Conspiracy (15 page)

He asked Karen to write on the printout that it was a record of the state of California, then sign and date the document. He tucked it into his briefcase and left the office.

* * *

From Napa, Cady drove north on Route 29, traversing the valley floor with vineyards on both sides, passing the most prestigious producers in the American wine industry: Mondavi, Grgich Hills, and Beaulieu, among others, all properties of enormous financial value. But not fifty million for something the size of Mill Valley, he thought. That winery was a couple of miles to the east along the Silverado Trail.

Continuing north, Cady took a left in Calistoga and drove up the winding road that led over the western ridge of the valley. The view of the lush fields far below was incredible, but Cady tried not to look at it while driving, because the road dropped off sharply. What kept running through Cady's mind was:
I hope to hell Harvey Gladstone never drives this at night when he's had too much to drink.

Toward the top of the peak sat a wooden rambler that Cady guessed was fifty years old. The outside looked shabby, with faded yellow paint that was peeling in scores of places. In contrast, the front yard was carefully maintained, with clusters of flowers and a vegetable garden on one side.

Cady walked along the cracked cement path that led to the front porch. After he rang the bell and waited for several minutes without an answer, he peeked in the front window, through an opening in the curtains. A woman was talking on the phone. Cady rang the bell again, while watching her through the window.

This time she hung up, walked over to the door, and opened it a crack. She was a gray-haired woman with a leathery, wrinkled face. She had been crying, and was wiping her wet, bloodshot eyes with a tissue.

"I'm looking for Harvey Gladstone," Cady said.

"He's not here," she said, immediately frightened.

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"He's not in business anymore. You'll have to find somebody else."

She started to close the door, but Cady put his foot in the doorway.

"Are you Mrs. Gladstone?"

She nodded and wiped away more tears.

"My name's C. J. Cady. I'm from the Department of Justice in Washington. I'd like to talk to you." He took his government ID from his pocket and held it up to the crack in the door.

She didn't move to let him inside.

"Please, Mrs. Gladstone. It's important government business."

With great reluctance she opened the door. "But only for a few minutes."

Inside the house, Cady felt as if he were in a time warp. All of the furniture was from the fifties.

She wiped her eyes one more time, blew her nose, and tossed the tissue in a wastebasket. "Look here, Mr. Cady. I don't mean to be rude. This isn't a good time for me. I've got a grandson down in Los Angeles who's real sick."

"I'm awfully sorry."

"Well, there's nothing you can do about that, unless you know where he can get a new heart for a transplant."

She started to sob again. This time she wiped her face with the sleeve of her faded plaid dress. "I'm okay now. You want some cider? It's homemade."

"Yes, thank you."

She fetched him a glass from the kitchen and handed it to him. "I don't know what you want to see Harvey about, but my husband's had two heart attacks. He's not supposed to get upset. Maybe I can help you? That way you won't have to bother him."

Cady looked at her sympathetically. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm afraid that won't work. If you tell me where he is, I promise to talk to him without getting him upset."

"What did he do wrong?"

"Him? Nothing. I want to talk to him about something that somebody else did. I may need him as a witness. So where is he?"

"Fishing."

"When will he be home?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next Sunday."

He couldn't tell if she was being deliberately vague or not. "He must have a phone there, or a cell phone. Why don't you give me that number, and I'll call him?"

She shook her head. "He's in the mountains. No phones."

"Then tell me where he's fishing. I'll go find him."

She looked down at the floor. "Sorry, I don't know. When he goes off fishing, he stays in the cabin one of his buddies has up there. Harvey has never told me where, and I don't ask. When a man gets to be his age, he's allowed to enjoy himself, and fishing is what Harvey likes to do. Me, I like gardening and making cider. He doesn't bother me when I do those things. That's how we've had such a good marriage all these years. We give each other space. Are you married, Mr. Cady?"

"Actually, I'm divorced."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

She sounded genuine, and she was obviously upset about her grandchild. Cady, the tough prosecutor, couldn't bring himself to lower the boom on her, though she was giving him the runaround. "It's quite important that I talk to Harvey."

