SIXTY
Bender had enough pull at FBI headquarters to commandeer the services of a C-27 jet, which was the government designation for a Gulfstream G550, and to have a crew meet him and Special Agent Sherman—whom he’d brought down from New York—at Joint Base Andrews across the Potomac from Washington and fly them to France.
They’d managed to get a few hours’ decent sleep on the flight, and an hour outside of the Nice Côte d’Azur Airport, Bender cautioned the other agent that they would have to proceed with care lest Hammond put up a screen of defense lawyers.
“The man didn’t get where he is without being shrewd, which is his weakness. He’s sure of himself. He doesn’t think he makes mistakes.”
“How do you want to work this, sir?” Sherman asked. “We have no direct evidence that he was in any way involved with the attacks on Mr. McGarvey and not much more that he was involved with the deaths of his office manager or the Russian diplomat.”
“You’re absolutely right, except McGarvey had a brief and not very satisfactory relationship with him a couple of years ago.”
“The attack on the pencil tower in New York. I glanced through the file last night.”
“What I could gather from the CIA’s after-action report that was distributed to our director as well as the White House through the National Director of Intelligence’s office, McGarvey ingratiated himself with Hammond by offering a financial deal involving a scheme to corner the bitcoin market and make a killing. The point was McGarvey wanted an invitation to a party at the tower near the UN that he somehow knew was going to come under attack in exchange for the deal.”
“And you think that Hammond might be seeking revenge?”
“He has the reputation for destroying anyone who tries to come up against him in a business deal.”
Sherman was shaking her head. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s so thin it hardly warrants a phone call, let alone a face-to-face interview.”
Bender did not like to be contradicted, and he was angry for just a moment. But just for a moment. “Pull a small thread in a sweater and the entire thing falls apart. And trying to assassinate a former CIA director is a very big deal, and I’m willing to try anything to prevent it.”
“A career maker,” Sherman said.
Bender glanced at her. “Or breaker,” he said. “Are you with me?”
“Yes, sir. All the way.”
It was just coming up on two in the afternoon when they rented a car and drove the fifteen miles up to the Hotel du Paris. Bender’s directorate had traced Hammond and his girlfriend, the actress from Skagway, of all places, to Geneva, then Italy, and finally here, which had not been particularly difficult.
The two of them, especially Susan Patterson, were highly visible people. Gossip magazines and tabloids covered just about every move they made.
Pulling up in front, they surrendered the car to a valet parker and went inside to the front desk. “We’d like to have a word with Mr. Thomas Hammond,” Bender said.
“May I ask who is calling?” the deskman, dressed in a morning coat and starched shirt, asked.
“We’re old friends.”
“Oui, monsieur,” the man said. He picked up a phone, said something that Bender couldn’t quite hear, and replaced the receiver. “You may go up now, sirs. Mr. Hammond is expecting you.” The man gave them the suite number.
Halfway across the lobby, Sherman glanced back over her shoulder. “How the hell did Hammond know that we were coming?”
Bender was troubled. “I don’t know, but I’m going to ask him.”
“This is my play,” Hammond told Susan.
“Do you want me to go down to the pool?” she asked.
“No, we’ve done nothing wrong. But if they ask you something, which I’m sure they will, just play the empty-headed girlfriend. It’s a role you know pretty well.”
Susan was amused. “Screw you,” she said.
The bell rang, and Susan, wearing a bikini and gossamer wrap, let the two FBI agents into the suite. They were dressed almost identically in dark suits.
Hammond, in white linen slacks, a short-sleeved, brightly patterned silk shirt unbuttoned halfway down, and no shoes, joined them in the entry hall. “Welcome to Monaco, though I’m not all that surprised you’re here. May I see some identification?”
Bender and Sherman showed their credentials. “May I ask how you knew we would be showing up?” Bender asked.
Hammond smiled. It was the first question he’d wanted to be asked. It would immediately establish the relationship. “It’s my business to know who’s coming after me and why,” he said.
He led them to the dining area, where he and Susan sat across the small table from the two FBI agents. The view from the big windows to the Med was nothing short of magnificent.
“Would either of you care for coffee?” Susan asked.
“No, thanks,” Bender said.
“Then be brief, if you would,” Hammond said.
“We’d like to ask you a few questions about the death of Ramos Rodriguez, who was in charge of your offices in New York.”
“It’s actually a liaison unit that did most of its work with the financial advisers to the various UN delegates across the street. I’m sure you know that I have business interests on both sides of the Atlantic, including South America.”
“Perhaps with Russia and China as well?” Sherman asked.
“Naturally,” Hammond said. “But if you’ve come to ask me about poor Arturo’s death, I’m afraid I can’t help. In any event, I was told that it was an accident, and I sincerely hope you’re not here to tell me otherwise.”
“There is some evidence that it may have been the result of foul play,” Sherman said. “Especially coming so soon after the death of a Russian diplomat your man met with earlier.”
Hammond had to keep from laughing. The stupid bastards were so oblivious it was almost painful. “I read about it—Kuprik, I think. Arturo told me that they had been trying to put together some sort of a project.”
“What sort of a project?” Bender asked.
“Something to do with cell phones, but I’m not sure
