Tarnished Image (15 page)

Osborn Scott sipped at his cold coffee, studied the latest satellite photo of Hurricane Claudia, and shook his head. Things were moving from bad to worse. The storm had picked up in intensity and speed. He had been holding out for a miracle, a sudden drop of energy, but no such miracle was forthcoming. Claudia would impact Cuba tomorrow and would do so as a category five. The damage would be horrendous, and no power on earth could stop it.

Like an ancient prophet, Osborn could see the destruction in his mind as clearly as if it were on television. Small houses and huts would be demolished by two-hundred-mile-per-hour winds; the faces of buildings would be stripped away. A storm surge better than twenty feet high would lay waste to anything in its way, as would wind-driven waves
thirty feet high. And there was no place where the people of Cuba could run except to shelters. Most would survive; many would not.

His mind raced back to 1997 when Hurricane Pauline, a Pacific storm, ravaged Acapulco and surrounding regions, leaving over four hundred dead and thousands homeless. By all standards Pauline had been a moderate hurricane; Claudia would be stronger by tenfold.

Archibald Barringston stood behind his expensive, high-backed chair and drummed his ancient fingers on the black leather. His mouth was drawn tight, and he cast an angry, unwavering gaze through gray eyes at the man who sat opposite his desk. Behind him, the darkness of night oozed in through the large window that overlooked the bay.

Nearly eighty-nine years old, Barringston had seen it all. He stood tall and straight and exuded a power that belied his advanced years. All his friends were either retired or dead. Barringston, however, still ran a multibillion-dollar construction company. No one had the courage to suggest he step down. He had often said the only thing that would take him away from his teak desk was a hearse.

Age had etched deep creases in his forehead and cheeks, added dark spots to his skin, and thinned his blood, but it had left his mind untouched. A battle of wits with Archibald Barringston was a battle soon to be lost, as many had discovered.

“Surely you see my point,” Bob Connick said. He was a heavily jowled man, with pale eyes and a nose a half size too large for his face. His cheeks, normally a healthy pink, were drained of color, betraying the anxiety he felt.

“I understand, all right,” Barringston said firmly. “It’s your motive I question.”

“I assure you that my only motive is doing what’s best for Barringston Relief.”

“Cutting David off at the knees will be good for Barringston Relief?”

“This whole situation is bad, Mr. Barringston. The Justice Department has already seized our assets. They even took some of our computers. We can’t move money, and if we can’t move money, we can’t move food to stricken areas. We have workers in scores of countries that are dependent on us for their personal and relief-oriented supplies.”

“How does relieving David of his duties help that?” Barringston asked strongly.

“By assigning the control of monetary decisions to someone else, we may be able to get our assets free sooner.”

“And just who should receive that responsibility? You?”

“I
am
the chief financial officer, Mr. Barringston. There’s nothing untoward about my assuming those extra responsibilities. I’m the one most familiar with the overall operation and the day-to-day money transfers.”

Barringston stepped from behind the chair, turned it, and sat down. He said nothing. He sat in cold silence and studied Connick, as if his ancient eyes could pierce his persona and read the truth in every line of the man’s life.

Connick cleared his throat. “I will be sending a memo to the other board members informing them of the emergency meeting tomorrow. Because you are the senior member of the board of directors and because of your involvement in your son’s start-up of Barringston Relief, I thought I should inform you personally.”

“A nice gesture, Connick,” Barringston said. “It’s good to see that you have my interest at heart.”

“I do, and that of Barringston Relief.”

Barringston didn’t acknowledge the comment; he was too angry. There had been a time in his life when he would have erupted at such arrogance and insincerity. Now, tempered by age and maturity, he responded differently. He let the force of his person and reputation do the work for him. Many had been cowered by his quiet resolve.

“Mr. Connick, I’m just shy of my eighty-ninth birthday. That makes me an old man. Because of my age, some dismiss me as a crank or a mentally enfeebled old codger.”

“I would never think such a thing.”

“It would be a mistake if you did,” Barringston snapped. “As an old man, I’ve reached the point where I care very little of what people think of me. There’s a freedom in that, Connick. I no longer feel the need to be polite or to cater to the sensitivities of others. I’m a simple man with simple tastes and a huge hunger for success. That’s why I am where I am.”

“You have achieved a great many things, Mr. Barringston. I’m proud to know you.”

“Well, let’s see if I can change that,” Barringston said pointedly. “I have built Barringston Industries on three principles: hard work, honored promises, and loyalty. I taught those things to my son, A.J., and he put them to work in Barringston Relief. I did more than provide the initial start-up capital for the company you work for, and I do more than provide rent-free offices in this building. I concern myself with all that goes on. That’s why I sit on the board of directors, Mr. Connick.

“After my son was killed,” Barringston continued, “I led
the board in its decision to appoint David O’Neal as my son’s successor. I did so, not because he was the most qualified or had the most experience, but because my son saw something great in him. A.J. was right. David O’Neal has led Barringston Relief to new heights. He may eclipse all that my son achieved.”

“There is no doubt that David has done some wonderful things, but—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Barringston said sharply. “I’m not finished.”

“Sorry.”

“I am an astute judge of character, Mr. Connick, and I can tell you that David is innocent of these bogus, trumped-up charges.”

