Blond Cargo (20 page)

Philippe, patriarch and founder of the Vargas Development Group, had the look of a patrician nobleman. Shoulder-length silver hair that shined like the metal. Piercing brown eyes that looked down on the world through wire-rimmed blended bifocals and unblemished skin that spoke of male vanity and tonics.

Raul took after his mother.

“What?” was all Raul could come up with to combat his father’s attitude. He glanced over at Malic, who sat at the opposite end of the fourteen-foot teak conference table, his expression masked.

“Water under the bridge,” Philippe said disingenuously while he glanced down at his platinum Rolex Day-Date. “Sit, sit.”

Raul obeyed his father and grabbed a seat in the middle of the table. He drummed the thick, black-glass tabletop idly, staring out the thirty-eighth-floor window, wishing he were dead.

“Malic al-Yasiri,” Philippe went on, “our beloved partner in this endeavor, just dropped a million five into our bank account, guaranteeing the construction loan and ensuring that eight years of development will not go up in flames. Guaranteeing our place in the pantheon of Los Angeles developers. The Vargas Development Group is going to change the downtown skyline of the city with the fourth-largest economy in the nation. We,” he shared grandly, “are going to be the architects of great change.”

His father loved to hear himself talk, Raul thought through a haze of disinterest. He always felt diminished by his father’s charisma. He fantasized about throwing the old prick out the window. Then the empire would all be his. He could handle his mother. A shame, he mused, the windows didn’t open in this fucking airtight building.

“You seem underwhelmed,” Philippe said.

Raul snapped back to now, wishing he’d done a second line of coke.

“No, Dad, it’s terrific. Malic, you’re the man. You did it again. We’re forever in your debt.”

Of that truth Malic was sure. And he didn’t expect to wait too long for payback.

“You don’t look well,” his father said to Raul, feigning interest, shifting the focus away from Malic.

“I’m fine, Dad. Insomnia.”

“I’ve set a preliminary meeting with you and McCarthy and Associates for next week. Halle has the particulars. I’m putting you in charge of the leasing campaign.”

No visible response from Raul.

“Raul?”

“I thought we were working with Stein.”

“Cardinal Ferrer called last week. He highly recommended McCarthy and I know it’s in our best interest to take the meeting. Their group has a stellar reputation. Stein was understandably annoyed, but that’s business. It’s a small price to pay for the support the cardinal provided when you were incarcerated.”

Raul glanced at Malic, who was giving him the eye
.
Malic’s connections at the State Department had closed the deal and brought him home.

To his father, ignoring the personal jab, he said blandly, “It’s a big opportunity.”

“It’s an important position, maybe
the
most important. It’s not enough to say that ‘if we build it they will come.’ We all know the current realities. Commercial vacancies are running at twenty-eight percent and residential sales are just starting to recover. We’ve got to do better.
You
must do better. We’re counting on you.”

“I look forward to the challenge.”

“You have our utmost faith.” But the words rang hollow.

Raul broke eye contact with his father, glanced at Malic again. Malic’s wishes were painfully obvious. There would never be a good time to initiate Malic’s desired conversation, and so Raul bit the bullet, cleared his throat, and dove in.

“Have you brought Malic up to speed on the Spring Street project?” Raul asked, trying to sound collegial but failing miserably.

Philippe’s silence hung like a burial shroud. He gave away nothing, not a blink or an exhale of breath. What he couldn’t control was the crimson blush that spread from his neck to his ears. His stony gaze never left his son as he spoke.

“One contract at a time, Raul. Malic’s plate is presently full. When this project comes to fruition, the sky is the limit moving forward. Not for you to worry about.” It came out as an unveiled warning for his son to keep his fucking mouth shut, only harsher. “Spring Street isn’t open for discussion at this time.”

“It just seems—”

“Thank you, Raul. Talk to Halle and she’ll give you McCarthy’s contact information. Malic and I will want a full report after your meeting.”

Malic abruptly stood, pushed away from the table, and started for the door.

“I’ll leave you to your family business.” His tone was crisp and icy.

Philippe stopped him. “Malic, you and your beautiful wife will be sitting on the podium with the rest of the Vargas Development Group at the Wilshire Gala on the fourth.”

