The Chairman (27 page)

Cohen’s eyes flashed to Gillette’s. “Um, I, uh . . .” Cohen’s voice trailed off. “Christian, I didn’t tell anyone anything about this. I swear to you.”

Gillette nodded at Whitman. “Yeah, I told Miles the other day.” Cohen had that deer-in-the-headlights look. But why? “Well, actually, Miles asked if there had been any organizational changes and I told him I was promoting you.”

“Oh,” Cohen said quietly.

Suddenly Cohen seemed very uncomfortable, Gillette realized.

“I just don’t want you to think I’ve been blabbing this all around,” Cohen added.

“I’m sure you haven’t,” Gillette agreed. “Besides, it’s no big deal if you have.”

“So, is Ben officially chief operating officer?” Whitman asked again.

Gillette turned to Whitman. “Yes, he is.”

Stiles pressed his arm against the pocket of his jacket, making certain the envelope was there. Then he moved out of the dark Manhattan doorway and fell in behind a man in a long winter coat who’d just passed by.

At the corner the man stopped, waiting for the traffic light to change. Rubbing his hands together to try to keep them warm as traffic roared by in front of him on Fifth Avenue.

“Chilly out tonight,” Stiles said cheerfully as he ambled up beside the man.

The man gave Stiles a quick up and down. “Yeah, chilly,” he agreed indifferently.

Stiles pointed at him. “Hey, I recognize you.”

The man stopped rubbing his hands together, a curious expression coming to his face. “Oh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles continued, “I saw you on television today when Senator Stockman made his announcement about running for president. You were behind him along with some other people. Right?”

“You’ve got quite a memory for faces.”

“Always have.” Stiles hesitated. “You are?”

“Frank Galway, the senator’s assistant chief of staff,” he replied, holding out his hand.

Trained to constantly chum for votes, Stiles thought to himself. “You must be pretty excited,” he said, reaching into his jacket pocket.

“Yep,” Galway agreed. “The senator is clearly the man to beat. He’s got the experience and the track record. We think he’ll be ahead when the new polls come out next week. Now
that
will be exciting.”

“Well, I know he’ll be excited about these, too,” Stiles spoke up, pressing the envelope to Galway’s chest.

“What the hell—”

“Photographs,” Stiles said, his voice turning harsh.

Galway’s fingers closed around the envelope.

“A few pictures of the good senator and a woman named Rita Jones coming out of their love nest in Queens,” Stiles continued. “You’re familiar with the place. You pay the rent.”

“Oh, Christ,” Galway whispered.

“Don’t look so worried. As long as the senator cooperates, these pictures won’t see the light of day.”

“What do you mean, ‘cooperates’?”

“I’ll let you know when I contact you next.” Stiles turned around and headed off abruptly.

Leaving Galway confused, concerned, and alone.

The apartment was in Greenwich Village. It was a quiet one-bedroom place on Houston Street in the West Village that Stiles used as a safe house.

Stiles’s men had gone to great lengths to get Faith to it secretly. They’d smuggled her out a back entrance to the Waldorf after she and Gillette had said good-bye, then taken her up to Connecticut, changed cars in a dark parking lot, driven her to New Jersey and changed cars again, before finally bringing her back to the city. She’d been here since, protected by three of Stiles’s men who were getting her what she needed so she didn’t have to leave the apartment.

Gillette took off his coat and laid it over a chair by the door. He’d spent the last several hours enduring the same routine Faith had, and he was irritated. Stiles hadn’t allowed him any contact with the outside world during the trip around the metro area. No cell phones, no Blackberry, no nothing. Gillette hated wasting time like that, but it had to be this way. They couldn’t risk anyone finding out where Faith was. Or, worse, that they were the ones protecting her.

“Hi.” Faith rose from the couch as Gillette came through the apartment door, putting down the crossword puzzle she’d been working on.

“Hello.”

She went to put her arms around him, then hesitated, pulling back at the last minute. “How have you been?”

“Fine.”

“Thanks again for your help with my contract,” she said, hands clasped behind her. “With the ad budget, I mean. It’s already been increased. There was a big spread in
USA Today,
and I’ve already heard a bunch of stuff on the radio.”

Gillette smiled briefly. “No problem.” He pointed toward the couch. “Let’s sit down.”

“Do you want something to drink?”

“No.”

