The Protégé (23 page)

But ten minutes later, Gillette was back on the bridge. “He’s not on board.”

Billy picked up the radio microphone and called the Coast Guard, relaying the information about Stiles and giving them coordinates from the GPS.

Gillette could hear the response over the loudspeaker. They had a cutter in the area, and they’d put a chopper in the air with a huge floodlight to cover the spot Billy had given them.

“You said he went down when a wave came over?” Billy asked when he hung up with the Coast Guard.

Gillette heard Billy’s voice, but he was thinking about how Quentin had gone down. One second he was standing, the next he was going down. Limp, not even putting out his hands to cushion the impact. Not as if he’d fallen at all—as if he’d been shot.

13

DERRICK WALKER
sat in Gillette’s office. One of the most senior QS agents, Walker was taking over Gillette’s personal protection. It had been two days since the
Everest
had been caught in the storm on the sound, and Stiles was still missing.

Like Stiles, Walker was African American. His skin was darker than Stiles’s, but while he wasn’t as tall at six two, he weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, ten pounds more than Stiles weighed when he was healthy. Like Stiles, he had that same aura of control about him. As if things came to him, not the other way around. Gillette took a deep breath. It was almost impossible to believe that Walker was sitting in front of him—not Stiles.

“There won’t be any drop in the quality of your protection,” Walker began, “I assure you of that.” He spoke in a low, tough monotone. “Everything will transition smoothly.”

“I’m sure,” Gillette said quietly.

“I’m up to speed on everything,” Walker continued, “including those GPS devices that were put on your planes. And the fact that you
don’t
want them removed.”

“Good.”

Walker hesitated. “I know Quentin was a friend of yours, a good friend.”

“He was.” Gillette winced as he shifted. His left arm was still hurting.

“I’m going to be candid. You and I won’t have the same kind of relationship. I don’t get close to my clients.”

Gillette looked away, hiding a sad smile. Stiles had said the same thing when they’d first met. “I understand.”

“Do you have any questions?” Walker asked.

Gillette thought for a moment. “Do you own any of QS Security?”

“Excuse me?”

He could see Walker thought it was a strange question. Walker had probably been expecting something more standard, like a rundown of his experience. But Gillette already assumed Walker’s experience was excellent. Stiles would never hire anyone who didn’t have that kind of background. Gillette was more interested in motivation at this point. “Did Quentin make you an owner? Did he give you any shares of QS?”

“No.”

So there was nothing to keep Walker from going to another firm or, more important, being tempted by a huge bribe.

“Why do you ask?” Walker asked.

“Just curious.”

“Chris.” Debbie broke in on the intercom.

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a problem in the lobby.”

“What is it?”

“Just get out here,”
she urged.

Gillette rose from his chair. “Come on, Derrick.”

They hustled to the lobby, and as they neared reception, Gillette saw two QS agents standing in the wide double-doorway entrance, blocking someone’s progress. He could hear yelling from outside the doors and recognized the voice instantly. Allison Wallace.

“What’s going on?” Gillette asked, pushing his way through the agents.

“These guys won’t let my new assistant through,” she answered angrily, pointing at the agents.

The young man standing beside her was tall and thin, with wavy, jet black hair, brown eyes, and a dark, pocked complexion. As far as Gillette could tell, he was Arab. “I’m Christian Gillette,” he said, extending his hand.

“Hamid Mohamed.” The young man’s expression—a slight sneer—didn’t change.

“He doesn’t have clearance,” explained one of the agents.

“What’s that mean?” Allison demanded.

“Every new employee has to have a background check before he or she can work here,” Walker said, stepping beside Gillette.

“You didn’t have one done on me,” she argued, looking at Gillette.

“We didn’t need to.” Gillette spied Faraday, who’d come out to see what the ruckus was about. “You know that.” He gestured at Faraday. “Get everybody in the conference room for the managers meeting, Nigel.”

“Right.” Faraday hesitated a moment longer, then turned and headed back down the corridor.

“How long does this background check take?” Allison asked.

“Up to two weeks,” Walker replied.

“Christ, look, I—”

“Allison, these guys are just following orders,” Gillette interrupted. “
My orders.
I’m sure Hamid will check out fine, but until he does we go by the rules. Like we do with everyone else.” He turned to Mohamed. “Please don’t take offense, Hamid, it’s just procedure.” He pointed at Allison. “She didn’t know.”

