"What's the situation in there?" Brown jerked his head toward the house.
"Eighty-three guests plus sixteen people from the caterer. No whack jobs."
"Exits?"
"We're piggybacking his security system. Everything is wired and covered."
Brown stepped back onto the bus and said, "Sir, we're ready."
Ross stood and buttoned his tweed sport coat. He was wearing a gray and blue Nordic sweater underneath and some jeans. He exited the bus and proceeded to the front door, where it was opened for him by one of the host's servants. The heavy wooden door swung in, and Ross was met by Speyer, who was waiting for him.
The banker was dressed in a red velvet smoking jacket, black pants, and a pair of black suede house slippers. He was every bit the stylish host, even here in the mountains.
"Mr. Vice President." Speyer made a rolling motion with his right hand and then bowed at the waist. "It is an honor to have you as a guest at my humble abode."
Ross laughed. "I'm still just Mark to you, Joseph. I won't be sworn in for another week."
"Oh...do not deprive me the joy of using such an exalted title." The banker looked up at Ross and smiled.
"Stand up you imbecile, before I have you flogged."
Speyer winked and said, "Promises, promises."
"You look well."
"And so do you. What can we get you to drink?"
"I would love a martini."
"We will get you one, and then I would like to show you my new wine cellar. I think you will be most impressed."
Ross started to follow the host and after a few steps could feel that someone was following him. He looked over his shoulder at Agent Brown and gave him a look that clearly told him to back off. "Wait by the front door. If I need you, I'll scream."
A bar was set up between the stone fireplace and the massive picture window that looked down on the village and out onto the most recognizable peak in the world. The Matterhorn. With the light snow falling the sheer face was all but obscured, but Ross knew it was there. He'd stood at this window just three months before and coveted the view.
The guests all gravitated toward him, extending their sincere congratulations. Many of them had helped finance the campaign. He was their horse, and they had backed him. Ross was well into his martini and Speyer was well into his second hilarious story, when Ross noticed a familiar face watching him from across the room. Ross became uncomfortable before he even knew it. His hands got sweaty and his throat tightened a bit. He avoided looking at the man directly. He expected him to be here, but not out in the open. Ross suddenly felt the need to dull his nerves a bit. He turned to the bartender and motioned for another martini. A little liquid courage was what he would need to get through the evening.
5.
LIMASSOL, CYPRUS.
R ather than fly into Limassol's International Airport, Gazich took a more circuitous route. He flew first from Bucharest to Athens and then took the ferry to Rhodes, where he stopped for a few days before jumping another ferry to Cyprus. Immigration and passport control at the ports was virtually nonexistent. It had been more than ten weeks since he'd set foot on the island he called home. He had spent much of that time hopping from one country to the next and trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Before the bomb had exploded, he'd already decided to lay low and hide out in America for a week or two. That was his style. Where others rushed to get out of a country after a hit, he remained calm and waited for things to blow over. ather than fly into Limassol's International Airport, Gazich took a more circuitous route. He flew first from Bucharest to Athens and then took the ferry to Rhodes, where he stopped for a few days before jumping another ferry to Cyprus. Immigration and passport control at the ports was virtually nonexistent. It had been more than ten weeks since he'd set foot on the island he called home. He had spent much of that time hopping from one country to the next and trying to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Before the bomb had exploded, he'd already decided to lay low and hide out in America for a week or two. That was his style. Where others rushed to get out of a country after a hit, he remained calm and waited for things to blow over.
Every step of the way he had been relaxed and deliberate. Run away from the scene of a crime and you attract attention. Stand and watch, lurk and loiter for a while and nobody notices. You blend in with all of the other gawkers who congregate to stand in awe of the carnage. Carnage was plentiful that Saturday afternoon in late October. At first Gazich had been unable to take in his handy work. The dust and debris cloud was massive. Fortunately, he had remembered to put in earplugs before the bomb went off. It had been more powerful than he'd expected and surely would have blown both his eardrums.
