The Protégé (26 page)

Gillette could relate to that. “Why don’t you catch a nap?”

“That’d be nice, but I need to get this Hush-Hush deal done,” Wright answered, pointing at the due diligence material spread out on his lap.

One of the QS agents trotted up from the back of the plane. “Phone, Mr. Gillette.”

“Thanks,” he said, taking the receiver. “Hello.”

“Christian, it’s me.”

“Me”
meant Allison. So they were at that stage already. She was, anyway.

“Having a good time without me?” she asked.

“Yep.”

“How did it go with the Vegas city council?” Her voice turned serious. “Do we have our casino?”

“I think so. We hired one of the consultants I told you about. That was key.”

“How much is it?”

“A lot.” No need to get into it right now. “But it’s worth it.”

“Are you on your way to the West Coast?”

“No.”

“Well, where are you going?”

“Something came up.”

“What?”

“Something.”

“What’s the big secret?”
she snapped. “Jesus, first Richmond, now this. I should have you tracked.”

Gillette’s eyes narrowed. No doubt she could if she wanted to. Maybe she already was and this conversation was just cover. “I’m going to Minneapolis.” Really no reason to be so evasive. Wright was with him. She’d get it out of him.

“What happened?”

“A friend of mine called this morning. We got an opportunity. Another deal, but I have to get to Minneapolis right away.” He was safe on this one. Wright had no idea why they were going to Minneapolis.

“More rush-rush.”

“Always.”

“Is David with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Minneapolis, huh?” Allison spoke up, her voice intensifying. “That’s weird. Doesn’t Beezer Johnson have a division up there?”

“Uh-huh,” Gillette answered hesitantly.

“Have you thought any more about my proposal?” she asked. “My family buying Beezer?”

“I haven’t had a chance to really—”

“I talked to my uncle and grandfather about it,” she cut in, “and they think it’s a great idea. They had a couple of our analysts in Chicago take a look at it, you know, tear apart the numbers, and they think Beezer would be a nice fit with our business.”

Gillette let out an exasperated breath. “How did your analysts get the numbers?”

“I had Cathy Dylan e-mail them. I didn’t think you’d mind.” She paused. “Do you?”

“Before you do that again, talk to me first. Those files are confidential.”

“Okay.” She paused again. “Let’s talk price.”

“It’s not for sale, Allison.” He didn’t want to hear her price. Once he did, if it was good, he’d have a fiduciary responsibility to consider it.

But she barreled ahead anyway. “Six billion.”

“Six billion?”
Everest had bought Beezer Johnson a couple of years ago for just two. “At that price we’d make almost as much on Beezer as we will on Laurel Energy. But Beezer only has income of about a hundred million. That’s a ridiculous multiple to pay.”

“Thanks for calling my family ridiculous.”

“You know what I mean.” Why did they want Beezer so badly? Gillette kept asking himself. “I said the
deal
was ridiculous.”

“Look, we can combine Beezer with the company we already own and generate some fantastic synergies, so our actual buy-in multiple is a lot less.”

“I want to see that analysis.” He could poke holes in any analysis, no matter how good it looked on a spreadsheet. He’d be able to keep her at bay for a while.

“Um, sure. I’ll have our analyst e-mail it to you.”

“As soon as possible.”

“Yeah, sure. By the way, have you talked to Senator Clark about setting up the meeting with the FDA guy?” Allison asked, switching subjects. “Jack Mitchell e-mailed me today about that. He’s still hot to trot, but he wants to see the FDA thing start moving.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay. Well, I hope everything goes all right in Minneapolis. Whatever secret thing it is.”

“Thanks.”

“How’s Faith?” she asked out of the blue.

“Fine.”

There were a few seconds of dead air.

“I miss you, Christian,” she finally said.

Gillette glanced at Wright. “Thanks,” he said, then clicked off.

“Was that Allison?” Wright asked after Gillette had hung up.

“Yeah.”

“You know, I really like her. She’s something special.”

