Castro Directive (32 page)

Odin had turned livid when he'd heard that Fuego was asking questions about him, and that the Cuban had been hired by Pierce. Thor had followed the twitching, tic-faced snoop around town for a couple of days. But he couldn't watch him constantly, and he'd lost half a day when he'd snuffed out Gore.

He would never have known that Fuego had found the missing link to Odin's past had he not been electronically monitoring Pierce's answering machine. With a telephone and a gizmo the size of his palm he could not only listen to his messages, but erase them and even turnoff the machine. The marvels of high technology.

His gaze wandered from time to time to the garden. He could spend the entire day ensconced here with the philodendrons, bromeliad, and scheffleras. He was particularly drawn to the vibrant orange, trumpet-shaped flowers of the birds of paradise plants. This garden, he thought, compared favorably to his own backyard, which he'd landscaped with such close attention to the mix of plants. The average person didn't know that certain plants were more compatible to some, less compatible to others. The average person didn't know shit about the plant world. But his own backyard was not his any longer, not since the bitch had kicked him out. She had just ignored the yard, hadn't even watered the plants during the dry winter months. If it wasn't for his weekly trips to the house, the garden would be shriveled and overrun with weeds.

Lisie had never thanked him. Not once. She didn't appreciate him. Never did. But she would pay. Oh, she would pay. She was still scheming against him. He was sure of that. He'd followed Pierce in a rented red Chevette—instead of his Mercedes—from the funeral, where he'd watched Pierce's ex-wife hand him an envelope, to the university where Pierce had visited the bitch.

When Pierce left her office, Thor was sure he would lead him to the missing link Fuego had talked about in his recorded call. He could tell Pierce was watching for someone tailing him, so he'd driven in front of him—a tactic he'd learned from his chief investigator, an old hand at surveillance in the agency. Usually drivers gave away their intentions of turning far enough in advance to allow a lead driver time to make the turn first. He'd only once missed a turn. But that time he'd cut across a parking lot and quickly passed the suspect again.

He would show Lisie what he thought of her scheming. And he would show Pierce what he thought of his moving into Thor's territory. Married or not, Lisie was still his.

He'd proven that when he'd convinced her to loan him twenty-five grand to cover bad investments. There'd been no bad investment, though. The money was part of his extra cushion for his exile. He was already out of the DEA, suspended while under investigation. Let them investigate. That was inevitable, and it didn't matter.

His future was elsewhere, as Odin's chief aide and confidant. He was proving himself by his willingness to do the dirty work. He was well aware of the power and wealth of the chiefs of outlaw empires, like the drug lords, and he knew how well he would live. He made Odin think that he went along with all the crap about immortality and the crystal skulls, but he kept his own counsel. Later, when the time was right, he would show Odin—Raymond Andrews—just how mortal he was. He'd snuff him out and take control of the empire.

He saw Pierce standing up, shaking the woman's hand, patting her on the arm. He'd find out soon enough what they'd been talking about. This woman wasn't going to be like Fuego, who'd been too tight-mouthed, useless. It would have taken days to get him to talk, and now they did not have days. It was Thor's idea to waste Fuego if he didn't talk and let Pierce take the rap. And it had almost worked.

With this woman, it would be different. She would sing for him. Oh, how she would sing. Just like Lisie would sing.

I
gnoring Andrews any longer was only going to arouse suspicion, Pierce thought as he dialed the number from a pay phone booth on Calle Ocho. The man who answered asked him to hold while he was connected to Andrews's Grove Plaza office. He knew he had one impressive advantage with Andrews. He knew about Marisol Puente, and Andrews didn't. He wouldn't give away her identity, but he could put to use what he now knew.

"Ray, sorry it's taken me so long to get back to you," he said when he heard Andrews's voice. "It's been a little crazy since I got out."

"Well, I'm glad you're out, Nicholas."

"I'd like to talk to you. Is there any way that I can see you this afternoon?"

"Of course. Please come right over. I'll wait for you. My office is on the third floor."

Before he left the phone booth, he called Elise and asked her to call him from another line. He didn't know how far Andrews would go, but he didn't want to take any chances that her phone was tapped. When the call came through a minute later, he briefly told her what had happened.

"Why didn't you say something about her when you were here?"

"You had enough to think about. What time should I come over?"

"Nick, let's meet at Bill's. I'll feel safer over there."

"That's fine," he said.

"I've already talked to Bill. He said to come at seven and bring your appetite."

Once again he'd avoided mentioning his immediate destination. When he arrived at Grove Plaza, the glass elevator gave him an idea. He'd test Redington's hypnotic suggestion that elevators would no longer bother him. He stepped into it confidently, pressed the button for the third floor. He only had two levels to ascend, and even if the elevator stopped at the second floor, he'd be off in less than thirty seconds.

As the door started to close, a hand reached out, reopening it, and he was joined by a man in his twenties wearing dark glasses and a light weight sport coat over a dark brown T-shirt. Pierce glanced once at him, then turned his attention to the courtyard on the other side of the glass enclosure. The elevator slowly rose, and he focused his thoughts on the spacious interior of the complex. It was open, airy, well lit, and he was on an observation deck, he told himself.

The elevator stopped at the second floor; the door opened and three women with packages crowded in. "You're going down, I hope," one of them said.

"One floor up," the other man said.

Pierce looked over his shoulder as one of the women jabbed a package in his back. Then he turned his attention back to the window, trying not to think about how crowded the elevator was.

"Up? We want to go down," the woman said.

"Oh, come on, let's just stay on," a saccharine voice answered.

As he door closed and the elevator started to rise, he felt the press of the woman. "There's that restaurant Trudy told me about. She said they have great ceviche."