He had stayed pressed against the tree for ten seconds, his eyes closed and his T-shirt over his mouth and nose, holding his breath. When he opened his eyes a crack, day had been turned into night. With a cautious step Gazich left the protection of the tree, and started down the sidewalk. Even though he could barely see, he wanted to make it to the perimeter before the dust settled. He wanted to be standing amid the first group of onlookers. Slowly, the air cleared and the sky began to brighten. Debris was everywhere; broken glass, hunks of metal, bricks, and wood were strewn about the sidewalk. With the earplugs pulled out, he began to hear cries for help. He walked past those cries and made it to the bottom of the hill across the street from the Starbucks where he had been before the attack.
A man stopped him and asked if he was all right. Gazich still had his T-shirt over his mouth and nose. He nodded, coughed, and kept walking. A half a block later he reached the Safeway parking lot and stopped. This was his first chance to turn around and take in the destruction. The size of the crater surprised even him. It crossed both lanes of traffic and looked to be at least six feet deep. It was as if a meteor had come in at a shallow angle, slamming into the middle of Georgetown. It was hard to tell, due to the smoke and fire, but it looked like the apartment buildings across the street were no longer there. Most importantly, Gazich counted only one limousine. It was turned over on its back like some helpless turtle. Gazich guessed that the other limo had been close to incinerated.
As the crowd of onlookers grew, Gazich fell farther and farther back. With each move he was careful to shake more dust from his clothes. Emergency vehicles began to arrive within minutes and they just added to the chaos. When the pandemonium reached its peak, he simply crossed Wisconsin Avenue and walked four blocks to his parked car on T Street. Twenty minutes later he was merging onto Interstate 95 and on his way north.
He changed out of his clothes as he drove, not daring to pull into a rest stop. Too many cops patrolled those places. With the windows down and the cruise control set at the legal limit, he shook the dust from his hair and put on a new T-shirt and a pair of jeans. When he crossed the state line into Delaware, he finally relaxed a bit. The reports on the radio kept repeating the same information over and over, so he turned off the radio and drove in silence. A couple of hours later he ditched the car in Newark and took the train into Manhattan. He'd already booked a room at the Sheraton Hotel and Towers near Times Square-1,750 rooms, lots of tourists, and near complete anonymity. He'd arranged for two tickets to a show that night and he picked them up from the concierge before he headed up to his room. He didn't want to go to the show. He would much rather go to one of the high end strip clubs and blow through a wad of cash, but he reasoned that if he was playing himself off as a tourist he should act like one.
When he got up to his room, he turned on the TV and any thought of going to the show, a strip club, or anywhere else for that fact, completely vanished. He could barely believe how quickly everything had gone from perfect to disastrous. He'd missed the target. The candidates were alive, and the wife and a whole lot of other people were dead. Gazich knew it had not been his fault. The man on the phone had told him they would be in the second limo. The limo that he incinerated. Would the person who hired him believe it when he told him he'd hit the car he'd been told to hit? Would they want him to try again? Gazich already knew what the answer to that would be. You only got one shot at something like this. Anything after that was a death wish.
Gazich barely slept that night, despite the fact that he'd put a serious dent in the minibar. As soon as the stores were open he found a T-Mobile kiosk and purchased a PDA with web browsing capabilities. He'd been paid a million dollars in advance and promised a million more upon completion of the assignment. In Gazich's mind, the second million was still his. His employer had assured him that they had an impeccable source. Everything on his end had been done to perfection. This screwup was the source's fault, and he was not about to take the blame for it.
Gazich logged onto the e-mail account using the password he'd been given and opened the draft menu where a message was waiting for him. It was pretty much what he had expected. They were blaming him for screwing up. As quick as his two hands could type, the assassin punched in his terse reply, placing the blame where it belonged. He finished by demanding the rest of his fee and then logged off. Over the next forty-eight hours they went back and forth, with things getting worse before they got remotely better. Both sides made threats and both were presumably in a position to follow through even though they had never met face-to-face. One side had the money and presumably could find the assets to retaliate while the other side had the talent and determination. In the end it was a standoff. This was a war that neither side wanted to fight.