When they were seated, Gillette turned to her, putting one arm up on the back of the couch behind her. “Who are you working for?” he asked bluntly.

“Tom McGuire,” she answered right away. “He approached me two months ago. I was supposed to keep track of you when he gave me the order, supposed to get close to you.”

Gillette shook his head. “But why?”

She glanced down. “You know why,” she said softly. “So McGuire could set you up.”

“No, no. Why would you
do it
? You’ve got a great career going, you’re immensely popular. Why would you agree to help Tom McGuire?”

“Careers in my business come and go very fast, especially when the music label isn’t supporting you. I knew the record label was going to screw me on this album because Donovan told them to. It would have destroyed my career. McGuire promised me that whoever ultimately replaced Donovan at Everest would make sure my career was taken care of.” She put her hand on his. “He told me you wouldn’t help me, but you did. When I heard what they were going to do to you, I called right away. When McGuire approached me, he told me you had agreed with Donovan about pulling back support for me. He also told me that they were going to destroy you, not kill you. I’m no murderer, Christian. I had no idea they were going to do what they did to Donovan, either. If I’d had
any
idea what they were really doing, I would never have gotten involved.”

Gillette nodded. “It’s a good thing you contacted me when you did,” he said softly. “I would have been dead. Literally.” He paused. “Who’s McGuire working with at Everest?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know who. But I know it’s someone high up.”

22

Routines.
Most of us are creatures of habit, more comfortable with order than anarchy. By maintaining a routine, we avoid original thought. We make it easier on ourselves.

But routines can also create opportunity for the enemy.

STRAZZI PUT ONE FOOT UP on the bench and tightened the laces of his running shoe, his breath rising in front of him as he leaned over. It was a crisp, clear Saturday morning in Central Park. The temperature was hovering around freezing and the sun was only halfway above the horizon.

He jogged several mornings a week in the park, usually doing around three miles. From Monday to Friday, the days he jogged would vary, depending on his hectic schedule. But, on weekends when he was in the city, he
always
ran on Saturday and Sunday mornings. And always at the same time.

Finished with the laces, Strazzi put his feet together and bent over, trying to touch his toes. For a man in his late fifties he was still in good shape. He straightened up, stretched his upper body, took a few quick breaths, then headed off at a slow but steady trot. Moving north along the eastern edge of the park. Tasting last night’s cigar as he jogged.

Near Harlem, he cut left, toward the running trails he liked.

Ten minutes later he was moving along a narrow path through dense woods, thinking about how very soon he would control 25 percent of the Everest vote. How, once he controlled the widow’s stake, he’d immediately call a meeting of the investors to vote on removing Gillette. Win the vote easily and install himself as chairman after convincing the rest of the investors that he was the best, really the only, alternative. That, without him, the government was going to descend on Everest like the Allies on Normandy.

He smiled to himself as the path turned steep. As chairman of Everest, he would control the two largest private equity firms in the world—and more than $40 billion. He wouldn’t just be
a
god of private equity, he’d be
the
god.

Halfway up the hill, Strazzi thought he heard someone behind him. Despite his own loud, labored breathing, he was almost certain he heard footsteps. Twenty to thirty feet back, pacing him. He tried glancing over his shoulder, but tripped on a rock jutting out from the rutted path before he could spot anyone. He stumbled forward several steps, barely regaining his balance, sweat coursing down his face.

Forty billion dollars. Enough to make a man paranoid. Enough to make him a target.

The footsteps were still there. He was sure of it. Closing in on him as he headed through the most remote section of the trail, deserted this early in the morning.

Finally, he reached the top of the hill. Here the path was level and smoother. He could look back without having to worry about losing his balance.

When he did, he saw a man who was his size but much younger. The man wore running shorts, a Windbreaker, a baseball cap, and dark glasses despite the low light.

Strazzi put his head down and ran as fast as he could. His legs churned, and he gasped for air as lactic acid quickly built up in his muscles.

But the man behind him continued to gain ground. Strazzi could hear the footsteps pounding on the path. His pursuer was only a few paces back and there was still a long way to go before he’d break out of the woods. He tried to go faster. Tried to keep his legs under him as his lungs seared two baseball-sized holes in his chest. But his legs finally gave way, and he tumbled to the ground.

He felt the man’s hand on his arm and tried to scramble away, but it was no use. “Help!” he yelled. “Help!”

