Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) (3 page)

3

Bentonville, Arkansas

JONATHAN ALEXANDER ADJUSTED HIS SILK tie and smoothed back his silver white hair out of years of habit. Both were already perfectly in place. The twin Rolls Royce engines of the Gulfstream G650 lowered in pitch as his private jet began its smooth descent to a small private airfield in Northwest Arkansas.

Even with a soft global economy that hampered the sales of luxury items, the Gulfstream was on backorder for almost five years. The fastest private plane available at 610-miles-per-hour, with an international range of seven thousand miles, he had to have it immediately.

At seventy-three years of age and number eleven on the Forbes List of World Billionaires with a net worth estimated at just over fifty billion—Alexander smiled at the estimate—what was the point in waiting? He doubled the $65 million price tag to take delivery of a model intended for a Russian oil baron who was experiencing a temporary cash flow crisis. The drop in the price of a barrel of crude oil and the enormous cost of expanding a private army to protect oneself from emboldened enemies took a bite from his capital. Alexander knew firsthand the cost of mercenaries.

The Gulfstream wasn’t his most expensive or spacious jet, but it had a strategic advantage. Having bought it in the secondary market
through a distant company he owned, it was not yet known by friends and enemies that he was the passenger. Anonymous travel was one of the most difficult tasks for a man of his stature and reputation.

Whenever he traveled anonymously, he took extra precautions, including sending his doppelgänger—the Frenchman bore an incredible resemblance to Alexander—to one of his island properties on the big jet, a beautiful woman or two at his side. Alexander paid the man handsomely but suspected he would volunteer for his assignments without remuneration.

Still, every time he flew this route in the Gulfstream he was taking the risk of discovery. Only one man in Northwest Arkansas knew his identity—and despite trusting no one, Alexander trusted him.

It was a crisp late October morning. Alexander’s cashmere camel sport jacket would provide him plenty of protection from the chill. He planned to be back in the air within five or six hours. He told Pauline, his most recent traveling companion, she could shop and do her daily ten-kilometer run—the latter was such a strange obsession—but she was to be back at the jet no later than three p.m. They would eat dinner at Per Se in Midtown and then spend the night at his townhome on the Upper East Side off Park Avenue.

He could hear the shower in the stateroom turn off. He wasn’t happy that Pauline would not be presentable to see him off, a courtesy that was expected in her role—and it was never good to let hired help think that anything less than excellence was acceptable—but he waved off his irritation for the moment. He had a more important matter on his mind.

Alexander’s long time pilot dropped the craft into a soft and perfect three-point landing on the runway of the Louise M. Thaden Field of the Bentonville Municipal Airport. Normally they would land at the Northwest Arkansas Airport, but he preferred to be even more cautious and discrete this trip.

The Gulfstream taxied to a pair of waiting gleaming black Range Rovers and the stairs were quickly lowered.

“Darling, I’ll be just a second if you can wait,” Pauline called from behind the closed door. “I want to see you off.”

He ignored her.

“Jonathan?”

He paused, irritated again.

“Jonathan darling?”

He put on sunglasses and a fedora, and then stepped through the door into the streaming sunshine.

Pauline had been quite excited about finally being included on a long flight in the Gulfstream. Too bad it will be her last trip with me, he thought. She’s beautiful; a remarkable beauty that stirred bittersweet memories of distant time in his past. She is intelligent. She is charming. But she’s sloppy. You can take the girl out of Belgium, he thought, but you can’t take Belgium out of the girl.

He would have Klaus, his personal secretary, work with his lawyers to execute their separation agreement. He wondered if she was bright enough to realize how little she was walking away with when she got a tidy little check for a hundred thousand euros. Not bad for a young person just starting out in life. But the sum paled in comparison to the opulent lifestyle she was experiencing by his side. Her modest payout wouldn’t book her two trips on a chartered Gulfstream. He doubted she would have any of the money left by years’ end. Young people had little sense of delayed gratification. They wanted things now. No matter. He liked her but wouldn’t miss her. Not for long. There were more Paulines out there.

“As is always the case, the flight was a work of art. Such a fine landing, Erich,” he said to the ramrod straight captain who tipped his hat to him.

“Thank you, sir. You are kind, sir.”

Erich understood the rules of engagement. Erich was always excellent. Too bad for Pauline.

The tall, trim, elegant man exited the plane slowly but gracefully, following his bodyguard, Jules, invisible during the flight, but a force of nature in light of day, to the bottom of the stairs and waited.

Jules opened the back door of the Range Rover and did a thorough physical and electronic search. He repeated the process in the front seat. He then nodded curtly to the driver to pop open the trunk. Jules searched the compartment thoroughly, shut the lid, and next opened a telescopic rod with a mirror to check the undercarriage. The driver looked sullen, though he had been told by the boss that this was standard operating procedure for today’s client.

Who does this guy think he is?

As Jules moved back to the front of the car the man asked from the driver’s seat he was glued to—instructions had been given that he stay in the car the whole time—“Is this really necessary?”

