“If I get any sleep at all,” Young said. “I’m living in a nightmare right now.”
Blunt stood and offered his hand. “I’ll be in touch.”
Young didn’t get up. He half-heartedly shook Blunt’s hand before the Phoenix Foundation director left the room. While Young was slumped in his seat, his phone rang. He glanced at the words “private number” on the screen.
“Yeah,” Young said.
“That’s not how I imagined the President of the United States would answer the phone,” a man said on the other end of the line. “I would’ve figured there would’ve been a much more statesman-like greeting.”
“Who is this?” Young demanded. “And how’d you get this number?”
“Two questions,” the man said. “One you may ask later, but the second will always be a mystery. Now, to the purpose of my call.”
“I don’t really have time for this,” Young said before hanging up.
He exhaled another breath and glanced up at the ceiling.
What have we done?
Young’s phone rang again, the same message protecting the caller’s number appearing on the screen.
“Yeah,” Young said again.
“Don’t ever hang up on me again, not if you want to be President ever again—or even live to see the election.”
“What’s this all about?” Young asked.
“I want you to listen to something for me,” the man said.
Moments later, Young listened to a recording of his voice. After a few seconds, he remembered the conversation and shuddered. When he was finished talking, his presumed to be deceased wife Madeline began speaking, discussing her getaway from the White House. Based on the contents of the conversation, it was clear when the call took place.
“If you don’t want this getting out before the election,” the man said, “you best heed what I’m about to tell you next.”
“I’m not going to be held hostage by anyone.”
“I can have this recording at two dozen national media outlets in the U.S. and abroad in a matter of fifteen minutes. I suggest you take what I’m about to say very seriously.”
Young swallowed and sighed. “I’m listening.”
CHAPTER 8
Just off the Great Barrier Reef
Australia
FALCON SINCLAIR EASED the steering wheel on his J-class sailing yacht to the port side as a gust of wind pushed the vessel through the water. He smiled as the bough sliced through the choppy ocean and sped toward the sun dipping on the horizon. Below him, the crew worked hard to keep the sails full.
“Oliver, would you mind taking the wheel while I attend to some business?” Sinclair asked.
The first mate hustled over to Sinclair with an affirmative nod. “Take your time, sir. We’ve got this under control.”
Sinclair patted Oliver on his arm. “Of course you do.”
The change in command was barely noticed by the crew skittering around the deck to maintain the ship’s speed. Sinclair stopped in front of the steps descending into the cabin and spun back toward Oliver.
“Keep this up and I might just talk to the Royal Perth Yacht Club about letting you captain a ship in a competition later this year,” Sinclair said.
A wide grin spread across Oliver’s face. “I won’t let you down, sir.”
Sinclair disappeared into the cabin to discuss business with his top two Obsidian confidants as well as his top marketing expert. Nigel Wagner and Louis Caron were both sipping a glass of brandy, while Randy Parker stared down at the laptop on the table in front of him. The ship’s chef was wiping down the counter when Sinclair announced his presence. Without further conversation, the chef headed down the hallway and vanished into one of the bedrooms.
“This might be some of the best brandy I’ve ever put in my mouth,” Wagner said, holding up his glass in the gesture of a toast.
Caron followed Wagner’s lead. “Hear, hear.”
The two men clinked glasses before Sinclair sauntered over to the table to take the seat across from them. Parker remained undisturbed by the addition to the room, maintaining his gaze on his screen.
“What do you see, Mr. Parker?” Sinclair asked. “Is there something I need to be aware of?”
“I’m still running some numbers,” Parker said. “But at this point, I wish I could be a little more optimistic about future sales. You’ve done so much already, but nothing is creating much more than a slight upward trend.”
“Better than a downward trend. True?”
Parker nodded. “Well, of course, but—”
“Growth can be measured in more than one way,” Sinclair said, holding his right index finger in the air. “It’s not just about sales—at least, not always about them. You must build slow to go fast because when the deluge arrives, you best be ready.”
“It’s going to happen very soon,” Wagner said. “Just you watch.”
“How in the world do you expect to jumpstart sales on a high-end project like this?” Parker asked. “It’s not like people have boatloads of money lying around just waiting to invest in something like this.”
“Indeed, they don’t. But if you can create market conditions to inspire purchases, you can win the war,” Sinclair said.
“And how do you intend to do that?” Parker asked.
“We must increase the demand.”
“Do you have any tricks up your sleeve on this one?” Parker asked.
“Just you watch,” Sinclair said with a wry smile. “Now, if you’ll head to your quarters, we need the room.”
Parker scooped up his notepad and computer before scurrying down the hall. Once his door shut, Sinclair got up to pour himself a glass of brandy.
“You two are such a bad influence on me,” Sinclair said.
“Us?” Wagner asked, feigning innocence.
“We never do anything wrong,” Caron said in his thick French accent. “We are beyond reproach.”
The German and the Frenchman had not only become Sinclair’s sounding board as he navigated Obsidian to its ultimate destination, they had also become his most important allies. Without them, the organization would’ve never been able to fully achieve what Sinclair intended for it to do. The little dream he had a quarter of a century ago would’ve never emerged beyond infantile stages. But through some shrewd business moves and deft negotiating tactics, Sinclair had positioned Obsidian to achieve