“What’s wrong, pal? Hey, you all right?”

Strazzi brought his hands slowly down from his face and gazed up into the dark glasses beneath the brim of the baseball cap. “Huh?”

“You all right?” the man repeated.

Strazzi bobbed his head, confused, then struggled to his knees as the man helped him up. “Yeah, yeah,” he panted. “I’m fine,” he said, suddenly embarrassed.

“Sit here,” the man instructed, gently helping Strazzi sit on a large rock beside the path. “You need liquids. That’s your problem.” He pulled a small bottle of water from a pack around his waist, twisted the cap off, and handed the bottle to Strazzi. “Here.”

Strazzi grabbed it and guzzled, hand shaking as he brought it to his lips. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done. “Thanks,” he gasped, handing the bottle back to the man.

“Sit here for a few minutes and catch your breath,” the man advised. “Then walk out. Don’t try to run anymore.”

“I won’t,” Strazzi agreed. He watched the man jog off. He’d been certain his number was up.

Gillette gazed down at Washington, D.C., from the cabin of the private jet headed toward Reagan National Airport, cruising above the Potomac River through the clear, early morning. The city was off to the northwest. He could see the Capitol, the Washington Monument, and the White House, forming a neat triangle just to the south of downtown.

“A couple of minutes and we’ll be on the ground,” Stiles informed Gillette, slipping into the seat beside him. He’d just checked with the pilots. “We’re cleared to land. No delays.”

“Thanks,” he said, still looking down on the city. “I like D.C.,” he murmured, more to himself than Stiles.

“Not me,” Stiles replied.

“Why not?” Gillette asked, turning away from the window.

“You ever try to get around in this city?”

“What do you mean?”

“The streets are screwed up, man. You think you’re going east and you end up going west. Or you’re almost where you need to be, then suddenly they throw a park in front of you. I mean, the road ends just like that.” He snapped his fingers. “It’s so damn frustrating. You can see the other side of the park where the road starts up again. A hundred yards away through the woods. But you sure as hell can’t get there because the park goes left and right as far as you can see. So you ask somebody how to get over there,” Stiles said, pointing toward the front of the plane as if he was pointing toward the other side of an imaginary park. “They laugh and tell you that you have to go to the other side of Maryland to get there.”

“I’m gonna guess you were late for something once,” Gillette said, grinning. “Probably a woman.”

“Maybe.” Stiles grinned back. “Anyway, that’s why I like New York City. Streets go east and west and avenues go north and south. Except for some issues in Greenwich Village, it’s pretty easy. This place is a nightmare.” Stiles looked out the window past Gillette. “So, why do you like Washington?”

Gillette had come to Washington for an early spring weekend during his junior year at Princeton with several members of Tiger, his Eating Club. They’d gone out to dinner in Georgetown, and he’d met a girl at a bar. A dark-haired girl from American University. He’d spent the rest of the weekend with her. And the next, and the next, and the next. She traveled to Princeton on the train, or he went to D.C. They were inseparable from the beginning, and he hadn’t cared about the crap he’d taken from his friends for being so suddenly devoted. It had been his first real love affair, and he’d been certain they would marry. But in May, two months after they’d met, she’d been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. She’d died in August.

“Christian.” Stiles nudged Gillette’s elbow as they touched down. “Hey, so why do you like Washington?”

Gillette looked over at Stiles. “The architecture,” he said, thinking about Isabelle, then Faith. “You gave the pictures to Stockman’s aide last night?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. You should have seen the guy’s face.”

“Good. We’ll call the senator when we’re done here. Go see him in person and drop the bomb.” Gillette unhooked his seat belt as the jet slowed down and eased off the runway. “You know what?”

“What?

“We should go out sometime, to dinner or something. We’ll bring dates.” Gillette picked up several folders from the seat pocket in front of him. “I assume there is someone.”

“Yes, there is. I’d like that. Thanks.” Stiles stood up as the plane neared the general aviation terminal. “Now, listen, we’ve got to be careful getting you off the plane. In fact, we’ve got to be careful the whole time we’re here.”

“Yeah?”

Stiles pulled his shoulder holster down from the overhead compartment and slipped into it. “I’m sure a lot of people know about you coming down here today. It would be logical for someone to try something. They’d have plenty of time to prepare, and they’d be able to pick their spot.” He reached up into the overhead compartment again. “Put this on,” he ordered.