The last word nearly caught in his throat as he looked up and made eye contact with Jules for the first time.

Jules fixed him with the brightest emerald green eyes the man had ever seen. Looking into Jules piercing stare he wasn’t sure he had actually seen green eyes in his entire life. Not like these. What the driver sensed from the blond ape was a calm, dispassionate, almost gentle, hostility. The man was a killer. As a Viet Nam vet who had known his share of men who lived for violence, he was certain of it.

No words were exchanged. Jules continued his detailed inspection. Satisfied, Jules nodded to the chauffeur who silently started the engine. Jules opened the door for Alexander.

I guess us local yokels aren’t good enough to open this guy’s door.

Jules walked around to the other side of the car but instead of getting in the back, opened the front passenger door, pushed a leather scheduler to the middle, and settled in. His eyes would not leave the driver for the rest of the trip.

Alexander watched and smiled. Jules truly was an artist with intimidation.

A matching SUV awaited Pauline’s bidding. He looked back as they pulled away. She still hadn’t emerged from the plane.

“I want to see you off, darling.” My dear Pauline, you did not take care of business. I must bid you a fond adieu.

She was different than other service companions Alexander had employed through the years. She played the part of devoted mistress well, almost to a tee. But her serene smile and calm disposition couldn’t hide the fact that the waters of her soul ran deep. She could pretend to be owned, but not well enough to disguise that it was pretense. She had her own agenda. He liked that.

Sometimes.

4

New York City

“DO WE KNOW ANYTHING YET? What is our friend up to?” Emmanuel Heller asked as he slathered butter and a large dollop of caviar on a slice of freshly-baked sourdough bread.

“We still know nothing. But that might change soon,” answered Walter Wannegrin, who just shook his head in amusement as Heller put the knife in his mouth and pulled it out slowly to make sure he devoured every last morsel of the insanely expensive Russian black roe.

“Good! My boss is nervous. More importantly his boss is nervous. Usually I’d just ignore both of them, but frankly, I’m nervous, too.”

“That makes you smart, Manny. I keep hearing little tidbits from my sources that should make
all
of us nervous.”

“So Wally, you’re sure you’ve found a way inside his defenses?”

No one dared called Walter Wannegrin, Wally—or Emmanuel Heller, Manny—but the two septuagenarians had a friendship that spanned more than sixty years, which afforded the privilege of an intimate casualness.

“I don’t
think
I’ve found a way in, Manny. I
know
I’ve found a way in. I’m already inside. I have been for five months.”

“You could have told me that, Wally,” said Heller, dabbing at the corner of a frown with his napkin.

“Manny, you’re the one who taught me that once someone knows your secret, it isn’t a secret anymore.”

“I agree, Wally. But that only applies to everyone in your life but me. I need to know everything,” Emmanuel explained as he went into a coughing fit.

His rolls of blubber undulated in time with his distressed hacks and wheezes. Concerned, Walter, thin and nimble, stood, went to his friend, and began slapping him in the middle of his massive back.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” Emmanuel said. “Are you trying to kill me just because I remind you that I must know all secrets?”

“You don’t look fine Manny. And I knew you would say that about secrets not applying to you because I know how impatient you are. This is a project that requires patience.”

“I’ve suffered the affliction of patience for a full nine months since we first spoke of the matter. Long enough to have a baby. If you’ve been inside his gates for five months why don’t we know anything yet?”

“You see, I told you. You are too impatient, Emmanuel. This is delicate. We want to find out what he’s up to without him knowing we were ever there. Your instructions exactly. You would have us hit the hornet’s nest like it was a piñata. In fact, as I recall, that is what you did when we were little boys.”

“I think your memory is fuzzy and it was actually you who did that,” Manny laughed. “You were older so you made sure I got blamed for it.”

“Older by two months, Manny—you could stand up for yourself just fine.”

“No Wally, I’m certain it was you. Sixty-one years later I remember that little escapade of yours like it was yesterday.”

“Sixty-one years? We are getting old, Manny. Too old to argue about what we both know to be true—you hit the hornet’s nest—and for what we’re trying to accomplish. I’ve always looked forward to dying peacefully in my sleep, preferably without a bullet hole in my head.”

“We may be old, but that’s why we’ve got to do this. You know as well as I do, actually better since you are a father and I am not, we cannot trust the young ones with something this big. They have too many personal issues from not being breast-fed properly or getting punched in the nose on the playground or some other nonsense someone put in their heads. They get distracted from what is important. That’s why I came to you, Walter.”

“Exactly.
You
came to me. Now just relax and be patient. Let this operation unfold. No prying. You asked me to do something you can’t do yourself. Leave me in peace to do it.”

“I must admit, I’m impressed, Walter. You got inside. I wasn’t sure that was possible. But five months ago.
Oyez!
What has taken so long to get any information—and what has changed now?”

“You’re prying.”

“I need a morsel for my masters.”