“She will be pleased.” And he was gone.

Philippe Vargas turned on his son with such ferocity that Raul flinched.

“If you ever sandbag me again, I’ll throw your worthless ass off the top of this building.”

Raul choked back a nervous laugh. He wondered if his father could read his mind and decided that it was a like-father-like-son exchange. What really pissed him off was that his father wasn’t afraid to verbalize his threats. And the
worthless
barb stung.

“You think this is funny?” Philippe pressed.

“I brought in Malic,” Raul countered, his skin-deep emotions erupting. “And if I hadn’t been incarcerated, as you constantly throw up in my face, I never would have shared a cell with his cousin, and you would now be living in a rental apartment in Reseda! You don’t owe the Catholic Church, you owe Malic. He saved your ass and you saved face. How about a little respect?” His father’s expression showed total contempt, but Raul pressed onward.

“Smart money is on you doing the right thing and making him a partner before he puts a stop-payment on his check and the mayor’s goons throw both of us off the roof for making him look like a fool for a second time.”

His father was loath to admit it, but he knew that his son was correct. It was only a matter of time before he’d have to dip into Malic’s well again. Vargas Development Group’s credit rating had suffered during the recession, and without Malic’s infusion of cash, the Spring Street project might well be a nonstarter.

He responded by picking up his phone. “Halle, Raul is headed your way. Can you give him the particulars on his McCarthy meeting? And make sure he gets there on time.” Philippe let out an exasperated sigh. “I leave that to you. Do you enjoy your position here, Halle?” His tone was growing in intensity. “Then give him a wake-up call if necessary.”

Raul exited the room before his father could slam down the receiver. The meeting was over, and not one second too soon. He didn’t want to add patricide to his burgeoning résumé.

Raul startled when he saw Malic waiting just outside the doorway. He had gotten an earful and looked at Raul with a modicum of respect before walking silently down the hall and closing his office door behind him.

Raul walked to his own office, locked the door, pulled out a small brown vial, and tapped out a thimbleful of cocaine onto his glass-and-chrome desk. With a shaky hand he fashioned a line with a razor-sharp letter opener shaped like a dagger. With a rolled twenty he snorted half of the drug in one nostril and the rest in the other. When he realized his hands were still shaking, he did a second line—and then cut his tongue as he hungrily licked the rest of the powder off the dagger’s edge.

Malic thought about evading the phone call from Sheik Ibrahim but decided he should face the lion if further negotiations were in order. The sheik had always been a skittish negotiator. If Malic hadn’t brokered his deal with Halliburton, the little man wouldn’t have had the discretionary wealth to buy the Arabian three-year-old that crossed the finish line by a nose to win the eight-million-dollar purse. Malic thought he deserved 10 percent of the winnings for setting up the deal.

But if the sheik wanted to crow, Malic would be gracious. After all, his million eight had already been spent. Angelica’s blood test had turned up negative for cancer and negative for STDs, her cholesterol was perfect, and she was the very vision of health. There was no way the little man could weasel out of the deal.

Malic glanced up at the solid-gold figurine he had stolen from the basement of the National Museum in Baghdad, purported to bestow good fortune, and clicked on the line.

“What are you doing up so late, my friend?” Malic’s voice, pure honey.

Sheik Ibrahim strolled down the center aisle of his air-conditioned stables. The wooden walls and flooring were tongue-and-groove ebony, milled and imported from Africa. The stable floor reflected the amber light that spilled from eighteen-karat-gold sconces handcrafted in Turkey that were evenly spaced on either side of the individual equine enclosures, creating golden pools of light that ran the length of the twenty stalls. At the far end of the multimillion-dollar structure was the sheik’s garage, filled with a collection of exotic cars that could have put a smile on Jay Leno’s face. Fuel-injected, lacquered metal sculptures that made the sheik feel taller.

The sheik’s favorite stud was eyeing him in anticipation of a treat and whinnied lightly, shaking his lustrous blue-black mane from side to side.

“Hold for one second,” the sheik said into the phone as he pulled a carrot from the pocket of his silk robe like a magician. The large beast bent down to reach for his favorite snack. From a distance the sheik would have looked like a child attending the magnificent horse.

