“I
“I believe you, Abe.”
It was half an hour later when one of the teams covering the north side of the estate reported that there was a fresh cut in the ten-foot-high chain link fence there, big enough to let a man pass through. The team also reported what appeared to be bicycle tracks in the soft dirt next to the fence.
“He’s gone,” Abe said. “Again.”
Howard nodded. “For the moment, Abe. For the moment.”
32
Thorn sat at his table and sipped his drink — club soda over ice — watched the movers and shakers, and remembered what he had said to Michaels, when they’d met, in what was to be his office.
He smiled at the memory.
Here, the men wore tailored tuxedos — Armani, Sprach, Saville Row, or Hong Kong’s best, with tasteful gold cuff links and custom-made Swiss watches. The women wore evening gowns that probably averaged eight or ten thousand dollars each. Some of the women were players, some showpieces — trophy wives or mistresses, movie starlets or models. There were a couple of boy toys escorting older women, too. There were enough diamonds, rubies, and emerald necklaces, earrings, and bracelets to fill a large bath tub, a king’s ransom in cool ice. A typical high-end charity dinner and dance, wherein many, if not most, of the attendees could write checks for the cause in six figures and not miss it.
Thorn’s own clothing was understated. He wore his grandfather’s opal ring and a basic Rolex stainless steel watch. His tux was well-cut, but didn’t scream its maker’s name out loud, and his shoes were soft Italian leather, spendy, but not ostentatious. He was new money, but knew that wearing it so that it showed was gauche.
He recalled how he had felt smug about Alex Michaels’s cowboy hotdogging, going into the field himself. And how he — Thorn — would never do such a thing.
And yet, here he was. At a charity ball in New York, ostensibly to help orphans in the Middle East, but really here as a spy, plain and simple. Net Force’s first efforts to catch Natadze and Cox together had been less than fruitful — but had only confirmed what they already knew.
He could understand the attraction of field work now, despite his good intentions when he’d taken this job. There was a bad guy out there, though not one who was apt to pull out a machinegun and start blasting. No, the quarry was rich and old, a man who had gotten a little head start by marrying well, but who had taken that advantage and used it to claw his way to the apex of a multibillion-dollar empire.
You had to have a little luck along the way, but you also had to be smart, ruthless, and willing to do whatever it took to get to the top of that hill, and then to stay there. If Thorn’s modest fortune fell from Cox’s pocket, he might not be bothered to stoop and pick it up.
Cox had been there for a lot of years. He’d been wheeling and dealing and making major fortunes when Thorn had been in high school. Cox was powerful, canny, and not above having his enemies squashed. A man like that was a worthy opponent, somebody who wasn’t going to just roll over if you went “Boo!” at him, and something in Thorn wanted to beat the guy just to prove he could.
And part of that was getting a close look at the man, trying to get a feel for him, something you couldn’t really do at a distance, or in VR. Good as it was, even the best virtual scenario wouldn’t allow you to nail it all down.
So here he was.
“He’s by the hearth,” Marissa said. She had returned from the powder room and was pointing with her nose. “Talking to that BoTox’d blonde in black trying to look twenty-five but only managing thirty-something.”
Thorn looked at Marissa. She wore a red dress, a deep, dark red sheath held up with thin spaghetti straps that set off her bare arms and shoulders. She had on a ruby necklace — borrowed and fake, she’d told him, but a good fake — four-inch pumps that matched the dress, and a small clutch handbag, and it all looked terrific on her. And she knew it, too.
She was one of three black women in the room, and one of them was a server.
“By the way,” he said. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for accompanying me tonight. It may be socially acceptable to go to one alone, but it looks odd, to say the least.”
“All in the line of work,” she said, but she smiled as she said it.
He saw that smile and found himself thinking that maybe someday soon they’d have to do this again, when they
She turned and nodded toward Cox. “You going to go over and say hello?”
“Nope,” he said. “The hostess is circulating. I made a polite request to her when I answered the invitation. She’ll collect us eventually and introduce us to him.”
Marissa raised an eyebrow. “That’s how the rich folk do it? They wait for an audience?”
He smiled. “Yep. I’m a lightweight compared to a lot of these people, and nouveau riche, too, but I’m also a man who doesn’t have to work, but who is dutifully serving his government. That’s just enough to make me socially acceptable for a meeting with Cox at this kind of soiree. And having you as a date makes it easier — at this level, appearances count for a lot.”
“You mean Cox might be a stone racist who calls his hired help names in private, but he has to be courteous to us in public?”
Thorn smiled. “Can’t get anything past you, can I?”
She didn’t smile back. “How long before the hostess comes looking for you?”
Thorn glanced at his watch. “I’m fairly low on the food chain. Maybe half an hour or so.”
“Want to dance?”
“Sure.”
They set their drinks on the table and moved to the dance floor.
It was not a young crowd at the charity dinner and ball — only a handful of people his age or younger — but old money learned the social graces early, and dancing was among them. Nobody was bumping into anybody else.
Strauss was not his favorite composer, but the music was being done well by the chamber orchestra, and he let it take him as he led Marissa into the number.
It was no surprise to him that she was a good dancer. He looked forward to moving a little closer to her when the orchestra played a slower number.
“I’m guessing they’re probably not going to play any down and dirty blues, huh?” she said.
“They will if you want,” he said. “Gigs like this, the band makes as much on tips as they do from the fee. The champagne is flowing — pay attention, you’ll see waiters stopping by to whisper into the conductor’s ear. There are people here who will drop a five hundred dollar tip to hear ‘Stardust,’ or ‘Mood Indigo,’ or even some old Beatles numbers. My guess is that somebody in that chamber orchestra knows just about anything you might want to hear, and the rest of them can fake it. I once heard the Seattle Chamber Orchestra at a charity ball play Otis Spann’s ‘My Home is in the Delta’ and the first violinist made his fiddle howl like a train whistle.”
“You are making that up.”
He raised his hand. “I swear. If you have a favorite, I bet I can get them to play it for you.”
“Yeah, right.”
“Five hundred gets you a vocal to go with the music.”
“No way.”
“You want to see?”
“Why don’t you just give me the money instead and I’ll buy the CD? And a new deck to play it on.”
He laughed.
The waltz ended, there was polite applause, and the dancers either headed back for their tables or waited for another tune to begin.
“I need to visit the men’s room,” he said.
