Too Damn Rich (64 page)

"Then let us begin." The priest made the sign
of the cross.
In nomine Patris et Filii
..."

..
et Spiritu Sancti
."

Leatham was Church of England, and to him
Latin was mumbo jumbo, as indecipherable, foreign, and lulling as
voodoo or Swahili. Numbing enough to put a man to sleep.

Not that he was about to nod off. The cramped
quarters of the tiny cell bothered him; kept him alert and on edge.
With three of them standing, and Kildare kneeling, he had to keep
his rifle aimed at the ceiling instead of the prisoner.

God help us if Kildare tries anything, he
thought. There isn't enough room in here to aim.

"Mr. Leatham?" the nun whispered.

He relaxed his guard on the trigger and
looked sideways.

She was fingering her rosary. "God will
forgive us all," she said.

As she spoke, she unscrewed the top of the
small crucifix hanging from her rosary. Then, quick as lightning,
she plunged the needle into Leatham's side.

He felt the prick and jerked. "What the—"

"Sssssh ..." The nun put a finger to her
lips. "Mustn't talk during Mass, Mr. Leatham!"

And then he was paralyzed by the poison, his
lungs unable to breathe. He dropped to his knees, and the nun
gently took his rifle.

The last thing he saw was her sweet, gentle
smile.

Outside the cell door, Brompton sensed a
change in the rhythm of the Latin coming from behind the iron door.
He looked through the peephole, but all he could see was the
priest's back. He was holding the Host aloft and invoking
prayer.

Christ! he thought in disgust. Bloody
Papists! There ain't enough Masses in the world to help fuckin'
Kildare!

Brompton stepped back and began to pace. He
wished the priest would hurry the hell up.

How long does a bleedin' Mass take?

Suddenly three bursts of gunfire thundered
from inside the cell.

"What the bloody—"

Brompton lunged for the nearest alarm button,
and sirens instantly began wailing. Dashing to the door, he peered
through the peephole, then swiftly unlocked it and ran inside the
cell. Dropping to his knees, he felt all four bodies for
pulses.

The nun—dead.

The priest—dead.

Kildare—dead.

He was afraid to turn over Leatham's body.
The guard's uniform was soaked with blood. His face was
unrecognizable, grisly with flesh and blood and bits of bone.

Oh, Christ—

Taking a deep breath, he felt the neck for a
pulse, then twisted around, and screamed: "Get a bloody chopper!
Now! Leatham's still alive!"

The helicopter climbed and began to turn,
then dove into the twilight, skimming across the dark barren
moor.

"How's he doing?" the pilot shouted over his
shoulder.

"He may make it," the medic shouted back,
unaware that the body on the gurney was unstrapping itself. "I
don't bleedin' get it. Blood pressure's fine. Pulse is fine—"

He never finished. Donough Kildare, wearing
Leatham's uniform, reached up, twisted the young man's neck, and
broke it.

A minute later, the screaming pilot was
kicked out in midair.

Kildare climbed over the seat, grabbed the
controls, and brought the spinning and yawing chopper under
control.

Turning it around, he dropped below radar
level and headed for the coast—and a rusty tramp freighter which
waited, beacons blinking, out in international waters.

The five crewmen were also his friends.

For now.

Terrorist Still At Large

LONDON, Feb. 11 (Reuters)—After two weeks of
Britain's most intensive manhunt ever, police here and in Ireland
admit they are no closer to capturing Donough Kildare, who escaped
from Porston Prison on January 27 by murdering five persons.

"It's as if he disappeared into thin air," a Scotland
Yard spokesman said, referring to the Irish Republican Army
explosives expert who posed as a wounded guard and hijacked a
medical emergency helicopter.

In a bizarre twist, IRA leaders stoutly deny any
involvement in aiding and abetting the fugitive.

"We've washed our hands of him long ago," reads a
statement signed by the most respected and influential Catholic
leaders in Northern Ireland. "Years ago he was perceived as a hero,
but that was before he became a common terrorist-for-hire."

The manhunt, consisting of forty thousand troops and
fifteen thousand policemen, has been the country's largest.