The demands for a second attempt on the candidates' lives was dropped and they eventually admitted that their inside source had relayed bad information. Since the job was not completed, they asked if he would accept a reduction in his fee. He told them he would take his full fee and kill the inside source free of charge. They went back and forth several more times and eventually settled on $750,000. When the money showed up in his Swiss account Gazich breathed a sigh of relief, but only for a second. The next day he called his banker and gave him instructions on how he wanted the money relocated. He then left New York and headed west by train to begin his ten-week journey home. Throughout his travels, Gazich couldn't shake the feeling that this entire affair was going to come back and bite him in the ass.
When he finally stepped off the boat in Limassol he couldn't help but smile. He'd traveled two thirds of the way around the planet and had done so without raising the suspicion of a single law enforcement or intelligence agency. Maybe his worries had been exaggerated. It wouldn't be the first time. Gazich threw his bag over his shoulder and threaded his way through the terminal toward the taxi line. He was suddenly eager to see a few familiar faces. To find out how things had been on the island, and most importantly, if anyone had been looking for him.
He powered up his cell phone and then punched in a local number. After a few rings a woman answered and Gazich said, "Andreas." He waited for the woman to get his landlord and joined the line of people waiting for a taxi. Gazich had talked to the landlord two days ago and had asked him if anyone had been looking for him. It was not an unusual question. Gazich often left on short notice and was sometimes gone for a month at a time. This trip was longer than usual, though, and Andreas had expressed some concern when he'd first checked in almost a month ago. Gazich answered by telling him he'd been detained in Darfur by some overzealous government soldiers. The main thing where Andreas was concerned was that he paid his rent on time and stay away from his daughters. Five of them worked in his cafe and they were all drop-dead gorgeous. Gazich's office was on the third floor above the cafe. When he was on the island he took his meals in the cafe almost every day.
"Hello," the voice said in Greek.
"My friend, how are you?"
"Ah...Gavrilo, are you finally home?"
"Yes."
"Good. Will I see you for dinner tonight?"
"Yes."
"What time?"
"Around nine. I have a few things to take care of first."
"I will save a table for you, and put aside your favorite bottle of retsina."
Before Gazich could respond, the old man hung up. He stared blankly at the phone for a second and then climbed in the waiting cab.
6.
ZERMATT, SWITZERLAND.
Ross was holding court in the corner of the vaulted living room, his back to the giant picture window. He looked like he was standing on the altar of one of those New Age churches that focused more on entertainment than theology. A six-foot-one, wafer-thin model hung on his every word as Ross spoke about environmentalism being the key to bringing the Middle East and the rest of the world together. A common ground that everyone could agree upon. The others all nodded in earnest and threw in an occasional comment of their own, but this was Ross's show. He was the new man of the hour.
"How is your president?" asked the model. She had a Dutch accent.
"The current one or the new one?"
"The new one."
Ross consciously hesitated before answering. "He's...he's hanging in there. He's a pretty tough guy."
"I can't imagine the pain," a slender older woman added. She tried to convey a sense of sadness, but her new face-lift prevented her from showing anything other than a look of permanent alertness.
"They seemed like they really loved each other," the model added.
"Yes, they did. Very much so."
"Enough melancholy," Speyer announced as he wedged his way into the semicircle. With a flippant wave of his wrist he said, "This is a party, and more importantly it is my party. I demand that you all start having fun."
The group relaxed a bit and cracked a few smiles. Several of the men laughed and begged Speyer for his forgiveness.
"I will consider it, but I will not tolerate boring or depressing conversation at my parties. Start having fun or I will not invite you next year." He said this with great theatrical flair and the group dispersed with the exception of Ross and the model.
"I have something I would like to show you, Mr. Vice President."
"And what would that be, Joseph?"
"My new wine cellar."
"May I join you, as well?" the model asked hopefully.
"I'm afraid not, my darling. Boys only." Speyer grabbed Ross by the arm and led him through the living room. A few people tried to stop them, but Speyer simply smiled and kept moving. They reached the entrance hall where Special Agent Brown and two other agents were standing watch by the front door. The agents watched their protectee and his host walk across the stone floor. Speyer opened a wooden door to what looked like a closet, but was actually an elevator.