“Sir, I don’t mean to be rude, but I have seen the video the police have. In fact, a copy was delivered to all the department heads. I’m afraid it’s quite convincing.”

“I got a copy too, Connick, and I’m telling you it doesn’t mean a thing.”

“But—”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Yes, but—”

“I can’t explain the video yet, but I know David.”

Connick shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t agree. The evidence is overwhelming. Our assets are frozen, and our work will begin suffering in the next day or two. A hurricane is bearing down on Cuba and will strike within hours, and a tsunami has struck the coastal regions of the Bay of Bengal. We have personnel missing on that one. Barringston doesn’t need to have its leader in jail on felony charges. Too much is at stake here.”

“I know what’s at stake, Connick,” Barringston snapped loudly. “I know it very well. But we do not shoot our wounded. Over the last sixteen months, David has worked himself to exhaustion to save as many lives worldwide as possible. Does that sound like the actions of an embezzler and an alien smuggler?”

“I don’t know what could motivate David to undertake such crimes—”

“I do,” Barringston interjected. “Nothing. Certainly not money.”

“But the video—”

“The video is a lie.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“I can be sure of one thing, Connick. If the situation were reversed, David wouldn’t be so quick to convict you.”

Connick sat dumbfounded.

“I’ll tell you something else. I will fight you on this every step of the way. You will not find a friend in me on this issue. And I am not a man to be trifled with.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Barringston, we must set our emotions aside for the greater good of Barringston Relief. Too many lives depend on us.”

Archibald Barringston rose to his feet and leaned over the broad desk. He pointed a crooked finger at Connick. “You send out your memos, Connick. You send them out to every person on the board. You send me one too—and attach your resignation to it.”

What little color remained in Connick’s face drained. “I’m … I’m … sorry Mr. Barringston, but I don’t work for you. I work for Barringston Relief, not Barringston Industries. You’re not in a position to fire me.”

“Not at this moment, but you might be surprised at what can happen in a board meeting. Now get out. I’ve had all of you I can stomach tonight.”

Slowly, Connick rose to his feet and stared at Barringston. His gaze was quickly broken by the unflinching, penetrating gaze of the old man. A second later, Connick left.

As the office door closed behind Connick, Barringston turned and gazed out the window into the dark San Diego night and wished that he truly felt the conviction of his own words.

This was the worst part of it
, Aldo Goldoni thought as he slowly lowered himself to the floor, his nose a mere inch from the tightly woven carpet of his hotel room. With a powerful thrust of his arms, he pressed himself into full push-up position. He paused for ten seconds, then lowered himself, inch by inch until his nose once again hovered just above the floor. He had no idea how many push-ups he had done, nor did he care.
Waiting. I hate the waiting.

Everything was in place. The plan was fully formulated and memorized. The targets were identified. All he needed was the go-ahead, the word that would free him from the mundane task of killing time.

Another push-up. His muscles burned with the effort; ripples of pain raced through his nerves. He was enjoying every second of it. For him the pain was a sign of success and his endurance of it a testimony to his strength of mind and emotional resolve. It had always been that way. Even as a child, when his father, nearly insane from the massive quantities of drugs he put into himself, would punish Aldo with beatings or burn him with cigarettes, Aldo would endure the
pain stoically. It was proof of his power, his determination, his nearly omnipotent will.

Aldo had learned to endure everything. As a child he learned to tolerate the hatred of others, to withstand the cruelty of children, to hold up under frequent beatings by neighborhood gangs, to be nonchalant about his fractured family—a drug-addicted father and a streetwalking mother. No pain was greater than what he endured as a child, and he had survived that. There was no pain with which he could not deal. Loneliness, fear, and anxiety meant nothing to him. He had trained himself to be the perfect machine: functional, emotionless, dependable.

But he still hated waiting.

He had carried out each duty to which he had been assigned. The tapes were delivered, the Barringston Tower security system analyzed, the meager security guard force and the targets monitored and their habits logged. Nothing was missing, nothing lacking, nothing to do but wait for the word.

Aldo Goldoni did another push-up. He was not a big man, standing just over five foot seven and weighing precisely one hundred fifty-two pounds, yet he was fit; his body was a mass of tightly strung, well-exercised muscles. He made it his goal to be thin. Bulky muscles would make him stand out, and in his line of work he needed to blend in, just as he did when dressed as the WPS delivery man. No one questioned him, and most took no notice of him. That’s the way it was supposed to be.

He lowered himself to the floor again, but this time he remained there, halfway through the exercise. His back was straight, his arms bent at his side, his bare chest lightly touching the carpet. He remained motionless, suspending
his weight by his hands and feet. Seconds turned into minutes. Each of those seconds brought more tension in his muscles, more pain to his body. It was exactly what he wanted. The pain was proof of his existence; his endurance was proof of his mastery.

He was invincible. No one, no thing, could ever stop Aldo Goldoni. He had seen to that.

Aldo forced his mind away from the intense protestations of his body and made it focus on the job he had been assigned. He had done this work before. Terrorism, crime, and violence were his stock in trade, and it paid him well. The poverty of his youth was gone. Now he drove whatever car he wished and stayed in the best hotels. The room he was in now cost three hundred dollars a night, and he considered it middle grade. That was just one of the perks of his work. He was always in demand, and he always delivered. He would do no less on this assignment. The fact that people were harmed and often died because of him mattered not at all. Such was the nature of his work.