The Protégé (25 page)

Wright gagged, then nodded.

“You can put it down. Now, I need a few things from you. First, you need to keep telling us where Gillette is at all times, no exceptions. You miss one appointment of his and . . . well . . .” Celino pointed at the folder. “You don’t want to end up like him, do you?”

“No.”

“Second, I don’t want Christian Gillette even
going
to that meeting with Mick Federico tomorrow morning. I want Carmine Torino to get the business. Gillette goes to the meeting with Federico and—”

“But—”

Celino raised his hand, and for the first time a look of rage filled his face.

“Torino will get the business,” Wright said meekly.

The rage disappeared as fast as it had come, replaced by contentment. “Now we’re getting somewhere, David.” Celino pulled out a cigarette and lighted it. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No.”

“If you do, please say so.”

“I love cigarettes.” He hated them.

“You want one?” Celino asked, holding out the pack and smiling.

“No, thank you.”

Celino put the cigarettes back in his jacket pocket. “You know, when you ask someone to take extraordinary measures for you, I believe you should tell them a little bit about what’s going on.” He opened his hands and gestured toward Wright. “It makes them feel like they’re part of it. Like when you guys give your senior managers stock in the companies they’re operating for you. It gives them a stake, right? Makes them more passionate about making things run well.”

Wright nodded. That was exactly what they did for their senior managers.

“You see, I believe in the
stick.
” Celino pointed at the manila folder on the table beside Wright. “But I believe in the
carrot,
too. Call me an amateur psychiatrist, but, well, I’ve done okay for myself, you know?”

Wright could barely breathe. “Very okay.”

“So here’s the first thing I’m going to let you in on.
We
took care of Stiles. We retained the services of the mate on your partner’s yacht. Of course, he’s gone now, too.” Celino chuckled. “It was a short engagement, and the cops won’t find anything. If they do, I’ll blame you.”

“Why did you kill Stiles?” Wright asked, shuddering at the thought of Celino blaming him for anything.

“He was doing some poking around I didn’t like. He was a very resourceful man. I’d had enough.” Celino took a long puff off the cigarette. “The second thing I’m going to tell you will blow your mind.”

Wright leaned forward. His stomach was feeling better.

“We’re working on something big. We and the Wallace Family, that is.”

Wright’s mouth fell open.

Celino smiled widely. “Let me just tell you, when all this is over and Allison Wallace is running Everest Capital, there’ll be a place for you. If you’re a good boy.” Wright started to say something, but Celino cut him off. “That’s all I can tell you about that right now, but it’s your big carrot. Treat Miss Wallace with great respect and do what you’re told. At the end of the day, you’ll be a happy man. Whatever ups Gillette has promised you will look like peanuts compared to what you could earn after he’s gone.”

Wright’s heart was pounding. He was still in shock at what he’d heard, but he was thinking about the possibilities, too.

“There’s one more thing,” Celino said.

“Yes?”

“We know Gillette is starting to depend on you, but we don’t think he trusts you yet. Not as much as we want him to, anyway.”

“He trusts me.”

Celino gave Wright a dismissive wave. “Like I said, not as much as we want him to. So we’re going to set up an incident tomorrow.”

“An incident?”

“Yes. You’ll get details tomorrow morning after the Federico meeting is canceled. Before you and Gillette go downtown to meet with the city council representatives about the casino.” Celino rose from the chair. “Do you have any questions?”

Wright thought for a moment. “There is one thing. Last week I was on the phone with Gillette, trying to find out exactly where he was going so I could report back to your . . . uh . . . associate, Paul.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He was going to the Eastern Shore of Maryland, and I was trying to find out exactly what town it was. He asked me why I was so interested and I told him it was because I had family down there.”

“And, of course, you don’t.”

“No,” Wright admitted. “I wouldn’t be too worried about it except he brought it up with my wife this weekend when we were out on the yacht. You see, he invited a few of us out on it to celebrate—”

“I know,” Celino said coolly, “remember?”

“Right.”

“You want me to solve this problem for you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m afraid it might blow everything.”

Celino considered the request, then nodded. “All right, I’ll do it. Now,” he said loudly, pointing toward the door, “please leave.”

