Too Damn Rich (80 page)

He climbed inside, careful to distribute his
weight evenly on the old floorboards. Then, using his penlight, he
wove his way around mountains of discarded furniture, boxes, and
trunks. The air was acrid with dust; cobwebs stuck to his face.

A minute later, he reached the door.

Opening it a crack, he peered out.

The coast was clear, the stairway
thoughtfully lit.

He switched off the penlight, put on his
goggles, and checked for newly installed infrared alarm beams.

There were none.

Walking in a crouch, and avoiding the steps
he knew to be creaky, he crept down the narrow stairs to the
second-floor landing. There, he flattened himself against the wall,
edged along it, and peered around the corner.

He was at the grand staircase which curved
down to the oval foyer. Silent as a ghost, he moved toward it,
looking up, down, and out past the railing. Eyes everywhere, ears
attuned.

It's like the night before bleedin'
Christmas, he thought. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse
...

Swiftly and quietly, he descended the stairs,
listened at the door to the service hallway, then opened it and
slipped inside. Second door to the left led down to the
basement.

This was the door with hinges badly in need
of oiling.

No problem. Two squirts of WD-40 and it
opened without a whisper. He stepped inside and closed it behind
him.

Now he was atop the basement stairs.
Switching on the penlight, he shone it down the steep concrete
steps and started down.

The basement smelled of moist stone and
rotting wood. Old spiderwebs, like dirty angel hair, spanned the
bare beams overhead, trapping the dried carapaces of long-dead
flies. He could hear a sump pump kick in, the furnace going
fa-lump!, the steady plops of water from a leaky pipe.

He headed straight for the furnace, shut it
off, and extinguished the pilot light. Then he turned it on full
blast.

He smiled to himself as he heard the
snakelike hiss of escaping gas. Lovely.

Now for the two boilers.

He turned them both off, blew out their pilot
lights, and switched them back on also.

Time for the main event: the gas line feeding
into the house.

When he reached it, he clipped the penlight
to his jacket, took a gas mask out of a pouch, and slipped it over
his head. Next, he took a small,carefully sealed, heavy glass
bottle from its snug, foam-padded nest in one of the pouches.

Inside was acid: corrosive, nonflammable,
quick-acting.

He broke the seal cautiously. Don't want to
get this stuff on me, he thought. With utmost care he began to
dribble it on the gas line.

The metal pipe instantly began to blister and
disintegrate. Within a minute, it was thoroughly eaten through.

Gas, silent and deadly, started pouring into
the basement.

Carefully he stoppered the empty bottle,
placed it back in its pouch, undipped the penlight, and went back
upstairs.

He left all the doors open so the gas could
fill the house. Sprinted up the grand staircase. Headed down a
second-floor corridor to the east wing, where the master bedroom
was located.

Every bomb needs a fuse . . .

He switched off the corridor lights. Popped
the penlight in his mouth and unscrewed the switchplate. Carefully
uncapped the wires and joined them together, making sure they
touched metal.

One spark is all it takes . . .

He screwed the switchplate back on and
grinned to himself. I'm glad I won't be around when that light's
turned on, he thought sardonically.

He was on the roof, wedging the dormer window
shut when he spied a Secret Service agent coming out of the guest
house, flashlight in hand. Much good a check of the grounds will
do, he thought.

Fifteen minutes later, the agent was back
inside. Now!

Donough Kildare scuttled down the drainpipe.
Crawled under the yew to reconnect the alarm system. Then
disappeared across the meadow, a lithe, barely visible shadow.

He stopped a hundred yards from the house and
dropped to the ground, taking up position under a paddock fence.
Got out that most ancient of all weapons—a slingshot and a
stone.

After the Big Bang, investigators could sift
through the rubble all they liked. They'd never find the telltale
residue of matches, timers, fuses, explosives, or bullets. All he'd
have to do was launch a single stone at a window.

The lady will do the rest.

He settled down, deciding to give it
two-and-a-half hours. By then the house would be a bomb waiting to
go off.

Ingenious.