“Not still worried that I’m going to be distracted by her?”

“Nah.”

Gillette eyed Wright. “Why’d you change your mind?”

“I had a chance to talk to her for a while Saturday on the yacht. She’s nice. Smart, too. And you’re too much of a pro to let that happen. I know that.”

Finally, he thought, someone was giving him the benefit of the doubt.

“By the way,” Wright spoke up, “I remembered where my family is on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s a town called Easton. The woman is my mom’s second cousin. You should go visit her when you’re in Chatham next. It’s like an hour away from there. Mom says the woman’s a great cook. Fried chicken’s her specialty.”

Gillette nodded. “Maybe I will,” he said, but his first instinct was to call Wright’s mother to check the story out. When would he ever learn to trust anyone? “Thanks.”

“Sure.”

The phone in Gillette’s lap rang. Hopefully, it wasn’t Allison. When he saw the number, he knew it wasn’t.

“Hello.”

“May I speak to Christian Gillette?”

“This is Christian.”

“Mr. Gillette, this is Jim Pearson. I’m a detective with the Las Vegas Police Department.”

Gillette sat up in the leather chair. “Uh-huh.”

“I got your number from one of the officers who responded to the shooting out at the hotel this afternoon. I need to ask you a few questions.”

“All right.”

“Does the name Tom McGuire mean anything to you?”

Gillette froze. “Yeah, why?”

“The guy we arrested claims McGuire paid him to kill you. Claims McGuire ran one of your companies and that you and McGuire got into it over something. Does all this make any sense to you?”

“Yes, it does.”

“Good,” Pearson said, sounding surprised. “Maybe we’ve got something to go on after all.”

“McGuire ran a security company for me,” Gillette explained. “He and his brother, Vince, started it. I think McGuire tried to kill me in New York City last week, too.”

“You
think
?”

“It was like what happened today. Someone else attacked me, but we think McGuire was behind it. And I . . . well, I believe he was behind the murder of my friend Quentin Stiles this past weekend, too. Anything you can get out of the guy you’re holding could be very important.”

“All right, good. I’m gonna question him again tomorrow morning, after he’s cooled his heels in jail overnight and had a chance to think about how much trouble he’s in. If I have any more questions, I want to call you, okay?”

“Sure. Let me know how the interrogation goes tomorrow morning, will you?”

“Okay.”

“Who was that?” Wright asked.

“The detective who interrogated the guy you caught at the hotel.”

“Really? What did he say?”

Gillette looked hard at David, mulling over his response. He needed a new confidante. Someone he could trust with anything. “Tom McGuire paid the guy to kill me.”

HE’D BEEN IN
this jail before, a few overnight stays for drunk and disorderly, so he knew the drill. And this wasn’t it. Not even the usual route to the cells. As they turned a corner of the lonely hallway, the cop stopped, took out a key, and undid the handcuffs. Then he pushed open a door marked
EMERGENCY
. “Get lost.”

The man didn’t hesitate, just moved out into the night and quickly hailed a taxi.

“Airport and step on it,” he urged, fat with pride thinking about what a great acting job he’d done for Pearson. He checked his watch. A few hours more than he’d expected, but Celino would be happy. And that was all that mattered.

WRIGHT MOVED
into the bathroom at the back of the jet, then closed and locked the door behind him. He leaned over the sink and gazed into the mirror, then turned on the cold water and splashed his face. He stared at himself again, not exactly sure who was staring back.

Gillette had bought everything—just like Celino said he would: that the guy at the airport had really been trying to kill him, that Wright had saved his life, that Tom McGuire was behind everything. Wright shook his head. Celino using McGuire’s name was perfect cover, a stroke of genius. McGuire was in hiding, so there was no way to confirm or deny that he was behind it.

Wright splashed more cold water on his face. Celino knew how to dangle a carrot, but it was the stick that was causing nightmares.

He turned to go but caught himself in the reflection once more. He hesitated and leaned close to the mirror, studying himself. Finally, he grimaced and headed out. He couldn’t look any longer.

