Stephen Frey (6 page)

“There were bruises on Melissa's neck,” Bo said, remembering her blood-filled corneas as well.

“We had sex. She begged me to give it to her rough. Said she liked it that way. Then she went down to the lake alone to take a swim.” Paul shook his head regretfully.

“I don't buy that. I don't think she liked it rough. In fact, I don't think she liked it at all.”

Paul shrugged. “I don't really care what you think.”

“Why would she take a swim in the lake? The water would have been ice cold in April, just like it is now. There's a pool inside the playhouse. Why wouldn't she have gone swimming there?”

Paul moved to where Bo stood. “I don't know why she chose to swim in the lake instead of the playhouse pool,” he hissed, towering several inches over Bo and jabbing one finger into his chest. “And I don't care. All I care about is getting you as far away from here as possible so I can win an election and not have to worry about you screwing things up.”

In their years growing up they had never had a physical confrontation, and the question of who would win still lingered in Bo's mind. Paul was bigger, but Bo had always sensed that Paul lacked the stomach for a real fight. Paul would wage war in the political world, working deftly behind the scenes to destroy an opponent, but his appetite for a fistfight was minimal. It might mar that pretty face. “That's what this is really about, isn't it?” Bo said, shoving Paul's hand away.

“What are you talking about?”

“You just don't want me around.” Bo watched Paul's left hand clench and unclench. There was a large brown birthmark covering the third knuckle. “You've never wanted me around. I've always known that.”

“You don't know anything,” Paul said loudly, jabbing Bo's chest again.

Bo grabbed Paul by the lapels of his suit coat, lifted him into the air, then threw him to the ground.

Paul scrambled to his feet quickly and took a step toward Bo as if to attack, then stopped. He realized that his younger brother wouldn't back down. He could have been Goliath and Bo wouldn't have backed down. He forced himself to smile. “This just isn't worth it,” he said.

Bo smiled back. He'd been right after all. Paul was willing to wage political war, but was unwilling to put his body at risk. “You know something?”

“What?” Paul asked, through gritted teeth.

“All things done in the dark eventually come to light.”

“More words-to-live-by?” Paul had regained his composure. “You never stop with those asinine things, do you?”

“This time the words aren't mine,” Bo said.

“Whose are they?”

“It isn't important, not to you anyway.” Bo took a deep breath. “I once loved this estate so much,” he said, turning toward the lake. “You ruined that for me, Paul, and I'll never forgive you.”

“Get over it, little—”

“More important,” Bo interrupted, “a woman died down there on that beach. Someday I'll find out what really happened to her. I owe Melissa that much.”

J
oseph Scully eyed the man seated on the other side of the café's outdoor table. Jim Whitacre was the second-highest-ranking executive at Global Media, the largest information technology company in the world. Global Media's operations included local, long-distance, and wireless communication systems as well as satellite operations. It operated the largest cable television footprint in the United States, was a dominant Internet service provider and a owned cutting-edge software developer. Whitacre was a high-profile corporate officer, easily recognizable in the United States and Europe, but not here in Korea. Which was exactly why Scully had chosen to meet at this out-of-the-way place on the outskirts of Seoul.

“What are we going to talk about tonight, Mr. Scully?” Whitacre asked. He had known Scully for six months and liked him even less now than he had the first time they'd met. “What is so urgent that you have to come find me during the middle of a very important week of meetings in Asia?”

Whitacre was too sure of himself for a man who had never put himself at risk in the name of a cause, Scully thought. Scully had spent his career in the intelligence shadows, constantly one small misstep away from being spirited off to an enemy interrogation camp and certain torture. Scully was the type of man the United States government would never acknowledge knowing if he found himself in hot water. He had sacrificed family, friends, and monetary gain for his country. He was certain the only cause Whitacre had ever sacrificed anything for had its roots firmly planted in the dollar.

“We're going to talk about something near and dear to your heart,” Scully said. “The money.”

Whitacre snuffed out his cigarette in a dirty porcelain ashtray. He liked coming to Asia because you could smoke whenever and wherever you chose. “What about it?”

“It's time to move it.”

“Is the infrastructure ready?”

“Yes.” Scully was aware of Whitacre's disdain for him, but it didn't bother him at all. The feeling was mutual. He had expressed his displeasure at the prospect of working with Whitacre to the higher-ups, but the decision to use Whitacre for the operation was final.

“Have we decided which pocket the money will come from?”

“Yes.”

“How much will be transferred?”

“A billion initially, then another billion later. It's a lot, but thanks to our contacts no one will ever realize what's happened.”

“And the destination is no problem?”

“The final details have been worked out,” Scully said proudly. He had been proposing this plan for years, but until recently no one had paid attention. Eighteen months ago the higher-ups had finally understood the incredible opportunity. Predictably, they were now claiming the idea as their own, but he didn't care. He derived an immense amount of satisfaction because he knew down deep who was responsible, and he was patriotic to a fault. “Everything is ready.”

Whitacre lit another cigarette. “The reach of this thing seems to grow every day.”

