The Warrior (18 page)

Jacob wanted to argue. He kept thinking that if he ignored them, they would eventually go away. He stared at the floor until his vision blurred and the bourbon he'd just downed was hanging at the back of his throat. He thought about calling his lawyer, but what difference would that make in the grand scheme of things? They'd already made him the only offer that would be on the table. He couldn't get out of what he'd done, but he could save his own life. Still, betraying Richard Ponte was dangerous. Suddenly the bourbon made a move.

“You'll have to excuse me a minute,” he rasped. “I'm going to be sick.”

“I'll go with you,” Agent Joshua said, and followed Carruthers out of the room.

Corbin eyed Morrow. “What do you think?” he asked.

Special Agent Morrow grinned. “I think when he's
through puking, if he's got any guts left, he's going to spill 'em. I also think you're one lucky bastard that this fell in your lap and you're probably going to win yourself another Pulitzer.”

“That may be,” Corbin said. “But I can't help thinking of how many men and women in our armed forces are dead today because of what these two sons of bitches have been doing.”

The smile on Morrow's face shifted. “I'd hate to be either one of these guys when the cons get a hold of them.”

“How so?” Corbin asked.

“Even cons have their breaking points. Traitors to their country and child molesters don't get any breaks behind bars. It will be a miracle if Ponte makes it to trial and Carruthers makes it to Christmas.”

Corbin looked up, then pulled his tape recorder out of his pocket and set it on the coffee table in front of him.

“Here they come, and from the look on Carruthers' face, I feel a story coming on.”

 

Richard Ponte was signing a handful of letters that his secretary had laid on his desk, anxious to finish up this last lot of paperwork before he left for his lunch appointment. He'd turned the television on a couple of minutes ago, planning to catch the latest figures on the stock market, when he tuned in to the fact that a news bulletin was playing. He looked up, saw a familiar Washington, D.C., landmark hotel in the background and upped the volume.

“This just in from our news bureau. The body of a man has been found in the stairwell of the hotel behind me. He has been identified as Peter Wayne Joiner, also
known as Shark Joiner. Joiner has long been suspected of being a hit man for hire. Authorities have no leads at this time, but theories run the gamut from a mob hit gone wrong to a message being sent to the people with whom Joiner was associated. We'll have more on this developing story on the evening news. And now, we return to our regular programming.”

Richard sat staring at the screen for what seemed like an eternity while his mind raced, trying to sort through what the implications of this were for him. Obviously his latest plan to get to Alicia had failed.

Who the hell was this man she was with?

He'd put Dieter down, and now Shark—two of the best in the business. His lawyers were still working on getting the attempted murder charges dropped on Dieter, but as of now, he was still behind bars. Richard aimed the remote to turn off the TV and noticed his hands were trembling. Angry with himself for showing weakness, he slammed the remote down on the desk and willed himself to be calm.

At that moment there was a knock on the door and then his secretary came in.

“You wanted me to post those letters,” she said, pointing to the papers he'd been signing.

“Yes, yes…I'm almost through,” he said quickly, signed off on the last two and shoved them toward her.

A memo floated from his desk onto the floor. “Oh, you dropped something,” she said as she picked it up and handed it back to him. “It's that message from Mr. Carruthers.”

Richard's head began to pound. “What message? I didn't know Jacob called. Where was I?”

“It was before you came in, sir. I told him I expected that you were en route to the office, since he said you hadn't answered your cell. I left the message on top of your mail.”

Richard cursed. He'd tossed the morning paper on top of his desk without looking at the mail.

“Thank you, that will be all,” he said shortly, and was patting down his pockets for his cell phone when he realized it wasn't on him.

Frantic now, he began digging through his pockets again, unable to believe he'd left the house without it. All of a sudden he remembered that he'd been about to disconnect it from the charger when the maid had come in with a problem about the plumbing. By the time he'd dealt with that, he'd forgotten to get the phone.

“I'll have his heart on a stick if he's screwed anything up,” Richard muttered as he grabbed the phone and quickly dialed Jacob's number.