"Delores, I'm sure she said the ceviche was in the Mayfair," the saccharine voice said.

"Maybe you're right. We should try this place just for the fun of it next time."

"Well, just don't count on ceviche."

The elevator jerked to a sudden stop, but the door didn't open. "Okay, what happened?" one of the woman said, panic rising in her throat. "Why're we stopped?"

Pierce closed his eyes. Oh, Christ, get this glass madhouse moving. Nothing happened. He opened his eyes and turned around, seeing for the first time how crowded it was. "What're you doing over there?" one of the women asked the man at the control panel.

"We're stuck, ladies. I'm just pushing the buttons."

The women groaned. Another murmured something about claustrophobia and needing a rest-room, and the man at the control panel kept playing the buttons.

Pierce's stomach churned. He would have made it easily, no problem, if the elevator hadn't stopped. But now chills shot up his spine, heat flushed his cheeks, and his body didn't seem to know whether to shiver or sweat. He pressed his forehead and hands to the glass to steady himself. Cloying perfume mixed with the stench of someone's flatulence. Hysteria bubbled in his throat. We're stuck and someone farts. Swell, just swell, I'm going to puke or pass out, I'm going to—

"Goddamn it, mister, hit the alarm button." The saccharine voice was turning nasty. "It's right there."

A ringing like a fire alarm ripped through the capsule and across the plaza. People below stared up at Pierce. The courtyard started to spin, his stomach began to heave. He was about to pass out.

But then the elevator lurched upward, the alarm fell silent, and the nausea in his gut plummeted. "Can you believe it? The emergency stop was switched on," one of the women exploded.

"Sorry, ladies," the man apologized. "I must have leaned against it."

"God, that scared the you-know-what out of me, Delores. I mean, if we would . . ." The purr of the rising elevator muffled their voices.

Pierce closed his eyes and regulated his breathing, taking deep, even breaths. An image from the hypnosis bled across the insides of his eyes: The old sorcerer was staring at him, grinning, those ageless eyes burning into his soul.

A hand touched his shoulder, and his eyes fluttered open. One of the women was saying, "You getting out, mister, or going back down with us?"

"Out. Getting out. Thanks." He forced himself forward between the gauntlet of packages, suffocating perfume, and staring eyes.. He made it out and stopped to catch his breath. He felt as if he'd scrambled up a dozen flights of stairs.

"He didn't look so good, that one," a voice from the elevator said as the door closed.

He looked around, saw a sign for a rest room, and headed for the door. He walked to a sink, bent over, and splashed water on his face.

"Hey, that was quite a ride, wasn't it?"

Pierce looked up into the mirror to see the man from the elevator standing behind him, combing his wavy hair. "I thought those broads were going to shit in their pants. It smelled like one of them did."

The man's laugh was a high-pitched cackle. "You okay?"

Pierce patted his face with a paper towel and ran a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm fine." He hurried toward the door.

"Hey, you know you looked a little fucked up when you came in here," the man called after him. "I guess you didn't like it much, either."

Up yours, buddy, he thought as he walked down the corridor. He passed a commercial art studio and a law firm before he came to Andrews International, Inc.

He stepped inside and looked around. Andrews hadn't spared anything in the decoration of his offices. It could have been the interior of a French mansion instead of a corporate office in a shopping plaza. From the plush carpeting, chandeliers, and mahogany desks to the Renaissance paintings with their ornate frames, the place had a feel of European splendor and old wealth.

"Can I help you, sir?" the receptionist asked. He told her his name and she called Andrews's office, announcing his arrival.

"He'll be right with you, Mr. Pierce. Would you like a cup of coffee or iced tea?"

"No, thanks." He sat down, and the cushions of the couch seemed to mold themselves around the contours of his body. It was the softest, most comfortable couch he'd ever sat on. If Redington had hypnotized him here, he would've just fallen asleep.

A couple of minutes later, Pierce looked up to see K.J. He nodded to Pierce, motioned to him. "C'mon."

What the hell? For a moment, as he followed the bodyguard down the hall, he couldn't believe what he'd heard. The mute had spoken. But there was no time to think about what that meant.

"There he is," Andrews said as Pierce stepped into the office. "How are you, Nicholas?" He grinned, gritting his teeth, and glanced at the black suit Pierce wore. "You look very nice today."

"My funeral suit," he said, and inadvertently touched the pocket that held the amulet Tia Juana had given him.

Andrews nodded solemnly. "I'm sorry about your friend, but I'm glad you're not paying the consequences for his death."

Pierce glanced around the office. Two of the walls of the office were glass. One overlooked the courtyard, the other faced a tall condominium. In the corner, a video camera rested on a tripod, the lens facing Andrews's desk.

"How did you know he was my friend, Ray?"

Andrews looked surprised. "Well, I talked to your former partner. We had a frank discussion about the case. I hope you don't mind."

"No, of course not." Damn that Gibby and his mouth. "How about a drink to celebrate your freedom?" Andrews asked as he walked over to a liquor cabinet. "I'm going to have a Jack Daniels and water. How about you?"

"Just a Perrier would be fine."

"Suit yourself."

Pierce stepped over to the glass wall facing the courtyard and gazed down.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

"Very nice," Pierce muttered.

Andrews poured his drink, crossed the room, and handed Pierce his glass of water. "Listen, Nicholas, I know you're probably grateful to Redington for getting you out of jail, but don't be tricked by him."

Pierce shook his head. "Don't worry about that. I'm on my guard."

Andrews nodded and was silent a moment. "Was there something specific you wanted to talk to me about?"

"There is something I should tell you, Ray. I've been avoiding it, but I think now is the time."