Mohamed glanced deliberately at Allison, then back at Gillette. “This is ridiculous. You’re doing this because I’m Iranian. This is nothing but racial profiling.”

“Frankly,” Gillette answered, “I had no idea you were Iranian.”

“You could tell I was Arab.”

Gillette moved close to Mohamed. “Listen, pal, I don’t like your attitude. But as long as your background check comes up clear, if Allison wants you, you could be a Klingon for all I care.” He glared at her. “Let’s go, it’s three o’clock, we’re going to be late for the meeting.” As he passed Walker, he touched his arm. “Get this guy’s info and get it processed fast,” he instructed. “I want his background check done by COB tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Christian.” Allison was running to keep up as Gillette hurried toward the conference room.
“Christian!”

“What?”

“This is ridiculous, there’s no problem with Hamid. He’s been working at Citibank for the last three years. He has great references. I’ve talked to them.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll check out fine, but he still goes through what everyone else does.”

“This is silly. If I say he’s okay, he’s okay. I’m a managing partner here, and I’ve invested five billion dollars.”

Gillette whipped around, glaring at her. “As you constantly remind me. But you still don’t get special treatment, Allison.”

“All right,” she said quietly, her expression softening. “I’m sorry.”

“Look,” he said, his tone turning less confrontational, too, “I told Walker to get Hamid’s background check done by COB tomorrow. As long as everything clears, he’ll be in here first thing Wednesday morning.”

She nodded. “Thanks.” As he turned away, she called to him.

“Yeah?”

“You okay?”

He looked at her for a few moments. “Come on,” he said quietly, “we’re late.”

Gillette strode into the conference room, Allison trailing him. Everyone else was already seated. “Last week,” he began, standing behind his chair at the head of the table and putting both hands on the back of it as the room went from noisy to silent in a heartbeat, “I told all of you that the Wallace Family had committed five billion dollars to Everest Eight, and that a member of their family, Allison Wallace, would join us as a managing partner.” He gestured to his right. “For any of you who haven’t met her yet, this is Allison. Please welcome her.”

She got the customary applause, the rapping of knuckles on the tabletop.

“Thank you.” She’d already introduced herself to all the managing partners, but to only a couple of the managing directors.

“You’ll sit by Debbie today,” Gillette said to Allison, “but next week you’ll sit to Tom’s left.” He pointed at Jim Richards, a managing director, who was sitting beside O’Brien. “Everyone will move down one. And on this side,” he continued, shifting his attention to the other side of the table, “David Wright will now sit next to Maggie. David’s been promoted to managing partner,” he announced, pulling out his chair and easing into it. Seat changes at the meeting weren’t allowed until Gillette had formally announced promotions to the group. In Wright’s case, the announcement and the seat changes made clear that he’d jumped over several other managing directors who’d been at Everest longer.

“I’m surprised Wright wasn’t the first one in here today and didn’t plop himself down in that chair beside Maggie,” Faraday whispered to Gillette as people rapped their knuckles on the tabletop again—not nearly as loudly as they had for Allison. “Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t send out his own e-mail announcing his promotion.”

Gillette would have smiled, but his mind was elsewhere. “All right, let’s go through updates. I—”

“Mr. Gillette.”

Gillette turned toward the door. It was Karen, one of the receptionists. “Yes?”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but can I see you a moment? It’s important.”

“Take over,” Gillette muttered to Faraday, getting up. “Update them on the fact that we finalized the purchase of the Vegas franchise. Then have Wright talk about Hush-Hush and have Allison talk about Veramax.” He’d told Faraday about the dinner with Jack Mitchell. “Don’t mention your connection to the French company on Hush-Hush, though. I don’t want people knowing about that yet. Don’t say anything about Apex, either.”

Faraday nodded.

“Yes, Karen,” Gillette said as he reached the door, Faraday’s voice piping up in the background.

“Mr. Walker needs to see you in your office right away.”

Gillette headed quickly down the corridor. “What is it, Derrick?” he asked as he came through the doorway.

Walker was just putting down the phone. “That was the Coast Guard. They’ve called off the search.”

“
YOU ALL RIGHT?
”

It was four-thirty, and Gillette was sitting alone in a corner booth of the Irish bar on the first floor of the Everest building. It was a bar Faraday frequented but Gillette had never been to. He was leaning forward, elbows resting on the table, hands over his eyes. At the sound of the familiar voice, he dropped his hands slowly to his mouth and opened his eyes. Faraday was sliding onto the bench seat opposite him.