Agent Brown turned to the man on his left. "You didn't tell me there was an elevator."
"I didn't know know there was an elevator," the agent responded in an embarrassed tone. "I was told it was a closet." there was an elevator," the agent responded in an embarrassed tone. "I was told it was a closet."
Brown moved quickly, crossing the entrance hall in six long strides. "Mr. Speyer, where does this elevator go?"
"To my wine cellar."
"I'm fine, Michael."
Brown ignored the vice presidentelect. "Is there another way to get to the wine cellar?"
"There is also a back staircase from the carport."
The wood paneled elevator door slid open. Before the two men could get in, Agent Brown stuck out his arm to block their path. "I'll need to clear the room first." Brown turned to the other two agents, but before he could motion them over, Ross stopped him.
"You'll do no such thing," Ross said firmly. "I have known Joseph for years. This place has a better security system than the White House. Go wait by the door and I'll call for you if I need you."
"But, sir, you know I can't allow you to enter a room without protection unless it has been checked."
"You can and you will. Now go stand by the door."
Brown hesitated briefly and then relented. He stepped out of the way and watched as the person he was charged with guarding stepped into a steel cage with a man Brown barely knew. The door slid shut, and somewhere behind the thick walls Brown could hear the electric motor of the elevator kick in. This entire trip was quickly becoming a textbook example of how not to run a security detail. Brown returned to the other two agents and began venting.
"I want you both to write this up before your heads hit the pillow tonight. Make it very clear that he has prevented us from doing our jobs." Brown looked back at the elevator and added, "Now go find that staircase and secure it."
THIRTY FEET BENEATH the house the elevator came to a stop. The door retracted to reveal a huge underground cavern. They stepped onto a hewn stone slab that had been polished to a reflective sheen. In front of them was a vault with row upon row of wine racks. The dimension of the room, and the lack of any support columns shocked Ross more than the size of the wine collection. the house the elevator came to a stop. The door retracted to reveal a huge underground cavern. They stepped onto a hewn stone slab that had been polished to a reflective sheen. In front of them was a vault with row upon row of wine racks. The dimension of the room, and the lack of any support columns shocked Ross more than the size of the wine collection.
"Joseph," was all he managed to say.
"I know. It took me three years, and it had to be done with the utmost secrecy."
"But why?"
"This is Zermatt, the heart of the environmentalist movement. This wine cellar is carved right into the mountain. The town would have never granted me permission for such a project. It was difficult enough to get my house built. I had to bribe and cajole every official and inspector in the valley."
Ross stepped forward and looked into the cavernous room. Expensive crystal chandeliers hung from the barrel vaulted ceiling every fifteen feet or so. Racks of wine jutted out from the wall on both sides like pews in a grand church. To his immediate left was a door, to his right, a wine tasting table and four leather chairs.
"How big is it?"
"One hundred feet deep by thirty feet wide."
"Amazing. How did you do it?"
"I brought in a family of Albanian miners. A father and four sons."
"How many bottles?"
From the shadows a voice answered, "Thirty thousand, give or take a few."
Midway down the cavern a man stepped from between the racks. He was wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons and an open-collar white shirt. His hair was brown and slicked back, which made it appear darker than it actually was. He was of average height, tan, and overweight in a way that could be attributed more to indulgence than neglect. His nose was by far the most prominent feature on an otherwise forgettable face.
"What are you holding there?" Speyer asked with uncharacteristic concern creeping into his voice.
"Oh...this?" The man flipped the bottle up in the air. It turned end over end twice and he caught it.
Speyer gasped, his entire body going rigid. "Please tell me that is not one of my forty-two Rothschild Chateau Moutons."
"No. It's one of your forty-one Chateau Moutons." The man spoke with a slight New York accent. "Isn't that the same year your father's friends rolled into France?"
"They were not my father's friends, and the year was nineteen forty." Speyer marched forward and took the extremely expensive bottle from the man's hands.