Becky V was jolted awake by the deafening,
shattering bedlam of the alarms. What the devil—

She sat up in bed and looked around
wildly.

The outdoor floods had automatically clicked
on, bathing the perimeter of the house, and she could see the
stark, glaring white light through chinks in the drawn
curtains.

Tilting her head, she listened for the shouts
of her Secret Service detail, but it was impossible. Everything was
drowned out by the ear- splitting din.

Why don't they shut the infernal thing off?
she wondered.

Then she relaxed.

It's probably just a false alarm. It
certainly wouldn't be the first time.

She decided to go and switch it off
herself.

Turning on her bedside lamp, she got up,
shrugged herself into a blue silk nightgown, and tied the sash as
she crossed the room. Opening her door carefully, she peered
out.

The corridor was dark; the dimmed sconces
were off. That's strange. They're always left on. Suddenly she felt
sick to her stomach. What's that stench? she wondered. It smells
like gas.

Hurrying now, and trying not to breathe, she
stumbled down the corridor to the light switch.

The fumes were overwhelming. Good Lord! It is
gas! I'd better turn on the lights so I can see where I'm going.
She reached for the switch and flipped it.

There was a blinding flash and a tremendous
roar, and the entire mansion exploded in a fireball.

At seven-thirty that evening, Donough Kildare
was at a Toms River, New Jersey, marina. Another job well done, he
thought. This one was certainly my crowning achievement. Maybe it's
a good time to retire ...

As prearranged, he boarded a forty-one-foot
Hatteras double-cabin motor yacht, slid open the door, and stepped
down into the compact salon.

"Close the door," the man seated in the club
chair said softly.

Kildare slid it shut and froze as he heard
the familiar click of a gun hammer. Slowly, he turned around.

He was looking at the silencer of a
.44-caliber Magnum revolver. "What the bleedin' fuck? I only came
to collect my—"

"Did you ever hear my Arnold Schwarzenegger
routine?" the man with the gun asked softly.

Kildare stared at him. "Huh—?"

The man said, "
Hasta la vista
, baby,"
and pulled the trigger.

Donough Kildare's head burst like a ripe
watermelon.

The man blew on the smoking barrel and
smiled. Now all we have to do is wait, he thought. When Becky's
things come on the auction block, we'll have the world's richest
collectors and celebrities under one roof.

Sitting ducks, the lot of them. Just waiting
to be plucked . . .

He could hardly wait.

Becky V Death Ruled a Tragic Accident.

Legend's Collections to Go on the Block

SOMERSET, N.J., June 26 (AP)—A gas leak coupled with
faulty wiring was the probable cause of the explosion which killed
six people here, including former First Lady Rebecca Cornille
Wakefield Lantzouni de la Vila, federal investigators and local
fire officials said today.

But investigators admitted they were baffled by how a
gas leak could account for an explosion of such magnitude,
according to Dwight Kramer, a federal official.

When the fire department arrived on the scene, all
that was left of the mansion was a giant smoldering crater.

"It looked like a bomb had been dropped," said Chief
Fred Czubik of the local fire department.

The victims, which in addition to the Duchess de la
Vila included three servants and two Secret Service agents,
occurred about 4:15 A.M. on Saturday, May 11. All were identified
through dental remains.

Lord Rosenkrantz, the investment banker, who had been
staying in the nearby guest house, escaped with minor injuries and
was treated and released from the local hospital.

The team of investigators worked around the clock for
six weeks before reaching their verdict. According to Mr. Kramer,
they ruled out the possibility of arson early on because of the
lack of an incendiary device.

"It's an act of God," Chief Czubik said. "We've never
seen this before, and hope we'll never see it again."

Local gas company officials were not available for
comment.

November Auction Planned

Beginning on November 11 in New York, Burghley's will
kick off a series of auctions of art, antique furnishings,
decorative objects, and important jewels owned by what the auction
house calls "one of the most famous and fascinating women of our
century."