The phone rang twice before the maid answered. “This is Richard. Get Jacob immediately.”

“I'm sorry, Mr. Ponte, but Mr. Carruthers isn't here.”

“Where is he?” Richard asked.

“I'm not sure. He left about an hour ago with that reporter and two federal agents. He didn't say when he'd be back. Do you want me to—”

Richard hung up the phone.

What the hell just happened?
Obviously Alicia had spoken to someone, but why had they gone to Jacob instead of coming to him with Alicia's accusations?

Suddenly it hit him. Other than Alicia's word, they had no proof. He cursed beneath his breath. He'd underestimated his daughter. She'd pinpointed the crack in his
empire: Jacob. Jacob the worrier. Jacob the whiner. Jacob the weak.

He glanced down at the photo on his desk, then tilted his head.

“First round to you, daughter dear,” he said softly.

For a moment he allowed himself the luxury of looking around his perfectly appointed office one last time, knowing that he had a very small window of opportunity to get the hell out of the States. For all he knew, it might already be too late. In the back of his mind, he'd always known this might happen, but he'd never imagined it would be his daughter who brought him down. Even as he was emptying the office safe of all the cash he had on hand, he promised himself that, if it was the last thing he did, he would make her pay for what she'd done.

R
ichard's passport was in his pocket. All the cash he'd had in the safe was in his briefcase, as well as an untraceable phone. His heart was pounding as he took the back stairs out of his office and then the freight elevator to the ground floor. He exited in an alley, hailed a cab two streets over and told the driver to take him to the marina. As they drove, he called his bank and had two different accounts emptied and wired to his account in Geneva.

If Jacob was in custody, he would be next. They would undoubtedly be watching the airports. They would know he had a private jet and also a yacht. He couldn't use anything he owned without being traced. But he wasn't whipped. Not by a long shot. All during the cab ride, he was on the cell, tying up loose ends, issuing orders at his home, calling a residence he owned in East Germany and hiring a boat to take him north up the coast from Miami. His first step out of the FBI net was simply to get to South Carolina. Paulo Gianni, an old friend as well as a famous Hollywood actor, had a
vacation home in Myrtle Beach. Richard knew for a fact that Paulo was in the States, and the man owed him a big favor. He was only a phone call away from making an escape. His fingers were flying as he punched in Paulo's number, smiling with satisfaction when he heard Paulo's voice, rather than his voice mail.

“Yes?”

“Paulo…it's Richard Ponte. How have you been?”

“Ricardo, my friend, I am fine, as always. I am so glad you called. I have learned of your daughter's kidnapping and am shocked. Do you know anything more?”

Richard relaxed.
Right into his hands.

“There's nothing I can tell you without putting her life in danger, but I need a favor. I need to get to Italy without the press knowing. Is your jet there?”

Paulo reacted immediately, believing, as Richard intended, that Richard's need to get to Italy must involve his daughter. “They have taken her out of the country? Ah…my friend…but of course. Where are you now?”

“I'll be coming to your location oceanside.”

“You know the hangar I always use?”

“Yes. I've landed there in the past myself.”

“I'll call my pilot. He'll be waiting.”

Richard sighed. One more piece falling into place. “I can't thank you enough,” he said.

“No, no…it is my pleasure, and know that my prayers will be with you. When you next see your beautiful daughter, give her my love.”

“Definitely,” Richard said, and disconnected.

Moments later the cab driver pulled up on the side of the marina with boats for hire. Richard tossed a handful of bills into the front seat and got out on the run.
He stopped the first local he came to, who happened to be a man selling balloons.

“Can you tell me where the
Martini Mama
is berthed?”

“That way,” the man said, pointing up the wharf. “It's a white boat with a naked woman holding a martini glass painted on the prow.”

“Of course it is,” Richard muttered, and headed off, trying not to think of his own perfectly appointed yacht less than a quarter of a mile away.

He found the boat with ease, and after locating the pilot, revised his disdain. The man was dressed to the nines in white, right down to a captain's nautical cap and the prerequisite white soft-soled shoes.