"What do you want to talk to him about?"

Cady would have liked to say it was none of her business, but he didn't want to sound like a tough Easterner. Besides, she might have some information herself. "The sale of Mill Valley about ten years ago. The Charles Boyd property."

"I don't know anything about that," she said.

From the terrified look on her face, Cady realized she was protecting her husband from something more than being upset. He decided to follow the nice-guy routine. "Listen, Harvey hasn't done anything wrong. I'm trying to help him because some other people who aren't as nice want to get him into trouble. But I can't help him unless I can talk to him. Are you following me?"

She nodded.

"Now, I know he's hiding out somewhere. If it's a buddy's cabin in the mountains, then that buddy can drive up and bring Harvey back. I don't care about any of that. But please get Harvey here in this house at nine
a.m
. on Monday, when an FBI agent will come to question him. Can you do that?"

She desperately wanted to be helpful to this young man. He was decent and kind. But there was no way she could do that.

"I'll do what I can," she replied in a noncommittal way.

"Remember—nine on Monday," Cady said as he walked to the door.

If this approach didn't work, he would have to use FBI agents in the area to find Harvey Gladstone one way or another. Meantime, he had to hustle if he was going to make it to Santa Rosa in time to get the last plane to Los Angeles.
 

* * *

A hundred miles away, north of Mendocino, Harvey Gladstone stood knee-deep in a cold mountain stream in his fishing boots with his line extended in the water. He should have had his eye focused on that line, looking for a nibble, but he couldn't concentrate on fishing. He hadn't come up to this desolate spot in northern California for the fishing, which was so extraordinary that he had already caught six trout today, stashed in a cooler on the bank. No, he had come to escape from
him,
the tough-sounding man who had called from what Gladstone, with caller ID, later learned was a Washington, D.C., pay phone. The man had tried to persuade Gladstone to call a prosecutor by the name of C. J. Cady and explain that the sale price for Mill Valley had been fifty million and that he had received a commission of six hundred thousand, which was six percent of ten million, and another hundred thousand for keeping his mouth shut. On the phone, the man's promise to arrange a new heart for Carl had been enough to convince Gladstone to agree to his request. Instinct told him to wait, though, until Carl received the new heart before making the call to Cady. Well, that was three days ago. The man hadn't arranged a new heart for Carl, but he had repeatedly called with threats.

After the third one, Gladstone decided to take off. He didn't know whose battle this was, but he didn't want to get involved. Besides, the man frightened him. He was convinced that no good would come of it. He had urged his wife, Louise, to leave and fly to Los Angeles, but she couldn't stand the idea of what seemed like a hopeless death vigil for Carl. He didn't think the man would bother her. She didn't know anything about the sale of Mill Valley.

Gladstone's eyes scanned the hills that ran up from both sides of the stream. Nothing was moving in the heavy green foliage. Suddenly he heard twigs snap on the hill to the west.

Startled, he dropped his fishing rod and looked that way. It was only a deer. He grabbed the rod from the water and breathed a large sigh of relief.
You 're being stupid,
he told himself.
Nobody could possibly find you here unless Louise told them, which she would never do.

He planned to stay for a few days, maybe a week or longer, until he was satisfied from the radio he listened to that it was all over, whatever was going on with Senator Boyd. If need be, he'd stay until after the election.

You 're safe,
he told himself.
Forget about it. Relax and fish.

* * *

High on the hill to the west of the stream, Terasawa crouched in a cluster of berry bushes, ten yards above the point at which the frightened deer had spotted him and burst through the brush. As he watched Gladstone through powerful binoculars, he doubted that the fisherman had any idea he was here. When the deer had moved, Gladstone's face had tensed. Now he was back to fishing.

He was a sneaky bastard, trying to run away like this. All it had taken was a mild threat on the life of the sick grandson for the man's wife to cough up her husband's location. She had said that she couldn't warn him that Terasawa was coming because he didn't have a phone in the cabin and his cell phone didn't work so deep in the mountains. She must have been telling the truth. Otherwise Gladstone would have been long gone.