Scully leaned over the table. “Does that scare you?”

“No,” Whitacre replied hesitantly. What scared him was Scully.

“Good.” Scully said, checking his watch. “Your CEO will be here in a few minutes, according to our people.”

“Right,” Whitacre muttered. He felt a pain in the pit of his stomach. At least he was capable of remorse, he thought to himself. He knew Scully had none.

“Have you ever been under fire, Mr. Whitacre?” Scully asked, a thin smile on his lips. “Ever had someone attack you brandishing a deadly weapon with the intent to kill?”

Whitacre shook his head. “No,” he said. “Why?”

“Just curious.” Scully pointed at a dark window above a grocery store across the street. “I'll be right up there.”

Whitacre realized the cigarette between his fingers was shaking and he quickly placed it in the ashtray. “It's going to happen here?” he asked, swallowing hard.

“Yes.”

“But there are so many people around,” Whitacre protested. It was well past sundown, but the thoroughfare remained crowded with pedestrians.

“Don't worry about them. They'll be fine.”

“Why not do it back at the hotel?”

“It has to look as if you were
both
targets.”

Whitacre put the cigarette to his lips again and drew on it deeply to calm his nerves. “I suppose,” he agreed.

“In a few minutes everything will be fine,” Scully assured him. “It will all be over and you'll be the new chief executive officer of the largest information technology company in the world.”

Whitacre watched Scully slink away. “James Whitacre, CEO of Global Media,” he said to himself quietly. He liked the sound of it.

A few minutes later Whitacre spotted Richard Randolph, Global's CEO, lumbering up the street toward the café lugging a bag filled with gifts for his wife and children back in the United States. Randolph was a bear of a man—six and a half feet tall—with a grand vision for Global Media and the determination and courage to make the vision become reality. In three years he had assembled the company with an adept string of mergers and a hard-nosed attitude. Randolph believed he had done the public a favor by bringing such an incredible array of technology together in one package. Randolph had no idea what he had really done, Whitacre thought to himself as he rose from his chair and shook Randolph's hand.

The instant their hands met, Whitacre heard the first crack of the rifle, felt Randolph's grip loosen, and watched the huge man topple to the pavement before him with a muted groan, presents tumbling from the bags as he collapsed. Then Whitacre felt a searing pain and he too crumpled to the street.

B
o sat in a wicker chair on the playhouse veranda, smoking a cigarette as he watched darkness yield to dawn over the lake. He'd spent the night out here, staring into the darkness, attempting to understand how flesh and blood could be so cruel. He had tried to talk to Jimmy Lee one-on-one several times since the confrontation in the study yesterday morning, but had been unable to gain an audience. The decision had been made. Paul was the victor. That was the reality. So was Montana.

“Bo.”

He turned slowly in the direction of the voice, suddenly aware of how tired he was.

Bruce Laird nodded as he sat down in the chair beside Bo's. “Morning.”

Bruce Laird was Jimmy Lee's personal attorney. A man who knew more about Jimmy Lee's dealings, both business and personal, than anyone else. Jimmy Lee had lured Laird away from the white-shoe firm of Davis Polk seven years ago to be his point man. Bo and Teddy were privy to all issues concerning Warfield Capital; Paul had been introduced to all of Jimmy Lee's many political contacts; and certain nonfamily insiders ran or had access to other specific areas of information within the Hancock empire. But Laird had access to everything.

Laird was only five six and a hundred forty pounds, but he made up for his lack of physical stature with a steel-trap mind that never forgot a name, a face, a place, or a document. He had a take-no-prisoners attitude when it came to negotiation, whether that negotiation had to do with a piece of beachfront property Jimmy Lee wanted to purchase or the price of a cup of coffee from a street vendor. Price tags and suggested legal language were starting points to Laird, and with the Hancock name behind him, he rarely caved to anyone on the other side of the table concerning either issue.

As Laird sat down it occurred to Bo that he knew very little about the man even though he was an integral part of the family team. All Bo knew was that Laird was a workaholic who rarely had time for his wife and two small children who lived with him in a sprawling Park Avenue penthouse; that Laird had little respect for Teddy or Paul; and that he was brusque with everyone, even the formidable Jimmy Lee.

“How are you, Counselor?” Bo asked. Jimmy Lee had addressed Laird as such from the beginning and now everyone inside the family called him by that title. And in return only Laird dared to call Jimmy Lee by the nickname J. L.

“Oh, I'm fine.” Laird frowned at Bo's cigarette. He was a health nut who ran five miles a day and didn't drink or smoke. “You're the one in the hot seat, Bo. When are you leaving?”

News traveled fast. “Why do you ask, Counselor? What part of my life has my father promised you?”

“Don't be emotional, Bo.” Laird was only a year older than Bo, but he dispensed paternal advice to all three Hancock brothers with regularity. “There is no place for emotion in business.”

Bo counted to ten quietly, refraining from his first-instinct response. Laird was a powerful man within the empire and Bo needed every ally he could get. “I like numbers, but I can't be purely analytical like you. I can't accept what my father did to me yesterday.”