Wannegrin sighed and spoke slowly, “My contractor tells me an opportunity for the acquisition of closely-held personal data has finally presented itself to his agent.”

“Soon?”

“Even as we speak. Today or tonight. Maybe right now.”

“The man has done little to no meaningful business by computer or a cell phone or land line for years, even though he has the best encryption in the world. Where has Alexander kept the data hidden?”

“You asked me to help and I have done so at considerable expense and danger. And with no exposure to you and your government I would add. Now you want to interrogate me like a juvenile delinquent? You asked for a morsel and against my better judgment, knowing what an appetite you have, I offered you one.”

“I am sorry, Walter. You are right. I’m impatient. And when I’m impatient I get rude. Forgive me Wally.”

“Impatience. That is exactly why you are always rude, Emanuel. But I love you anyway and you are always forgiven even before you
commit one of your many sins. Now it’s time for you to get out of my hair and let me finish what you asked me to do. We will know something soon. Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. Time will tell.”

“Time we might not have, Wally.”

“Time is God’s way of keeping everything from happening at the same time, Manny. Just try to have a little patience.”

“Wally, I hope you know how grateful I am for your work. That’s why I’m taking you to dinner tomorrow night at the Madison Club.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how grateful you are. And I know I should be honored that the legendary Emanuel Heller, the man even presidents of the United States fear, would stop by for a surprise breakfast and then invite me to dinner. But I also know you’ll make me pick up the bill.”

“Walter, your expense account is better than mine. Much better. We’ll both enjoy a much better dinner if you pay.”

“That’s what you’ve been telling me all these years.”

“We’ll drink a toast to many more. The world needs us Wally, even if we are old men.”

“I have no argument there, Emmanuel. The world still does need a few old washed up curmudgeons like us, whether or not it knows it. We will lift a glass to celebrate our grand achievement of still being alive. Tomorrow night. At the Madison Club.”

The rotund Emanuel Heller pushed his chair back and began the incredible effort it took for him to lift his four hundred pounds from a chair with a grunt and a profanity.

Walter Wannegrin reached over and put a hand on his forearm to stop him. Emanuel settled his bulk back in the cushion gratefully. He looked up at his friend.

“Before you leave Manny, I am curious.”

“Aren’t we all?”

“Tomorrow night’s dinner has been scheduled for more than a month. Why the charade? It’s just the two of us. You left your
bodyguard in the car. And as security conscious and paranoid as you are to keep your whereabouts and meetings a secret, why did you stop by for breakfast?”

“I was in New York and I was hungry. I knew you were my only sure bet to have a tin of Russian Osetra black caviar to go with bagels and cream cheese.”

“I had no bagels and cream cheese. You had to settle for fresh-baked sourdough and Irish butter.”

“A small concession when set next to spending time with my best friend and his delicious caviar.”

“When aren’t you hungry Emanuel? I’m not sure I even tasted the caviar myself. Someone ate an entire twelve-hundred-dollar tin by himself.”

“I forget myself when I eat.”

“You do. And you change the subject when you don’t want to answer a question. Why did you really stop by?”

“The answer is not so sinister, Walter. As I said, the powers that be are nervous and I have to feed them something. Even with a legend they want to know what you’ve done for them lately.”

“Tell them we’re inside and poised to make a move.”

“I already did. A couple months ago.”

“So you lied.”

“How can it be a lie when I was right? I was just expressing confidence in my lifelong friend.”

“As you should. So remind them you are a legend.”

“There is a new Pharaoh in town who knows not Joseph.”

“Tell the president to be patient.”

“I will. At lunch today. A little birdy tells me that the POTUS plans to turn up the heat on the grill when he questions me. That should dispel any mystery surrounding my visit this morning.” Heller looked at his watch. “That’s only an hour from now. And I believe I’ve worked up an appetite.”

Wannegrin laughed. “Just tell him to be patient.”

“Easier to tell the sun to sleep in for a day, my faithful friend.”

“The sun did not rise for Joshua when he defeated the Amorites— perhaps it will not rise for Emmanuel Heller when he strides into his next battle.”

“I will receive that as a blessing,” Heller said with a smile and nod as he laboriously stood and turned from the exquisite view of Manhattan Island from the 87
^th
floor of Wannegrin’s condo in One57.

I wonder if it’s true that Wally paid $60 million for this, Heller wondered.

SIXTY-ONE YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP, Wannegrin thought, feeling his own mortality. He remembered the first time he set eyes on Manny, a fat little kid from Brooklyn. Emmanuel’s parents had sent him to spend a summer on Walter’s family’s defiant little kibbutz in Palestine. They wanted to toughen Emmanuel up.

Despite his thick spectacles, his aversion to manual labor, his obesity, his bookish ways, they need never have worried. Emmanuel Heller was one of the toughest men he knew. Give the man a stick and a swarming hornet’s nest, and he was fearless.

Emmanuel was the one who broke open the hornet’s nest with a stick.