“What is it?”

“A bulletproof vest.”

“Quentin, I—”

“Put it on.”

Gillette shook his head, taking the vest from Stiles. “Why do I feel like I’m not sure who’s working for who at this point?”

“Senator Stockman.”

Stockman looked up from his desk. He’d been drafting a speech. “What is it, Frank?” he snapped. He hadn’t slept well last night, and he was in a foul mood.

Galway grimaced. “I have to talk to you about something, sir.”

“Is it important?”

“Very.”

Stockman let out a heavy sigh. “Sit,” he said, pointing at a chair in front of the desk. “What is it?”

“I was approached on the street last night.”

Stockman put down his pen. “Oh?” He’d heard an ominous tone in Galway’s voice.

“I thought at first this guy was just being nice. Said he’d seen me on TV while you were delivering your announcement about running.”

Stockman spotted an envelope in Galway’s trembling hand. “But he wasn’t.”

A confused look came to Galway’s face. “Sir?”

“He wasn’t being nice.”

Galway swallowed hard. “No, he wasn’t.”

“What did he want?”

“He wanted to give me these,” Galway explained, reaching forward and handing the envelope to Stockman.

Stockman took the envelope, placed it on his desk, and removed the stack of photos. Carefully examining each one before finally looking up at Galway. “We have a problem,” he said calmly.

“I thought you might see it that way, too, sir.”

“Have you shown these to anyone else?”

Galway shook his head.

“Did the person who gave you these say what he wanted?” Stockman asked.

“No, sir.”

“Did he give you a way to contact him?”

“No.”

“Did he say when he would contact you again?”

“Sometime this weekend. Nothing specific.”

Stockman ran his hands through his silver hair and shut his eyes tightly. Christian Gillette. It had to be.

Strazzi had been sitting on the rock for five minutes, letting his heart settle down. “All right,” he muttered to himself, “time to get home.” As soon as he got back to the penthouse, he was going to hire a full-time bodyguard. Like Gillette had done. “Come on, get up,” he urged himself, groaning.

As Strazzi made it to his feet, he noticed the man. He was standing twenty feet away in the middle of the trail. The same man who’d helped him a few minutes ago.

Strazzi smiled and waved. “Thanks again for the water. It hit the spot.”

The man said nothing.

“Hey, did you hear me?”

The man began walking toward Strazzi. When he was ten feet away, he reached behind his back and pulled a pistol from a holster. Aiming it directly at Strazzi’s chest and squeezing the trigger.

Strazzi scrambled off the rock the second he saw the gun, but the bullet still struck him. It caught him in the shoulder and put him down as it tore out his back. Strazzi groaned and grabbed at the wound, but still was able to pull himself to his feet and stumble into the woods, ducking around trees as he ran. He hurled headlong into a sapling when he looked back to try to see if the shooter was there, tumbling to the ground as it snapped under his weight. But he was up again instantly, moving deeper into the thick cover.

The second bullet got him in the back of the thigh, tearing his hamstring. He pitched forward, landing heavily in the thick cover of leaves, grabbed his leg and screamed in pain.

The assassin moved deliberately toward where Strazzi lay. He always enjoyed these last few seconds—when the victim knew it was over. He wondered how it felt to know the number of breaths remaining could be counted on the fingers of one hand. He’d killed a lot of people in his life, but the question always came to him at this moment. Had from the very first time. How did it feel to know death was close and there was nothing that could be done?

He stood over Strazzi for several seconds, gazing into his eyes. Trying to comprehend the terror Strazzi was enduring. Strazzi wasn’t yelling anymore, just whimpering pitifully, overcome by the inevitability of his death.

The assassin leaned down, pressed the barrel to Strazzi’s temple, and pulled the trigger. Blood, bone, and brain blew out the other side of Strazzi’s head, onto the leaves. After a violent tremor, his body went still.

Walter Price was the chief executive officer of Dominion Savings & Loan. Three years ago, Donovan had recruited Price out of Citibank, where he’d headed their huge retail operation. He had given Price ten million a year plus bonus plus stock options to make Dominion a player. To grow it fast. Which Price had done, increasing Dominion’s asset base from three billion to forty. A huge increase that Gillette now feared might have been accomplished mostly by sleight of hand.