Wright took one last glance at the manila folder on the table and headed quickly for the door.

When he was in the elevator with the doors closed, he leaned back against the walls, let out a deep breath, and shook his head. So Allison Wallace was going to be running Everest Capital.

15

IT TOOK EVERY
ounce of self-control Gillette had not to smash the cell phone on the marble floor when it rang. He’d take so much pleasure watching it disintegrate into a thousand pieces. Then no one would be able to reach him on it anymore.
“What is it?”

“We need you in that northern city we discussed when we met last week. We need you there tomorrow morning, ready to go by nine.”

It was two o’clock. Gillette and Wright were sitting in the hotel lobby, waiting for the limo to take them to the Las Vegas airport. Earlier, they’d finished a grueling three-hour session with several members of the city council concerning the casino. After some horse trading, it appeared everything was a go, thanks in no small part to his having retained Carmine Torino at eight-thirty that morning, Gillette figured. He glanced over at Wright, who was in the chair beside him. David was going back to New York on a commercial flight, and he was headed to the West Coast to see Marilyn—and Lana. David had pushed so hard this morning at breakfast not to even bother with Federico.

“I can’t,” Gillette replied, refocusing on the call, “I’ve got plans.”

“Cancel them,” Ganze ordered. “We need to go
now.
You have to arrange for us to move into the space up there right away. Figure that out tonight or
early
tomorrow morning so we’re ready to go at nine. We only need about three thousand square feet, but it’s got to be remote, it’s got to have its own access. We’ve had our people up there scoping out the facility, and there’s a building near the river we think would be perfect. We can take care of security, no need for you to worry about that. All you need to do is get a heart valve research lab out of there. It’s just a few people. That’s the only thing in there at this point.”

So Ganze had been watching the Minneapolis facility for a while. “I’m going to meet these people, right?” Gillette asked. “The three we talked about? The biochemist in charge of the project and her two top assistants?”

There was nothing but dead air.

“Ganze?”

“I have to talk to my boss about that.”

“You promised me.”

“I know,” Ganze agreed quietly.

“I’m not doing this unless I meet them,” Gillette vowed, “and unless I hear more about my father. You told me I would by now.” Once again he glanced over at Wright, who was fiddling with his own cell phone. Gillette pressed the phone tightly to his ear. “You got that?”

“I’ll give you more on that tomorrow after our meeting,” Ganze promised. “I do have additional information.”

“Tell me now.”

“Not on a cell phone. Look, I know you’re frustrated,” Ganze said, his voice growing compassionate. “Just meet with us tomorrow. You’ll be glad you did.” He waited a moment. “Hello?”

“All right.”

“Good. Find a hotel on the south side of the city. In Bloomington or Edina. You’ll hear from me later on.”

“Yeah, okay.” Gillette clicked off.

“What’s going on?” Wright wanted to know, stowing his cell phone away immediately.

Gillette checked the lobby for the QS agents. He didn’t see them at first—just loudly dressed tourists moving in all directions. He sat up, his breath instantly short. Then he saw the agents over by a pillar. His shoulders sagged.

“Chris?”

“Damn it, David, keep your shorts on.”

“Jeez, bite my head off.”

Gillette relaxed into the chair. “Sorry.” He sighed. Sometimes it seemed as though his life weren’t his own anymore. More and more he thought about giving it all away. “Change of plans,” he explained. He’d have to call Marilyn from the plane to tell her he wasn’t coming. A tough trade, he thought ruefully: meeting his real mother the first time for learning more about his father. “I’m not going to the West Coast now.”

“Where are you going?”

“Something’s come up.”

“I thought you were seeing . . . your family.”

“I was.”

“Well, whatever came up must be pretty important if it’s getting in the way of that.”

“Drop it, David,” Gillette said bluntly.

“I just thought we were going to be in contact all the time.”

“We are. With cell phones and Blackberries.”

“Yeah, but it would be helpful to know where you are in case—”

“Where’s the damn limousine?” Gillette barked, surprising even himself.