It was dark and almost empty in here, just a couple of early birds at the bar and two QS agents in the next booth, drinking water. “Been better,” Gillette muttered.

A waiter appeared at the table. “Hello, Nigel.”

“Hi, Mickey.”

“Long time since I’ve seen you down here this early.”

“Things change.”

“What’ll it be?”

“Guinness.”

“Not a Scotch?”

“Guinness,” Faraday repeated.

“Tall or small?”

“Small.”

“You got it.”

Faraday glanced at the full shot glass in front of Gillette on the scratched, wooden tabletop. “Scotch?”

“Yeah.”

“Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Gillette nodded.

“I know this thing with Stiles is really bothering you. I know how close you two were. I’m sorry. But should you—”

“I should do what gets me through.”

“Okay.”

They sat in silence until the waiter returned with Faraday’s beer. Faraday picked up the mug, touched it to the shot glass in front of Gillette, and took a long guzzle. “What did you need to talk to me about?” he asked, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That you needed Debbie to get me out of the meeting for.”

“Stiles.”

Faraday took another gulp of Guinness. “Well, I . . . I mean I’m honored that you want to confide in me, Christian. I know you miss him; he was a good man.”

“He was shot, Nigel.”

Faraday had been looking toward the bar. His head snapped left at this.
“What?”

In his mind, Gillette replayed the image of Stiles falling to the deck so many times. Replayed the way Stiles hadn’t held out his hands to break his fall, just went down like a board. Because he was already dead when he was falling. Already shot. It had come to him after Derrick Walker had told him the search had been called off. It was almost a perfect murder, Gillette thought. The gale-force winds had drowned out the report of the gun, and visibility was so terrible that he hadn’t seen blood fly from the wound or spilled on the deck afterward because the torrential rains had washed it away immediately. Whoever killed him had shot him, then tossed him overboard, assuming his body would never be found. “He was shot on board, after he saved the kid. I’m sure of it.”

Faraday’s face contorted into a look of disbelief. “By who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why would someone shoot him?”

“Revenge.” Gillette’s fingers closed around the shot glass. He slowly turned it a full revolution but didn’t pick it up. “I’m pretty sure Tom McGuire was behind it.”

“No shit.”

Gillette relayed the story of the gang attack outside the Grill and how he believed McGuire was still out for him and Stiles. “You must have really seen him that day on Park Ave.”

Faraday nodded glumly. “So you think maybe he got to one of the yacht’s crew.”

“Yeah. Probably paid them, like Stiles and I think he paid the Brooklyn gang.”

“Jesus.”

“Here’s the point, Nigel. If all that’s true, I’m in danger, even with the QS guys around.” Gillette started to pick up the shot glass but didn’t. “So I’ve got to let you in on a few things, in case all of a sudden I’m not around.”

Faraday straightened up in his seat. “Okay.”

“First, we need to talk about the NFL franchise.”

“What about it?”

“I think the Mafia’s trying to get involved.”

“How?”

“Construction initially, of both the stadium and the casino. They’ll extort us to keep people on the job and the equipment running. Then they’ll try to get involved with the casino and the team. The NFL doesn’t think so, but Stiles did some checking and I do. I’m meeting with some consultants when I go out there this week. People who’ll run interference on that, but I think it’s still going to be a problem. I’ll keep you informed.”

“Should we just get the fuck out of it?” Faraday asked. “Tell the NFL we don’t want it?”

“No. It’s going to be a huge win for us, even if the Mob is involved. We just have to figure out how to handle them.”

“Okay.”

Gillette could see Faraday’s fear. He’d never come close to dealing with the Mafia. “The second thing I want to talk to you about is Apex,” he said, slowly turning the shot glass another revolution. “As you know, I’ve been through the Apex portfolio with Russell Hughes, and I think we have a real opportunity.”

“Right.”

“What you need to understand is that one of their portfolio companies is a cutout for the CIA.”

“What’s a fucking cutout?”

Gillette quickly explained the concept.

“Which company is it?” Faraday asked.

“Omega IT. They do computer hardware and software system installation and integration. One of Omega’s foreign subsidiaries has lots of clients that are Middle Eastern banks. According to Hughes, the Omega sub installs things in the computers that the banks don’t know about so people in Washington can watch money flows.”