“I received a call the other day that ruined what was otherwise a remarkable victory,” he said with an easy tone.

“Your thoroughbred won,” Malic stated.

“You saw the race?” The sheik sounded pleased.

“I live vicariously through your many exploits, my friend.”

The sheik accepted the praise without a blink of his moist eyes and licked his pink lips before continuing.

“My phone rang during my champion’s victory lap,” he said. “Someone named Bogdanovich from the DEA. He’s attached to the Legal Attaché’s Office and used the name of the regional security officer at the American embassy to try and muscle me.”

“What did he want?”

“He asked about a video that had gone viral on YouTube.”

“And?” Malic prodded, failing to keep the irritation out of his voice.

“I told him I had no idea what he was talking about and the phone call was ill timed. He told me to download the video and get back to him.”

“Please get to the point.”

“The point is”—the sheik enunciated every word like a petulant child—“it was our girl, Malic. The woman I purchased. The video you played for me,” he said, matching tone for tone.

“That’s impossible,” Malic said dismissively.

“Ah, but you’re wrong. It is the woman I have paid a large sum of money for, and when you get off the phone, you can go online and verify my veracity. Then you can call me back and kiss my Arabian ass for wasting my time by questioning me.”

“How could this have happened?” Malic said, ignoring the verbal slight. “The video I transmitted was in real time and never left my room,” he said, struggling to still his beating heart.

“Let’s both calm down, my old friend. As you know, my son is only eight, but he is cunning. He recorded a few seconds of my new girl on his iPhone. Over my shoulder when we were negotiating. I don’t think any harm was done because the video could have been shot anywhere in the world. They wanted to interview my son and myself, and of course I denied their request.”

“How does an eight-year-old post on YouTube?”

“His tutor set up the account. He thought it would expand my son’s experiences. I couldn’t argue the point. My son is testing at a ninth-grade level.”

“Has the tutor seen the video?”

“Two thousand people have seen it, Malic. Not to worry. A sudden large windfall will keep his lips sealed. Between you and me I’m sorry to lose him. My son will be sad.”

“He’ll recover. And this Bogdanovich?”

“He seemed appeased when I refused. He’s got two thousand other leads to follow.”

“And now?”

Sheik Ibrahim’s silence stung like a lash. “I was going to cancel the order, but this woman is very desirable. She came to me in a dream.”

“And did she bring you the fax I sent? Her most perfect medical report?” Malic asked, sarcastically hammering the point. He wanted this deal to be over.

“After my champion arrives from Dubai, I will send my jet. Early next week. It will give us time to see if there are any more complications.”

Malic was afraid that if he opened his mouth he would say something that would permanently damage their business and personal relationship.

“Are you there, Malic?” the sheik asked calmly.

“We will proceed as planned, my friend. Dream well.” And he clicked off.

Sheik Ibrahim walked back down the aisle, turning his gaze from side to side, looking in on his exquisite beasts. His smile was impish. The sheik loved toying with his old friend’s emotions. But he would happily drop the hammer if necessary. The Matisse that hung in Malic’s study, he judged, would look superlative on his own bedroom wall.

32

Jack gritted his teeth and his stomach roiled as the chopper lurched upward, defying gravity, until it reached cruising altitude, tilted forward, and headed away from the Santa Monica Airport toward the Pacific Ocean.

Mateo was strapped comfortably into the club seat next to him, and Cruz was secured in the front next to the pilot, who was talking into a mouthpiece attached to the headphones connecting the four men. The pilot pointed out the Santa Monica Pier on the right and Venice Beach directly below, before executing a stomach-wrenching left and traveling south at a leisurely 120 miles an hour.

“This baby’ll do a hundred and forty knots if I push her, but it’s a beautiful day, so sit back and relax, gentlemen,” the pilot said.

Easier said than done, Jack thought.

They were flying in a candy-apple-red Bell helicopter that seated five. It was commonly used by upscale real estate companies who sold estates and mansions from Malibu to San Diego. Mateo had built enough of a reputation in the Miami real estate market to pull a few strings on the West Coast. Jack could have done without the running commentary, but Cruz was like a kid in a candy shop on his first flight. He didn’t want to miss a thing. Jack just wanted to get back in one piece.