16

LATE SEPTEMBER
and, at seven o’clock in the morning, it was just thirty-four degrees. The predicted high for the day was only forty-nine. It amazed Gillette that people actually chose to live in a place like Minneapolis. New York got cold, but not like this. He clenched his teeth, trying not to shiver. They’d come straight from Vegas, so he didn’t have an overcoat. God, he hated the cold.

From the steps of a building that rose up along the banks of the Mississippi River, Gillette watched a dark blue Cadillac sedan move slowly down the single-lane road toward him. This was the original building of Beezer Johnson’s Minnesota division—a quaint, three-story, redbrick structure built in the 1920s and added on to several times since. In the sixties, after several spring floods in a row, management had relocated most of the division to a newly constructed facility on high ground overlooking the area. Now there were four gleaming two-hundred-thousand-square-foot plants up there, and the only people left in the original building were the heart valve research staff. Management had kept the old building around mainly for posterity.

The Cadillac pulled to a stop in front of the steps, and a man emerged bundled up in a long overcoat. A QS agent descended the steps quickly, frisked him, then gestured for him to go up the steps.

“Hello, Mr. Gillette,” said the man, holding out his hand as he reached the top step. “I’m Andrew Morgenstern.”

Morgenstern was president of the Minnesota division. Gillette had never met him before, had spoken to him for the first time only last night on the plane. Typically, Gillette dealt with Beezer’s CEO and CFO, whose offices were at the corporate headquarters in northern New Jersey.

“Welcome to Minnesota,” Morgenstern said.

Nervously, Gillette thought.

“It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

“If you’re a polar bear.”

Morgenstern smiled, but not as though he were amused.

“Let’s go inside,” Gillette suggested, rubbing his hands together, his breath rising in front of him. Morgenstern’s nervousness was typical for line managers when they met him, and he wanted to ease the other man’s anxiety. “I appreciate your getting up early.”

“You betcha.” Morgenstern pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the front door. “Jeez, you ought to be wearing a coat, you know.”

“I would if I had one,” Gillette replied as Walker waved the QS agents in ahead of them. It didn’t seem much warmer inside. “I thought you had people working in here.”

“Sure, yah, we do.”

“Don’t you heat it for them?”

Morgenstern laughed loudly, then frowned when Gillette remained stone-faced. “Oh, you’re serious.”

“Yes.”

“It’s sixty-six degrees in here, Mr. Gillette. With sweaters on, people are fine. There’s no need to cook ’em and pump up Northern State Power’s revenues at the same time. We’re big on cost savings around here. Turn out the lights when you’re done, you know? I got signs everywhere.”

“Uh-huh.” Gillette glanced at the QS agents, who were moving down the tiled hallway ahead of him, checking rooms. Walker was staying right by his side. “How many people work in this building, Andrew?” he asked as they walked slowly down the corridor.

“Around twenty, I think.”

“Can you move them into one of the other facilities up the hill?” Gillette asked bluntly.

“I guess. Do you mind if I ask why?”

“I’m afraid I do.” He was used to politely telling people to pound salt.

Morgenstern’s eyebrows floated up. “Jeez, okay.”

“Look, I know how this sounds, but I need you to abandon this building until I tell you it’s okay to come back. It could be a couple of weeks, it could be a year. I don’t know, but that’s the way it has to be.”

Morgenstern shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

Gillette glanced at Walker, who had taken a call on his cell phone and peeled away. “I need everybody out of here by eight this morning, no later. If they leave anything behind, they’ll have to call and make a special request to get it.”

“
Eight o’clock?
Golly, some of the folks don’t even
get
here until nine. They gotta get their kids off to school. You can understand that, can’t you?”

“They won’t be allowed in here after eight, Andrew. No exceptions.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Does this building have its own entrance to the main road?” He could see Morgenstern’s curiosity was killing him, but to the man’s credit, he didn’t ask anything.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The front door opened loudly behind them, and Gillette whipped around.