“It’ll be here soon,” Wright assured him. “I talked to the QS guy in charge. Ten minutes tops. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“You just seem—”

“I told you, drop it.”

“Okay, okay.” Wright stayed quiet for a few moments. “You want to talk about our meeting with the city council people? You know, compare notes?”

Might as well do something with the downtime, Gillette figured. “Okay,” he agreed, noticing a blonde who was sitting across the lobby from him. She was older—in her mid-forties—but very attractive. She smiled at him as their eyes met, and he smiled back politely.

“So, what did you think?” Wright asked.

“I thought it went pretty well,” Gillette answered, trying to hide a yawn. He hadn’t slept well again last night. Each night, he replayed the scene on the yacht deck in his mind, trying to figure out if he was missing something. Something that might help the police figure out what had happened to Stiles. “I think the casino’s ours if we want it. The one guy in the maroon leisure suit at the other end of the table was a pain in the ass, but they’ll probably send Carmine Torino to see him and that’ll be that.”

“It was amazing how they already knew you’d hired Torino when we got there,” Wright commented.

“It’s a rigged town. Always has been, always will be, no matter what anybody says.” Gillette looked over at the blonde again. She was touching her chest, seemed to be breathing hard. “I want to ask you something.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you tell me you had relatives on the Eastern Shore of Maryland?”

Wright’s mouth fell slowly open. “Because . . . I do.”

“I talked to Peggy on the boat Saturday, and she said you’ve never mentioned having family there to her.”

Wright shrugged. “I guess I never mentioned it to her. I mean, they’re distant cousins, you know? I don’t think I’ve seen them in ten years.”

“Which side?” Gillette asked, leaning forward in his chair.

“Huh?”

“Which side of the family? Your mother’s or father’s?” Gillette stared at the blonde. She seemed to be trying to get up out of her seat, but she was having trouble.
“Jesus,”
he said, standing up and pointing, “I think that woman’s having a heart attack.”

The blonde clutched her chest as she finally made it to her feet. She staggered a few steps forward, then crumpled to the ground. Gillette, the two QS agents, and Wright rushed toward her.

As they did, a man who’d been sitting in a chair nearby stood up and drew a pistol from his jacket, aiming at Gillette.

“Chris!” Wright shouted, knocking Gillette to the ground as the first shot rang out. He sprinted at the shooter as the QS agents dropped to their knees and drew their weapons.

“Don’t shoot!” Gillette yelled at the agents as Wright closed in on the assailant.

One more shot rang out, then Wright was on the guy, knocking him down and grabbing his wrist, slamming it against the marble floor. The gun skittered away. The QS agents were on the man a heartbeat later, rolling him onto his stomach and cuffing his hands behind his back.

Gillette let his head fall back gently against the floor. Tom McGuire just wasn’t going to quit.

THE PRIVATE JET
lifted off from Boston’s Logan Airport at six
P.M.
eastern. An hour and forty-five minutes later, it was flying at twenty-four thousand feet just east of Lake Michigan.

In the cabin were two men and one woman who’d been tucked away in a far, forgotten corner of Harvard Medical School for the last two years. They were the three biochemists who’d been leading the development of DARPA’s nanotechnology project, which was on the edge of a major breakthrough.

A second, larger plane was fifteen minutes behind them, carrying their records, computer files, and all the equipment they’d used over the last two years—and would need to finish the project. They’d been told that there had been a breach of security in Boston and that they were being secretly transferred to another agency, GARD, that would be in charge of the project to its conclusion. They’d also been told that they wouldn’t be allowed to see—even make contact with—their families for at least several weeks, maybe longer, until they’d gotten settled into their new location, which hadn’t been disclosed to them. For a while, they tried to guess where they were going as they sped west, but after thirty minutes, they had settled patiently into their seats, reading magazines, newspapers, and files.

When the plane was twenty miles out over Lake Michigan, a remote-control device tripped two emergency fuel ejection valves, and fuel began pouring from the tanks. A red light went off in the cockpit thirty seconds later, indicating to the pilots that the plane was quickly losing fuel, but they were helpless to do anything. The valve wouldn’t close, and they were flying on fumes. They turned the aircraft around and descended, trying desperately to get down, but at ten thousand feet the engines shut down and everything went eerily silent.