Wanting to maximize the element of surprise, Terasawa kept low, crouching down among the trees and bushes, treading softly in his waterproof hiking boots, clutching a sharp knife. He was wearing a green camouflage uniform, which he had purchased at a military surplus store, a uniform left over from the Vietnam War, when American soldiers had hidden in the highland jungles, watching a foe the way he was doing now. Terasawa didn't want to think of himself in those terms. Rather, as a Japanese soldier in the hills of Okinawa, Japanese territory, resisting the American invaders, who had arrived in the water below.

Ten yards above the stream, Terasawa stamped his feet, gave a bloodcurdling scream, "Ai!," and hurtled himself down the hill.

Gladstone whirled around. "What the hell...?" Then he saw the upraised knife and the man with the scar on his cheek. Gladstone nearly jumped out of his boots. Frozen to the spot, he watched with horror as Terasawa stopped next to the cooler, grabbed one of the fish, and gutted it with a single stroke. Gladstone dropped his rod and took off, trudging awkwardly downstream in his high boots.

Terasawa tossed the fish and knife on the ground and raced into the water, chasing him.

In a few seconds Gladstone heard splashing on his heels. Trying to escape was futile. He decided to stop and fight. He wheeled around to confront the man. Before Gladstone could raise his arms, Terasawa grabbed him around the waist and picked him up. He held Gladstone over his head, the way he held barbells that weighed far more than the fisherman. Terasawa spun Gladstone around several times, then tossed him carelessly into the water.

Gladstone's whole body went under. When his head came up, he was choking and spitting ice-cold water. Terasawa grabbed Gladstone's head and held it under. When he finally let him up, Gladstone was gagging, and his eyes were bulging. Terasawa pushed him back under again. Then repeated the process for a third time. As he pulled him up at last, Gladstone's face was blue.

"N-no more," he mumbled in a barely audible voice.

"Then you listen up, you old fool, and you listen carefully."

He nodded.

"You do what you promised the man who called you. Do you understand?"

He nodded again.

Terasawa slapped him hard on the back. Water gurgled out of his mouth. "Say yes," he shouted.

"Yes... yes."

"And if you don't, I'll take that knife and gut you, your wife, and your grandson, just as I did that fish."

* * *

"It's showtime," Cady said to Bruce Gorman, the head of the FBI's office in Los Angeles. The two of them were having breakfast at an all-night coffee shop on Sunset Boulevard on the strip. The only other patrons at seven on this Sunday morning were three working girls who looked like they'd had a tough night, and their pimp.

Gorman finished a piece of toast and said, "I'm ready. Call."

Cady whipped out his cell phone, then reached into his wallet and extracted the piece of paper with Abdul Azziz's telephone number. The phone rang five times before a woman's sleepy voice answered.

"I want to talk to Abdul Azziz," Cady said.

"Mr. Azziz, he sleeping."

"Then wake him up."

"Maybe you call later."

"Maybe you wake him now." That brought silence at the other end. Cady pressed on. "You can tell him that it's the police and the FBI. Now go wake him."

"I go wake him."

"Fast."

He had to wait awhile until he heard, "This is Abdul Azziz. Who's calling?"

The voice wasn't nervous and trembling. It had a defiant edge.

"My name's C. J. Cady. I'm from the Department of Justice in Washington. Right now I'm in Los Angeles."

"And you can't call during normal hours? You have to wake people up early Sunday morning?"

"I'm being charitable, Mr. Azziz. If you'll look out your front window, you'll see two black cars on Sunset. Each one has four FBI agents. All I have to do is to give the order, and they'll arrest you."

There was a pause while, Cady guessed, Azziz looked out the window. The cars were in place. Cady had been in telephone contact with them.

"You're a very generous man," Azziz said sarcastically. "But I didn't violate any law."

"We could let the judge decide that."

"What do you want from me?"

"I want to talk to you."

"About what?"

"Mill Valley Winery and your purchase of it ten years ago."