"Quite frankly, we have no idea," the Scotland Yard
spokesman said, when questioned whether Mr. Kildare was still
thought to be in the United Kingdom. "We've had roadblocks set up
everywhere, and all ports of entry and exit have been under tight
security."

He added that the helicopter used in the escape has
still not been recovered, and that Interpol, the Surete, and the
FBI have been called upon to assist.

"He could be anywhere," he said, "but one thing is
for certain. Wherever he is, he isn't there to promote peace."

New York City, February 12

It's been gorgeous to see you, too, darlings.
Actually, I feel fright- fully guilty running off, but there's so
much to do. Can't wait till all this is over. I'm just dying for
some girl talk. Mwah! Mwah!"

They exchanged a flurry of air-kisses and
then Zandra rushed off in a breathless whirlwind of vigorous navy
plaids (diagonally patterned vest, horizontal-and-vertically
patterned blazer), black turtleneck, slim-cut black leather
mini-skirt, tattoo-patterned tights by Jean-Paul Gaultier, and
black paddock boots with stacked heels—proof positive that
cast-offs, thrift shop finds, and one pair of frivolously expensive
tights could hold its own in a restaurant full of the world's
haughtiest and hautest couture.

"A bridesmaid, a mere run-of-the-mill
bridesmaid ..."

Dina, unable to vent her steam in public,
spoke tightly from between falsely smiling lips as she and Becky
sat back down on the banquette and watched Karl-Heinz escort Zandra
out of Le Cirque, where the four of them had lunched together.

"... really, sweetie. I've never felt so ...
so thoroughly humiliated."

Becky, wearing a fitted black-and-white plaid
wool dress by Valentino, with white collar, big black floppy velvet
bowtie, and diamond and onyx cufflinks on starched white cuffs,
paused in the midst of lifting a cup of cappuccino to her lips.

"
Cherie
, please. Listen to me. The
slight of which you speak, if indeed it is a slight—"

"Of course it's a slight. What else can it
be?"

"—is unintentional.
Oui
." Becky set
down her cup and nodded.

"Unintentional? How can it be
unintentional?"

Dina, wearing a fortune of velvet scraps—a
fantasy of hand-sewn, crazy-quilt patchwork, from Christian
Lacroix—had felt positively matronly beside Zandra's vibrantly
youthful, inexpensive outfit. Just another of the many recent
injustices she felt she had been expressly selected to suffer.

"Of course Zandra did not mean any harm!"
Becky said.

"No? Sweetie, not only did my so-called best
friend wait this long to ask me ... and when she did it wasn't even
to be the matron of honor but a mere bridesmaid ... and you don't
think I should feel slighted?"

"Of course not! You are her oldest and
closest friend."

"Oh, really?"

"
Oui
. You know you are."

Dina, smile cemented on her face, waggled her
fingers, returning a wave from another table. "Then why, pray tell,
was she too busy—yes, sweetie, too busy—for the dinner I planned
for her? Why did I have to settle for this lunch—what?—two weeks
later, instead?"

"
Chere amie
. You must try to
understand. Ever since the wedding was announced, Zandra has been
deluged. Overnight, she has had to assume endless obligations.
Becoming a princess is not easy, you know. There are serious
responsibilities."

"Perhaps," Dina allowed. "But where is she
off to now, may I ask? Mmm?"

Becky was silent.

"You heard her, sweetie. Why, to Vera Wang's
for her bridal gown fitting! And who is she meeting there? Kenzie
Turner!"

Becky sighed. "
Cherie
—"

"Every way I turn, I suddenly hear nothing
except Kenzie Turner this and Kenzie Turner that! Kenzie Turner:
roommate. Kenzie Turner: maid of honor. Kenzie Turner: new best
friend."

Becky blew an obligatory kiss at new
arrivals.

"So what am I?" Dina demanded. "A discarded
piece of baggage? Why, Zandra would never have met Kenzie Turner if
it hadn't been for me!"

"
Chere amie
. I know how you must feel.
I want you to listen to me. However, what this calls for first,"
Becky decided, signaling for a waiter with a mere lift of a finger,
"is a
digestif
."

"What this calls for," Dina murmured darkly,
"is a hit man who will gun down Kenzie Turner."

