His stare remained fixated on the streets below. For a moment, Sherry thought he hadn’t heard her. Then her husband spoke.
“Did you ever wonder what would have happened if there was someone at the Manhattan Project who realized the horror of what they were creating, and warned them against developing the first atomic bomb?”
Sherry frowned. “I think Oppenheimer did just that, David. It didn’t matter. There was a war on. The bomb was created to end it.”
David nodded. “But I wonder if there might have been another way.”
Sherry touched his arm. She knew she had to be careful now. Ask the right questions without sounding like she was asking anything. If she pushed too hard, he would only pull back.
“You saw something today, didn’t you David?” she probed gently.
Her husband’s frown deepened. “You worried that I might make a decision that will come to haunt me?” he said. “That I’ll do something to jeopardize my run for the White House.”
“David, you know I just want what’s best for both of us—”
He raised a hand to silence her. “I stopped something today,” he told her. “Something so terrible that if I never do anything else, I’ve already performed a ser vice to humanity.”
Sherry shook her head. “I don’t understand.”
He faced her then, and smiled. “No you don’t,” he replied. “Consider yourself blessed that you don’t.” “What happened, David?” she asked. “Nothing, thank God,” he replied. “In my capacity
as head of the Senate Defense Appropriations Committee, I cancelled a research program that did not bear the results the Pentagon was expecting…”
“But David—” “Let’s leave it at that,” Palmer said, wrapping his wife in his arms. “All right,” Sherry purred. “I know better than to push you for answers you’re not willing to give.”
“You smell nice,” Palmer observed.
“It’s the shampoo. I had my hair done for the banquet tonight. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“I noticed,” he lied.
Sherry gave him a doubtful look. “You’d better get dressed yourself — after you take a shower. You smell like you just played the second half all by yourself.”
David chuckled. “Maybe you’ll be more receptive to my advances after I’ve cleaned up my act?”
Sherry slapped his butt. “Get in that shower right now. If we’re late, Larry Bell will only use the time to upstage you again.”
“I’m going,” David replied, heading for the bathroom. A moment later, Sherry heard the water running. When she was sure her husband was in the shower, she lifted the phone and dialed Jong Lee’s room. He answered on the first ring.
“This is Lee,” he said.
“Mr. Lee, I have rather bad news for you. Whatever it was your company was working on, I’m afraid the project is about to be cancelled.”
There was a pause. “You’re sure, Mrs. Palmer?”
“Absolutely certain, Mr. Lee. I guess you won’t have to retool your factories after all.”
“Yes, that is true.” Another pause. “Mrs. Palmer… Do you know if the demonstration was a success?”
Sherry frowned. “I believe it was, Mr. Lee. But the project is cancelled nevertheless.”
“Good to know,” Lee replied, hardly able to contain his glee.
“And that other matter we discussed?”
“Of course, Mrs. Palmer. Send Mr. Cohen to my suite in two hours to collect the funds. I shall have the package ready for him.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lee. My husband’s campaign appreciates your support.”
Sherry hung up before the man could reply. Shaking with excitement, she went to the bar and poured herself a scotch. She swallowed it in a single gulp. She had to be careful tonight, hide her emotions. It was difficult, however. The thought of all that money in a secret fund made Sherry Palmer feel giddy. With five million dollars at her disposal, she could buy a lot of favors, and destroy a host of political rivals, too.
Men scattered as the cherry-red BMW swung into the lot. The automatic garage door had barely opened enough to admit the vehicle when it roared right through. Skidding on the greasy concrete, Stella Hawk braked inches from the line of white Dodge Sprinter trucks.
She popped the passenger side door and kicked the groaning man with her Roger Vivier heels. “Get out before you ruin my goddamn upholstery,” she screamed. Standing near the trucks, Pizarro Rojas watched her performance with interest. His brother Balboa, who had been examining Hugo Bix’s silver Jaguar, frowned at the woman’s vulgar display.
Curtis Manning tumbled out of the front seat, into a puddle of grease. Hugo Bix stepped forward, looming over the semi-conscious man.
“Hell,” he said with a crooked grin. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
Lilly was not amused. She climbed out of the car, slammed the door. “You dumb bastards almost lost him,” she cried, eyes flashing. “Jesus Christ! Don’t you know that if Curtis got away, he’d have warned Jaycee something was going on over here.”
“We had it under control, honey,” Bix replied in a reasonable tone.
A sneering Stella scanned the faces around her, then glared a challenge at Carlos and Roland. “Next time, don’t send a bunch of taco benders and tamale stuffers to do your job, Hugo.”
Roland turned his back on the woman, walked back to the Jaguar parked in the corner to speak with Balboa and Pizarro Rojas. Together, the three men moved to the line of panel trucks, opened the door to one of them and climbed inside.
Carlos set Curtis Manning’s PDA and cell phone on the hood of Stella’s car, under Hugo’s nose.
“This man who was spying on you is not a gangster,” the Cuban announced. “I can’t crack the codes, but this device—” he touched the PDA. “This belongs to a federal agent. FBI, perhaps DEA. I was lucky to be able to hone in on the tracking beam.”
Hugo snorted, then threw back his head and laughed. “That dumb som’ bitch of a bastard Jager has a snake on his own damn team. This guy here’s probably working to bust his whole crew.”
Fat Frankie Toomes’ expression soured. “Too bad we stopped him.”
Bix peered at the man on the ground. Curtis hadn’t stirred. He looked to be dying, or dead already. “Yeah, maybe…” Bix grunted, glancing in Roman Vine’s direction.
Roland Arrias returned to speak with his partner Carlos. Pizarro and Balboa remained with the trucks. The brothers seemed reluctant to get involved with Bix’s business.
“The charges are set. A very professional job,” Roland reported. “There is more C4 than we asked for. More than enough to do the job. The Rojas boys are quite happy with the arrangement, despite the presence of this pig —” He spit on Curtis.
Bix smirked. Carlos faced the American. “You have fulfilled your part of the bargain.”
A Cuban stepped forward, opened a leather attache case. It was stuffed with cash. Stella’s eyes narrowed when she saw the money. She licked her lips.
“Five million dollars,” Carlos said. “You’ve already received the shipment of cocaine. Count the cash if you wish.”
Bix grinned. “I trust you, amigo.” He reached out, closed the case himself. Roman Vine took it from the Cuban.
“What do you want me to do with this here
“Throw him in one of the trucks. He killed two of my men, he can die with the others in the first blast.”
While a pair of Cubans grabbed Curtis under the arms and dragged him to one of the trucks, Carlos faced Bix.
“We have only one problem now,” he said. “One of the men this American agent killed was the brother of a waiter at the Babylon. He was to take his brother’s place this night, in order to plant the final bomb in the banquet hall.”
Bix frowned. “Spot of bad luck there, eh, amigo?” He rubbed his chin. “Look, I can provide you with a driver or