The plane stayed up for a few seconds, then rapidly lost speed, and the nose turned down. The pilots worked furiously to maintain altitude, but at five thousand feet they lost control and the plane went into a vertical dive.

When the jet hit the surface of Lake Michigan, it disintegrated—as did everything inside.

THE MAN WHO
had pulled the gun in the hotel lobby sat at a small table in an interrogation room, smoking a cigarette. On the other side of the table was an armless wooden chair where he figured the cop would park his fat ass when he finally got around to making it in here. The man had been waiting an hour, and he was getting irritated. It wasn’t supposed to take this long. He was supposed to have been in and out.

Finally the door opened.

“I’m Detective Jim Pearson.”

“Congratulations.”

Pearson tossed a folder on the table, turned the chair around so the back of it was to the table, and straddled it. “What in the hell were you doing?” he asked, crossing his forearms over the top of the chair back.

“What do you mean?”

“You try to shoot Christian Gillette in the main lobby of Caesar’s Palace while he’s being covered by two private security guys, not to mention all the hotel security people buzzing around. You only pop off two shots, neither one of which comes anywhere near him. You know you didn’t have a chance of getting away. I’ll ask you again, what were you doing?”

“Trying to kill him.”

“Bullshit. If you were, then that was one stupid plan.”

“Okay, I’m stupid.”

“At least you could have shot that guy who tackled you. I mean, he was right in front of you.”

The man took a deep breath. He was one of the best shots in the Carbone family, so it was difficult to take this. “Okay, I’m stupid
and
I’m a lousy shot.”

Pearson grunted, not satisfied. “What’s your name?”

“Johnny Depp.”

“Fuck you.”

The man shrugged. “Hey, maybe I’m stupid and a lousy shot, but give me some credit for being creative.”

“Who’s behind this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think you’ve got anything against Gillette, I can’t find any connection. So who does?”

The man looked down. Hopefully the detective would make something of his silence.

Pearson leaned in. “You’re looking at a lot of time, pal. You’re gonna be charged with attempted murder. I’d cooperate if I were you.”

The man winced, then shook his head. “I can’t.”

“Come on, Johnny. Come clean. Maybe I can help.”

“How?”

“Maybe the evidence gets lost, I don’t know. I’ll think of something. I want the person behind the scenes.”

The man dropped his cigarette on the floor and stepped on it. “His name’s Tom McGuire. He told me he used to run a company Gillette owned, and Gillette screwed him somehow. I don’t know, though. I didn’t get all the details. Frankly, I didn’t care once he paid me.”

Pearson pulled out a pen and paper. “What was that name again?”

“Tom McGuire.”

“Where did McGuire approach you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“Did he talk to you here in Vegas first, or what?”

“No, no, it was back in Jersey. We have a mutual friend there.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

The man rolled his eyes. “Fucking Christ, you got to be kidding me.”

“Okay, okay.” Pearson backed off. “You said McGuire ran a company for Gillette?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s the name of the company?”

The man shrugged. “Ask Gillette.”

“I will.” Pearson put the pad and pen away. “How much did McGuire pay you?”

The man thought about it for a second. It had to be enough, but not too much. “A hundred grand.”

THEY’D BEEN IN
the air for two hours, and Gillette had finished the crossword puzzles in
The New York Times
and
USA Today
and was just about done with
The Washington Post.
When he’d gotten the last answer of the
Post’
s puzzle, he dropped the paper on the floor and looked over at Wright. Since Wright had gone after the guy in the hotel lobby, Gillette had decided to bring him along. He wouldn’t be allowed into the meeting with Boyd, Ganze, and the biochemists, but he deserved to come to Minneapolis. Christ, he’d put himself in terrible danger, directly in the line of fire. He was as dedicated as Stiles had been. Suddenly he felt bad for asking Wright about his family in Maryland. For being suspicious. Wright had done nothing but continue to prove himself a worthy protégé.

“Hey, David.”

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look a little pale.”

Wright smiled wanly. “I guess I’m just not much for staring down the barrel of an angry gun.”