Born Rebecca Cornille, the woman who came to be known
as Becky V was married to, and widowed by, President William
Winterton Wakefield III, Leonidas Danaus Lantzouni, the shipping
magnate, and Gran Duque Joaquin de la Vila, and maintained various
residences around the world.

According to Burghley's, thirty-two experts from
eight departments will catalogue the various collections.

Over eight hundred of the world's finest Old Masters,
including works by Velasquez, El Greco, Rubens, Titian, Veronese,
and Goya will be sold, as well as furnishings by Roentgen, Jacob,
and Boulle.

"It's a pity to see the collections broken up," the
Gran Duquesa's sister, the Vicomtesse Suzy de Saint- Mallet said,
"but as Becky would say, 'We're just temporary custodians.' "

All proceeds from the sales will go to charity.

The mayor charged into his office twenty
minutes late, personality and charisma creating a cyclonelike burst
of energy, a fluttery aide at his heels.

"Sorry I'm late, gentlemen," he apologized,
flashing a mouthful of bright teeth. "Couldn't be helped."

The seated men had risen to their feet. Each
received a brisk, campaign-trail handclasp, a sincere look straight
in the eye, and heard the mayor say his name: "Mr. Goldsmith. Mr.
Fairey. Detective Ferraro. Mr. Hockert."

Hizzoner had obviously been briefed in
advance. Not that it mattered. He liked giving that personal touch,
and knew from experience that people fell for it.

He didn't shake hands with the police
commissioner, but acknowledged him with friendly familiarity. "Ed,"
he said, "Thelma and the kids okay?"

"They're just fine, Mr. Mayor," beamed the
tall black man in uniform.

"Good. Be sure and give them my regards.
Gentlemen, please. Have a seat."

Greetings over, the mayor was suddenly all
business. He strode behind his desk, sat down in his red
tufted-leather executive swivel chair, and leaned forward. Behind
him were two flagpoles, one with the Stars and Stripes, the other
with the state flag.

"You're here to discuss security at the
auction on—?" He clicked his fingers.

"November eleventh, Mr. Mayor," supplied his
hovering aide.

"Right. At Burghley's." He eyeballed the PC.
"Have you been filled in, Ed?"

"Yes, Mr. Mayor."

"And?"

"In my opinion, police presence is a definite
must. Mr. Fairey gave me a partial list of people who'll probably
attend. There's a copy of it on your desk."

The mayor picked up the sheet of paper and
quickly scanned it. He looked up sharply, his voice incredulous.
"These are some of the people you expect at the auction?"

"Yes, Mr. Mayor," Sheldon D. Fairey replied.
"Those and many other notables."

"Good God! This looks more like an
international summit than an art sale!"

"That's why we're being so
security-conscious," Fairey said.

"I take it you have your own security
staff?"

"Naturally, and we plan to augment it. But
with two heads of state, some former ones, major celebrities, movie
stars, and hundreds of the richest people in the world—" Fairey
gestured eloquently. "Their safety has to be our foremost
concern."

Frowning thoughtfully, the mayor swiveled on
his big chair and stared out the window, where a light rain was
falling. After a moment, he swiveled back around. He looked at the
PC. "Your call, Ed."

"My advice is we pull out all the stops, Mr.
Mayor. Treat this as if the President were coming to town."

"You're talking expensive." The mayor was
only too aware of the city's budget deficit.

"Can't be helped. We'll need heavy security
around Burghley's and wherever the most politically sensitive VIPs
are staying. Also, we should consider providing police escorts to a
select few. And we should definitely close off a section of Madison
before and during the auction."

The mayor pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You know what this means, Ed. Don't you?"

"Yes, Mr. Mayor. A lot of overtime."

"Which the city can't afford."

"Yes, but there's something the city can
afford even less."

"Which is?"

"There are people on that list who've
survived several failed assassination attempts. How would it look
if someone succeeded at it here?"

He didn't have to spell out the ramifications
of such a scenario. The mayor knew them well.

The press would have a field day, he thought
grimly. The city would suffer an onslaught of adverse publicity.
Tourism would plunge. And I can kiss reelection good-bye.