“It’s all right,” Walker called over his shoulder, trotting toward the door. “It’s one of my guys. I just talked to him on the phone.”

Gillette turned back to Morgenstern. “Andrew, you can’t tell anyone what’s going on here.”

“I don’t
know
what’s going on.”

“You can’t tell
anyone
you’ve seen me or these men. You can’t even tell the CEO or CFO. I’ll fire you if you do.”

Morgenstern’s eyebrows rose. “Hey, it’s your company.”

“And Andrew . . .”

“Yes?”

“I need that key.” Gillette pointed at the set of keys Morgenstern was holding. “And any others that go to doors in this building.”

Morgenstern handed the entire set to Gillette. “Here.”

“Thanks.” Gillette shook Morgenstern’s hand. “I appreciate your help.” He spotted Walker coming back down the corridor. “Congratulations on the great job you’re doing. The CEO tells me your group is way ahead of plan for the year.”

“Division.”

“Excuse me?”

“My
division
is way ahead of plan.”

“Right.” Morgenstern was a stickler, but Gillette appreciated that. “Your division. Have a profitable day, Andrew.”

WHEN BOYD AND GANZE
arrived, Gillette was waiting in the lobby, going through e-mails on his Blackberry, while Walker and several other QS agents milled around—they’d finished checking the building. Gillette stowed the device in his pocket and stood up when he saw them.

“We need to go somewhere we can talk privately,” Boyd said right away.

“The building’s empty except for the people in this room,” Gillette answered. “I don’t think privacy will be a problem.”

Walker started to follow them as they headed off down the corridor.

“He can’t come with us, Christian,” Boyd growled, “you know that.”

“It’s all right, Derrick,” Gillette said, waving him off.

“That’s not the same guy you brought to Washington last week, is it?” Boyd asked as they walked away, heels clicking on the tiles.

“No.”

“Where’s that guy?”

“Dead.”

Boyd was headed into a vacant office when Gillette answered. He stopped in the doorway and turned around.
“What?”

“Dead,” Gillette repeated.

Boyd moved into the office. “Jesus, what happened to him?” he asked over his shoulder.

“It was a freak thing.” No need to get into it.

“God, that’s awful,” Ganze said, shaking his head and following Gillette inside. “Sorry.”

“Thanks.”

“The nanotech people we’ve brought from DARPA are waiting outside in a van,” Boyd spoke up impatiently. “I don’t want to leave them there like that for long. What’s the deal?”

“I met with the president of this division an hour ago,” Gillette replied, “and told him he had to abandon this building until I said otherwise. And that he had to keep it quiet. That he couldn’t tell anyone he’d met with me, including the top officers of the entire company.”

“Good.”

“What’s his name?” Ganze asked, pulling out a pen and pad.

“Andrew Morgenstern,” Gillette said. “He’s good. Anyway, the building is yours at this point. You can do what you want with it. Now, I want to meet these people.”

Boyd sat behind the desk, then motioned at Ganze. “Go get them, but I don’t want anyone else seeing them, Daniel. Doors closed down the hall.”

“Yes, sir.”

When he was gone, Gillette sat down. “So, did you stage these people’s deaths yet?”

“What?” Boyd was off in another world.

“You told me you were going to stage a plane crash,” Gillette reminded him. “So other people on the nanotech project wouldn’t suspect anything when the people in the van weren’t around anymore.”

Boyd nodded somberly. “Oh, yeah, we did that.”

“Where was the crash?”

“Out in western Pennsylvania somewhere, in the mountains.”

“How are you going to convince anyone that there were people on board?”

“There
were
people on board,” Boyd answered.

Gillette looked at him hard. “Are you kidding me?”

“Don’t get bent out of shape. We used cadavers, and the pilot bailed out before the thing went down.” Boyd chuckled. “God, you actually thought I killed people?”

Gillette stifled his sudden outrage. He was disliking the man more and more all the time. “How would I know? You wanted to be able to stick me in prison for thirty years.”

“Mmm.”

