Mary sat in a low-backed leather chair facing Ian Prince in the library on the second floor of the presidential suite. “My husband is dead. You had him killed. Things can’t go back to how they were.”
“You have no money. No savings. Your credit is ruined. You have a stack of medical bills as high as a mountain. And now Grace is back in hospital in the company of a guardian-a Mrs. Kramer, whose credit card you used to book your flight to Las Vegas. Don’t ask me how I know.”
Mary contained her fear. He knew because he knew everything. She looked into Prince’s eyes, part of her questioning whether he was even human. The easy smile, the flawless complexion, the sparkling eyes and lustrous hair. He radiated health, well-being, yet it was somehow artificial, not entirely lifelike.
“I’m prepared to rectify these unfortunate reversals,” he went on. “Your checking account will be refunded. Ditto your savings. Additionally, I’ll pay Grace’s hospital bills to the penny. I’ll even provide you with a generous cushion to find your footing after so difficult a loss.” He put out a hand to touch her knee. “I only want the best for you.”
Mary knocked the hand away. “You should have thought of that before you had Joe killed.”
Ian Prince chuckled, as if this were a misunderstanding between friends. “Edward Mason told me you were stubborn.”
“He has no idea.”
The look in Ian Prince’s eyes changed. A light went out. “Of course, there’s also the matter of your husband’s pension,” he said.
“What about it?” With all their money stolen from the bank, Joe’s pension was all they had. Mary had calculated it to be a little more than $3,000 a month. If Edward Mason made good on his promise of a posthumous raise to Senior Executive Service, the amount would rise to nearly $5,000. The pension was their only remaining safety net.
“If I’m to understand correctly, the FBI considers drug or alcohol use in the course of duty as a punishable offense. Joe spent some time at Hazelden, did he not? A sixty-day course of treatment, lengthened to ninety owing to the severity of his addictions…plural. Alcohol. Prescription drugs. Even marijuana.”
“Joe hadn’t drunk or used in two and a half years. It started because of an accident at work. He ruptured a verterbra-”
“Lifting a filing cabinet while removing evidence,” said Ian Prince. “I know, I know. These things often start in the most innocuous ways. Still, Edward Mason informed me that an analysis of his blood work at the time of death is standard. Should the FBI find any abnormalities, they’ll be well within their rights to decrease his pension, if not to cancel it altogether.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“We’re far past threats, Mary.” And then Ian smiled. The light in his eyes went back on. “Regarding Grace, I nearly forgot to tell you. I’ve found a promising physician in Houston who can look after her, a Dr. Shender, at the MD Anderson clinic. A leader in his field. Brilliant.”
“Grace is fine.”
“So you told me. And I’d love for Jessie to come work for us at ONE. She’s a natural. Just like I was at her age. We can start with an internship next summer. Of course we’ll pay her college tuition and for any graduate studies she might wish to pursue. A full ride. Expenses, too.”
“No, thank you,” said Mary. “That won’t be necessary.”
Ian narrowed his eyes. “I don’t know that you’re in a position to turn me down.”
“I believe I am.”
“Really?”
Mary leaned closer. “Another thing the FBI frowns upon is bribery. You paid Edward Mason ten million dollars to stop my husband’s investigation into Merriweather Systems. And then there’s the matter of your hacking into the FBI’s mainframes, not to mention the original accusations of extortion against Merriweather shareholders. Don’t ask me how I know.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“We’re far past threats, Ian. I have all of Hal Stark’s files. Everything he copied from your computers to give to Joe. Any minute my associate will deliver an article to the newspaper, along with copies of the files detailing the crimes you committed.” Mary stood and picked up her purse. “I would advise Edward Mason to leave my husband’s blood as it is and not to mess with it in any way, shape, or form. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going downstairs and taking my daughter.”
As Mary left the room, Ian Prince’s head of security entered. “I believe we’ve met,” said Mary as he passed her. “Last night. My place. I was the one with the steel bowl.”
“I’ll see you soon.”
“Doubtful.”
Mary continued downstairs to where Jessie sat on the couch, working on her laptop alongside the man with the deep-set eyes. “Come on, peanut. We’re out of here.”
“We’re just talking about the code I found on your phone. This is Greg. He went to MIT. He totally explained it to me.”
“Hello, Greg. I’m impressed.” Mary took Jessie’s hand and yanked her off the couch. “We’re going home.”
Jessie pulled her hand free. “Okay. You don’t have to be so aggro.” She looked at Greg from MIT. “Thanks for showing me that. I didn’t see it on GitHub anywhere.”
“Too bad about the typo.” Greg smiled, and Mary thought he looked like a hyena. More than ever she wanted to get away from Ian Prince.
“I have to get my laptop,” said Jessie. “I left it in the ballroom. I hope Garrett is taking care of it.”
“Fine. Let’s just go.”
Ian Prince had come down the stairs and was standing near the aquarium. His bodyguard walked past him toward Mary. “You should have kept your mouth closed,” he said in the South African accent she’d heard the night before.
Mary didn’t see the blow coming. She felt something hard and unyielding strike her jaw. Her vision blurred. The next thing she knew she was lying on the floor, blood filling her mouth. Jessie was shouting and then she wasn’t. Strong hands pulled Mary to her feet. She saw Jess on the couch, doubled over, clutching her stomach. Her “friend,” Greg from MIT, stood above her.
“Bad news, I’m afraid,” said Ian Prince. “Mr. Mason informs me that your friend Mr. Potter has been killed. The FBI is in possession of the evidence you alluded to. A car key. Points to Hal Stark for thinking of it-or was it your husband’s idea? Either way, very clever indeed.” He looked at his bodyguard. “Mr. Briggs, I believe we’re done here.” He approached Mary. “You should have taken my offer while you had the chance. I’m afraid it’s off the table now.”
Mary spat a wad of blood and saliva into his face. “That’s what I think of your offer.”
Ian recoiled, brushing the spit from his face. “You could never have stopped my work,” he said. “I’m the future.”
“God, I hope not.”
Ian walked from the suite.
Briggs guided Mary to a chair and sat her down. He drew a pair of flex cuffs from his jacket and fastened her wrists in front of her, then placed a length of duct tape over her mouth. Jess bolted from the couch, trying for the door. Greg tackled her and held her until Briggs cuffed and taped her, too.
“Wait until dark,” said Briggs to Greg from MIT. “We’ll send someone to help out. Until then, they’re yours. Just don’t make a mess.”
94
Tank Potter was not dead yet. He lay on the floor of his cabin in a netherworld of pain.
Standing above him, Fergus Keefe finished his call. “Hear that, Potter? Directions from the boss himself. Eliminate all loose ends. That means you, my friend.”
Tank turned onto his back. “A drink. One last one.”
“You wouldn’t rather say your prayers?”