“Captain Roberts?” Richard asked.

“Call me Weed, and yes…for the obvious reason. But relax, it's a holdover from my hippie days.” He held out a hand to Richard, easing his step from the wharf to the small gangplank leading to the boat. “So, Mr. Colt, is it?”

Richard nodded. “Yes, Paul Colt. Please call me Paul.”

Weed smiled as he rubbed his hands together in a playful show of greed. “Shall we get the business end of this out of the way first?”

“You said five thousand?” Richard asked, counting out the money into Weed Roberts' hand.

The other man nodded. “Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, is quite a distance, and fuel is sky-high.”

“It's fine,” Richard said. “Can we start now?”

“Sure thing, Paul. Let me show you to your cabin.”

“I'll find my own way,” Richard said. “I'm just in a hurry to get started.”

Weed pocketed the money and pointed to the stairwell.
“It's your call. First door on the left will be your cabin for the duration of the trip. The head is across the hall.”

Richard went down below. Moments later, he heard the engine start up. Not until they were out of the bay and into open water did he relax.

At that point, he tried contacting Jacob one more time, but this time on his cell.

 

Jacob was sitting in an interrogation room in his lawyer's office, listening to his lawyer and the Feds working out the conditions under which he would agree to testify. He'd give them names, dates and delivery points of illegal sales for the past five years. He knew where Richard was banking that money, but he didn't know account numbers. It was everything he knew. If they wanted Richard Ponte, they had to take it.

He knew his life was basically over. His children were grown, but their conception of their father was a lie. He also knew that, because of him, their reputations would be tarnished, if not ruined. They would hate him, but not as much as he hated himself. The only positive part of this hell was that Delia was gone. He didn't think he would be able to bear the look in his wife's eyes, and for the first time since her passing, he was glad she was dead.

He was staring out the window, absently watching a pair of pigeons pecking at something on the windowsill, when his cell phone began to vibrate. He slipped it out of his jacket pocket, saw Richard's name on the caller ID and then laid the phone on the table.

“The man of the hour is on the phone,” Jacob said. “Help yourself.”

Corbin Woodliff leaned forward, then looked at Agent Joshua in surprise. “Why isn't he in custody?” he asked, knowing that agents were supposed to have picked him up that morning.

Joshua picked up the phone, then handed it to Jacob. “Answer it, but don't tell him where you are.” Then he motioned for another agent to trace the call.

Jacob sighed. “I never could lie to him. He'll know something is wrong.”

“Our men were supposed to have him in custody. Something must have happened. Ask him where he is,” Agent Joshua said.

Jacob cleared his throat, then answered. “Richard…where on earth are you? I've been trying to call you all morning.”

“Just answer my questions. Are you alone?”

“No, of course not,” Jacob said.

“Are you with the Feds?”

“Yes…all morning. I left two or three messages on your cell. Why didn't you answer?”

Richard sighed. The first time he'd ever left home without that damned phone, and this was the result.

“Did you give me up? Don't lie to me. I'll know.”

“I see, well, yes, and that's too bad,” Jacob answered. “So…have you heard anything from the kidnappers yet? Have you talked to Alicia? Is she okay?”

“You did, didn't you? Damn you to hell, you sorry bastard. I thought you were my friend.”

Jacob drew a slow, shuddering breath. “I did think the same, but I didn't get your invitation.”

All of a sudden Richard began to understand Jacob's verbal shorthand. He was telling Richard in the only
way he could that he thought Richard had run out on him first. That must have been what he was calling about earlier that morning. Poor Jacob. He never could run a bluff.

“It wasn't like that, my friend. All I did was forget my damn cell phone. It's still at home. This one is a disposable. I wouldn't have left you behind.”

“But as it turned out, you did, didn't you, Richard?”

Silence.

Agent Joshua was making frantic hand gestures—wanting Jacob to ask Richard's location—but Jacob had said everything he intended to. He handed the phone to Joshua.

“You ask him.”