“What about dental records and DNA? They won’t match.”

“It was a hell of a crash. Huge fireball. The plane was only in the air for a few minutes before it went down, so it was full of fuel. The bodies were too badly burned for anybody to make a positive identification.”

“I think they can still—”

“It won’t be a problem,” Boyd snapped, aggravated. “Talk to Ganze if you’re really that interested.”

“Won’t the other people on the project think it’s strange that the three of them were on the plane together?”

“Not at all. They were supposed to be on their way to a nanotech conference in Los Angeles, with a stopover in Cleveland to check out another project. They were going to catch a commercial flight from Cleveland. Small teams of them did that kind of thing all the time.”

Gillette stood up as Ganze walked back in with the three biochemists. A petite Asian woman and two scholarly-looking men wearing tweed blazers.

“Dr. Evelyn Chang is our project leader,” Ganze said to Gillette, introducing him to the woman, “and these are Dr. Silverstein and Dr. Rice.”

Gillette shook hands with each of them.

“There,” Boyd said, standing up, “you’ve met them. Now we’ve got to get them moved in.”

Gillette gazed at each of them intently for a few more moments. “Welcome to the facility. I hope it works for you.”

Dr. Chang shook Gillette’s hand again. “Thank you very much, Mr. Gillette. We appreciate your dedication to national security, to keeping this country ahead.”

“You’re welcome,” Gillette said quietly, thinking about how he’d gotten into this purely for selfish reasons. But now, with these three individuals standing in front of him, it seemed different. Maybe he
was
doing the right thing.

“All right,” Boyd pushed, “let’s go.”

“What about my questions?” Gillette asked when they were out of earshot of the biochemists.

Boyd stopped. “Didn’t Daniel give you Marilyn McRae’s number?”

“Yes.”

“Well, call her.”

“I did, but I want to know about my father, too.”

Boyd motioned to Ganze. “Go with him.”

Gillette and Ganze moved to another office a few doors down.

“Here’s the deal,” Ganze said when they were inside and the door was closed. “We were right. Your father was killed by a group inside the government that was planning to assassinate President Bush. At that point, the group believed Bush would easily win another term. Of course he didn’t, but they didn’t have a crystal ball. He was incredibly popular when they were plotting.”

“How do you know that these people killed my father?”

“So far,” Ganze replied, “we have two sources. First, we have a guy who was a mechanic at the Orange County Airport at the time. He was working the day your father’s plane crashed. The guy claims he knows who rigged the plane to go down. We’re going out there to talk to him, in the next few days.”

“I want to talk to him, too. I want to be there.”

“I don’t know if I can do that. I’ll have to get back to you on that.”

“You always have to get back to me.”

Ganze looked down. “Sorry, Christian, it’s all very complicated. I hope you can appreciate that.”

“Who’s the other source?” Gillette demanded.

“A man who was in the Secret Service back then,” Ganze replied. “Same kind of situation as the mechanic. This guy has information for us about a couple of agents who were going to be involved in the assassination. We should get to him in the next few weeks.”

“Why wait so long?”

“These things take time. People don’t just give up this stuff that fast. We negotiate.”

“The agents who were involved must have been thrown in jail. Check it out.”

Ganze shook his head. “No, that’s the thing. There wasn’t anything to convict them of. No proof of a conspiracy, just the appearance of one. People in the service were let go, reassigned. Some were probably guilty, some weren’t. It just isn’t as clear cut as you and I want it to be. It may never be, especially since it’s been sixteen years.”

Frustration coursed through Gillette. As he’d suspected all these years, his father had been murdered, but maybe this outcome was worse. Now he
knew
there’d been foul play, but there might not be anyone to hold accountable. No one to take his anger out on.

“Look, I know you want answers fast,” Ganze continued, “but you have to be patient. And for a while, maybe for good, you may have to be satisfied with the fact that your father probably saved the president’s life. We think he contacted a higher-up at the White House just before the plane crash, maybe even that morning. We think he stopped the assassination. Your father’s a hero.”