"
Quelle horreur
," Becky said without
much concern, and smiled at the approaching waiter. "Two Drambuies,
Julian. Please."

"Yes, madame."

When he was gone, Becky said: "What you must
do,
cherie
, is keep everything in perspective."

"Which," brooded Dina, "is easier said than
done." Her wide-set, ice- blue eyes had turned even more glacial,
as remotely and opaquely blue as frosted glass. She couldn't find
it in her heart to let Zandra off easily. No: too many wounds had
recently been sustained and rubbed raw.

"
Quelle sottise!
What utter nonsense,"
Becky said. "Of course it is easily done. Remember: until the
marriage, Zandra will be a working girl."

"So?"

"So, have you forgotten that you lead a
privileged life of wealth and power?"

"Of course I haven't. But I don't see what
that has to do with anything."

"It has everything to do with it,
cherie
. Absolutely everything. You see, at this moment it is
only natural for Zandra to gravitate toward Kenzie Turner. She has
more in common with her than with you. However, it is hardly worth
getting worked up over."

"Hardly worth—"

Dina fell silent as the waiter set down two
cordial glasses of dark amber liqueur.

Becky looked up and smiled. "
Merci
,
Julian."

"
Mesdames
." The waiter departed.

Becky lifted the little glass delicately.
"Let us drink to the bride-to-be, shall we? You will see. Once the
wedding is
fini
, everything will be back to normal."

"You're sure?"

Becky smiled knowingly. "
Mais oui
. Why
should it not be?"

"And Kenzie Turner?"

"Shall no longer be Zandra's roommate, nor
her closest confidante. She will become ... irrelevant."

Dina stared at her. "How can you be so
sure?"

"Trust me, cherie," Becky said patiently. "In
time, everything will sort itself out."

"And when everything's said and done," Dina
continued thoughtfully, "and the vows are exchanged and Zandra's
married, what happens then?"

"Why, then Zandra will have so many
responsibilities within her own circle that she won't have time for
Mademoiselle Turner. Bear in mind that these are the last few weeks
she and Zandra will enjoy ... well, if not exactly equal social
footing, then as equal as they will ever be."

A hint of malice touched Becky's Mona Lisa
smile. "You do see my point,
chere amie?
"

Dina returned a broad smile. "Of course," she
said.

Becky had not only put things into
perspective, she had made everything beautifully crystal clear.

What would I do without her?

Dina really didn't know.

"
Bon
." Becky nodded with satisfaction.
"Soon now, Zandra will truly be part of our circle ... financially
as well as socially. Naturally, for friendship she will gravitate
toward the one person she knows best. You."

It was just what Dina needed to hear, and she
was thrilled to the very tips of her toes. "Sweetie, you wouldn't
believe how much better you've made me feel! I'm so glad we could
have this little chat!"

"Whatever are friends for?"

"And I treasure our friendship," Dina added
warmly.

"
Oui?"
Becky looked pleased.
"
Alors
. Then let us be profligate and celebrate with one
last Drambuie."

"Now, Kenzie, I want your honest opinion,"
Zandra warned, sailing resplendently out of the changing room on
the second floor at Vera Wang's on Madison Avenue.

Kenzie stared at her in wonder, and the
coterie of staff stood back and sighed blissfully in unison.

Zandra was wearing a fairy tale gown with a
thirty-foot train, a concoction which, veil included, must have
required a good hundred-plus yards of antique, off-white
Valenciennes lace, not to mention tens of yards of heavy white silk
satin, and several thousand freshwater seed pearls.

"Well, darling?" Zandra demanded, hands
clasped around a temporary, silk-flowered bridal bouquet. "I insist
upon the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help
you God."

"You look ... awesome," Kenzie managed,
swallowing. "I I'm speechless."

Zandra eyed herself in the surrounding
mirrors and frowned. "Awesome ... speechless ... Humph! It's
awesomely frothy," she murmured. "It's hopelessly romantic and
insistently bridal. Actually, Kenzie, let's cut the shit. If you
ask me, it's awesomely awful."

The staff looked at her sharply.

"Zandra!"

Kenzie jumped up from the little chair and
walked agitated half circles around her friend.