Tom Brick, sitting at ease behind his large, masculine desk in his massive office that took up an entire corner of the top floor of Core Energy, spread his hands. “Yeah? So?”
“Knifed twice in the side.”
“What’s it got to do with me?”
“‘What’s it got to do with me?’ the man says.” Anderson, with James at his side, stood in the approximate center of the office. Having shown his government ID to the phalanx of secretaries, assistants, and assorted flunkies, they had been ushered into Brick’s office where, it appeared, he was having a meeting with a suit seated on a sofa facing the desk. Brick did not invite the newcomers to sit. Anderson checked the expression on the professionally scrubbed face of the suit before he returned his gaze to Brick.
“I’m curious, Mr. Brick, as to why you haven’t asked the victim’s name.”
Brick stared at him with dead-fish eyes. “His name is of no interest to me.”
“You said his, but I said a body.”
Brick snorted. “Don’t play NCIS with me, Anderson.”
“I’ll tell you anyway, because you know him. His name is Dick Richards.”
Brick sat for a moment, unmoving. Then he rose and gestured to the man with whom he had been talking when Anderson and James had entered.
“Perhaps it’s time you met Bill Pelham.”
“As in Pelham, Noble and Gunn?”
Brick couldn’t contain a smile. “That’s right.”
Pelham, Noble and Gunn was in the top tier of Washington law firms. It counted among its clients many presidents, former presidents, and senators, not to mention the head of the FBI, as well as the mayor and the police commissioner of DC. Its juice was potent; it flowed directly from the hallowed Beltway source.
Anderson, trying his damnedest to ignore the broadside, said, “In any event, Mr. Brick, we need to talk. Now.”
“No talk,” Bill Pelham said, rising from his seat on the sofa. “No talk now, not ever.”
Three things I can’t abide,” Ann Ring said. “Confusion, complication, and dissembling.”
Around them, in the postmodern spaciousness of the restaurant Li Wan had chosen, silverware clinked and glasses chimed. Voices were raised in small talk. People deep in conversations on their mobile phones ignored everyone around them. She stared deep into Li’s obsidian eyes. “Unfortunately, life is full of confusion, complication, and dissembling.” She smiled with crimson lips. “I like neatness—clean beginnings, at least.”
Li inclined his narrow head. “As do I, Senator Ring.”
“And yet, here we both are in Washington, DC.” Her laugh was easy to like, meant to put the listener at ease. Li was not as easy a mark as that.
“Being at a center of power is like being in a magnetic storm.” He took a sip of white wine. “At once exhilarating and disorienting.”
Ann tipped her head. “Is it the same in Beijing?” The change in Li’s expression caused her to curse herself.
“I wouldn’t know.” He put down his glass with exaggerated care. “I myself have never been to Beijing. Did you just assume—?”
“A thousand pardons, Mr. Li. I meant nothing—”
“Oh, I’m most certain.” He waved away her words with the flat of his hand. “Actually, Beijing seems as foreign to me as I imagine it does to you.”
She allowed a small laugh to escape her lips. “Another thing we have in common.”
His depthless eyes sought hers. “Commonalities are rare, I find, especially in a magnetic storm.”
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr. Li.” She picked up her menu, a large, stiff thing with the offerings printed in a typeface simulating handwritten script. With her face shielded from his, she said, “What shall we eat?”
“Steak, I think,” he said without consulting his menu. “And a Caesar salad to start.”
“Creamed spinach and onion rings?”
“Why not?”
When she set aside her menu, she saw the depth of his scrutiny of her. “Remember,” Hendricks had told her at the very start, “this is a very dangerous man. He seems unassuming; however, he’s anything but.”
Li called the waiter over and ordered for them. The waiter gathered up the menus and departed.
“This evening reminds me of a story,” Li said when they were alone again. “There was once a businessman in Chicago. He married a woman with a good head on her shoulders. So good, in fact, that following her suggestions caused his business to grow to two, then three times its original size. As you can imagine, the businessman was very happy. A flourishing business caused his standing in the community to grow by leaps and bounds. He was sought out for company mergers as well as for advice. In each instance, he consulted his wife, and in each instance, following her advice brought him more fame and riches.”
Li paused to refill their glasses. “Now, you might think the businessman’s life was perfect. Everyone who knew him, as well as everyone who knew of him, envied him his position and wealth. But no. In fact, he was miserable. His wife never warmed his bed, only others’.”
Li stared into his raised glass. “One day, the businessman’s wife died. It was very sudden and completely unexpected. Of course, the businessman mourned her, but more for the loss of her business acumen than for the woman herself.
“Several weeks later, his brother said to him, ‘What will you do now?’ And the businessman, after several moments of contemplation, said, ‘I will do what I’ve always done and hope for the best.’”
Ann Ring smiled in the most neutral way. This was not simply a story Li had once heard. In fact, he might have made it up on the spot. Either way, it was illustrative. The question the businessman’s brother had posed to him was the same one Li was asking her.
Whether by design or not, his timing was impeccable. The Caesar salads arrived, set down in front of each of them in white ceramic bowls. Ann spent some time tasting the salad, asking for fresh-ground pepper, and thanking the waiter.
“I like the first part of the businessman’s answer,” she said carefully, “but not the second. It’s never wise to sit back and hope for the best.”
“The story makes me wonder who really makes the decisions in families. It seems the answer is never what it appears to be on the surface.”
Ann understood that he was asking about her and Charles, which is why she chose to ignore the implied question, preferring to stick to her own agenda. She ate more salad, crunching through the garlic croutons as if they were bones.
“What surprises me, Mr. Li, is your knowledge of my intimate life with Charles.”
He laid down his fork. “There is no easy way to say this, Senator. Your husband was not a happy man.”
Ann watched Li with an enigmatic expression. “You mean he wasn’t content.” She bared her teeth just slightly. “The two aren’t synonymous.”
For the first time all evening Li appeared flustered. “I beg your pardon,” he said.
Looking out the window of the Mercedes, Bourne could see that Nicodemo was taking them across the river to the Left Bank.
The magnificent gilded light globes spanning the Pont Alexandre III spun by like miniature suns. Doubtless, Nicodemo was taking them to the killing ground he had chosen. Bourne had no intention of letting him get there.
Edging himself down on the seat until he was directly behind Nicodemo, Bourne arched his back, pressed it hard against the rear seatback. He extended his legs over the top of the front seat on either side of Nicodemo’s neck, and, bringing them together, locked his ankles at Nicodemo’s throat.
Predictably, Nicodemo arched backward, his body in reflex action to get away from the choke hold. Don Fernando kicked him hard on the right ear with his heel. Nicodemo’s head trembled on his neck, and Bourne squeezed tighter, muscles like iron bands.
Blindly, Nicodemo scrabbled on the seat for the Sig. Bourne, exerting all his strength, lurched him away, to the left, his shoulder impacting so hard against the unlocked door that it popped open.