. Well, Hewitt had a surprise coming to him. A
Texas-sized
surprise.

THE HELICOPTER
had taken off from the lawn in front of the house fifteen minutes earlier, heading for Dallas. Hewitt had bid a quick good-bye, promising to be back in the morning at the latest, in time for the poker game tomorrow night. Christian just hoped Hewitt would remember that he’d agreed to pay the full five billion for Laurel when he got back.

Christian moved into Hewitt’s darkened den, toward the desk. That was where he was going to start. He didn’t like digging through another man’s personal files, but this was a chance he wasn’t going to pass up. Three Sticks was still here—other than that, the house was empty. The help lived in another place a few miles away, and they were gone for the night.

For fifteen minutes Christian carefully searched the den, but he found nothing out of the ordinary—until he looked in a lower drawer of a credenza against a far wall. The folder was marked simply “CG.” He opened it and in the dim light gazed at the paper on the top of the file, the blood beginning to pound so hard in his head he could barely focus on the hand-scrawled words. It was a suicide note from Bob Galloway, the CFO of CST, clearly a copy of an original. His eyes raced to a name he recognized instantly in the body of the letter—his own. Galloway was blaming everything on him.

Beneath Galloway’s suicide note were pictures, dark pictures of him in the New Jersey woods handing over the bag to the guy he’d first met at the transfer station in Las Vegas. He picked one of the pictures up and felt himself beginning to sweat as he studied it. Obviously him, obviously the mobster.

Christian shook his head, feeling an awful panic he’d never felt before. What the hell was Hewitt—

“What are you doing?”

Christian’s eyes flashed from the picture to the den doorway. Three Sticks.

MCDONNELL UNDID
the knot of his black bow tie as the sedan approached the country road’s last curve before his driveway. It was late and he was tired. Fortunately, he’d convinced his wife not to come into Manhattan tonight for the formal dinner Jamison & Jamison had held celebrating the company’s one hundredth anniversary. Otherwise, they’d still be there. God, she could gab.

McDonnell put his head back on the seat and thought about the soft mattress he was only minutes away from, thought about how he was getting used to having a bodyguard all the time. He liked being driven everywhere, liked feeling protected. Jamison & Jamison had never allowed its senior executives to enjoy perks like these. He smiled. When Samuel Hewitt decided he wasn’t going to pay for it anymore, he’d pay for it himself. He couldn’t give it up now that he had it.

As the sedan came out of the sharp curve, it was suddenly face-to-face with two huge headlights. The bodyguard shouted and twisted the steering wheel hard to the right, toward a ditch, but not in time. The eighteen wheeler hit the sedan almost head-on, crushing the car.

A hundred yards down the road, the truck driver brought the rig to a screeching stop, hopped out of the cab, and sprinted back toward what little was left of the sedan. McDonnell’s mangled body lay beside the wreckage.

CHRISTIAN HAD TAKEN
the first vehicle he could commandeer from Hewitt’s ranch. An old Jeep parked in one of the barns near the house that sounded like it didn’t have many more miles left in it—but hopefully enough to get to the Dallas Airport. Three Sticks had helped him find the keys in a kitchen drawer, somehow able to function despite the alcohol still coursing through his system. Tomorrow morning the kid probably wouldn’t even remember that he’d surprised Christian in Hewitt’s den. Christian had made up a quick story about looking for papers on a deal he and Hewitt were working on. Fortunately, Three Sticks hadn’t asked to look at the file Christian had taken from the credenza. If he had, he might have questioned the pictures.

Christian’s cell phone rang. It was surprising to have cell phone reception still ninety miles from Dallas. Not much out here but grassland.

“Yeah?” he shouted over the din of the engine.

“Where are you?” It was Quentin.

“Don’t worry about it.” Christian didn’t want to say anything over a cell phone right now. Too risky. “What do you want?”

“To tell you that it’s definitely the Wallace Family pulling the strings. All confirmed.”

Which didn’t surprise Christian at all. The question was whether or not Allison was involved. And if Hewitt was working with them—or alone. Hewitt had photos of Christian handing the bag of money to the mobster in the New Jersey woods, so he was obviously somehow involved in the delay of the casino license—or at least knew about it. Christian glanced out over the darkened Texas grassland. Hewitt knew about the CST fraud too, given the copy of Galloway’s suicide note that was in the file. They all had to be working together. He muttered to himself. He should have known he had a problem, a big problem, when he saw Hewitt’s initials on that paper at Black Brothers. He shook his head. God, if Jesse Wood only knew what was going on.