By the time Joshua had the phone to his ear, the line was dead.

“Did you get that?” Joshua yelled to the agent tracing the call, who shook his head. “He hung up too fast.”

“Damn it,” Joshua muttered.

“What did he say?” Corbin asked.

“He knows I'm in custody. God only knows where he is, but asking would have been stupid. He's not going to tell me anything more…other than what he just said.”

“What was that?” Corbin asked.

“To go to hell.”

“That's enough,” Jacob's lawyer said. “You get nothing more from him until we have all this in writing and signed by the attorney general.” Then he pointed at Corbin Woodliff. “And
you
. Don't print a word of this.”

“Sorry,” Corbin said. “You can make deals with the government but not the press. The story came to me. It's mine to tell.”

“At least wait until—”

Corbin held up his hand. “You and I aren't negotiating anything,” he said. “And as far as I'm concerned, the sooner the American people know their sons and daughters are being shot and killed with their own countryman's weapons, the better.”

Jacob put his head down on the table and wept.

Corbin glared at him, then at his lawyer. “Do we understand each other here?”

The lawyer looked at Jacob, then back at Corbin. “Think of his family…of his children and grandchildren.”

“Why?” Corbin snapped. “He didn't think of the mothers and fathers who are burying
their
children and grandchildren, or the children and grandchildren who are being orphaned, because of the weapons these two sold to al Qaeda. It's over. The whole ugly scheme is over.”

Then Jacob lifted his head. His eyes were swollen and brimming with tears, and he looked as if he'd aged ten years in the last two hours.

“Let it go,” he said, speaking to his lawyer. “Just get the papers drawn up. I want this over with.”

At that moment Agent Morrow entered. There were a half-dozen people behind him, one of whom Corbin recognized as the attorney general of the United States. Corbin was promptly escorted out of the room, but he didn't care. He had his story. The details could come later, in follow-up pieces. For now, he knew warrants had been issued for the arrest of Jacob Carruthers and Richard Ponte for treason against the United States of America, and why, and that was enough.

He pulled out a phone to call in the story. The piece had already been written while they'd been waiting for
the AG to arrive. All he had to do was let the editor know, then e-mail it. Even though it was a coup for Corbin, it was a sad day for his country.

 

Alicia was sitting in the kitchen, waiting for John to come back from his shower, when she heard him call out her name. She raced into the living room just as he was turning on the television.

“You need to see this,” he said as he aimed the remote. “I caught part of it in my room.”

Alicia gasped when a live shot of Jacob Carruthers in handcuffs came onto the screen. The news anchor was talking over the footage in a highly excited voice. Then they flashed a photo of her father. Even though she'd known this was what would happen, the physical evidence was still shocking. She grabbed on to the back of the sofa as her knees went weak.

“Oh, Daddy,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

John could have told her right then about the soul he'd been after. That with every incarnation, when the time to make choices had come, it had chosen the dark side every time. He could have told her that Richard Ponte's fall from grace had nothing to do with what she'd done and everything to do with something that had happened centuries ago. But she'd already suffered enough shocks. Dumping a revelation like that in her lap would have sent her straight over the edge.

“It wasn't you who committed the crimes, it was him,” John said. “And don't forget, he was willing to kill you to keep himself safe. What kind of a father does that?”

Alicia turned, almost eye to eye with the man behind
her. “Obviously mine. The issue is…if he's that evil, then what does that make me?”

John's anger came out in his voice. “A victim. Nothing more.”

“That's easy for you to say,” Alicia said, but immediately wished she could take the words back when she saw the look on his face. It was then that she remembered his claim that her father was responsible for killing his wife, his entire family. “I'm sorry. That was a stupid, thoughtless remark. I wasn't thinking about your own losses. I'm sorry.”

“Let it go,” John said. “Again, it wasn't you who killed them. It was him.”

“How?” she asked. “Were they in a war zone? Was it a bomb? Help me understand.”

John's nostrils flared. “They died because of ignorance and greed. As for helping you understand, how can I do that when I don't understand it myself?”