Gambit by David Hagberg (fantasy novels to read txt) 📕

“I don’t think it was anything personal, but at this point, I don’t know who hired him, though, as you understand, I have crossed swords with any number of people.”

“We can rule out the usuals,” Otto said. “Russia, China, North Korea, Pakistan, Turkey, Chile. My guess is that no government is gunning for him.”

“Which leaves us what?” Taft asked. “Or who?”

“Otto missed one country,” Pete said.

McGarvey reached over and touched her hand, but she ignored him.

Taft caught the gesture, and his mouth tightened. “Who?”

“Us.”

The word hung there for a longish moment. “Us?” Taft asked. “As in the United States?”

Pete nodded.

“But not the government,” Otto said. “Not even the White House.”

“Christ,” Taft said half under his breath. “Where does this leave us?” he asked.

“Unknown at this point,” McGarvey said.

“Which means?”

“Someone is hunting me, which means I’m going to hunt back.”

TEN

Villa Larius Lacus, overlooking Italy’s Lake Como, had been built in the early 1700s on twenty acres of prime property next door to the famous Villa Carlotta, by a Milanese marquis. Only Lacus, which simply meant lake in Latin, had been purchased and completely renovated four years ago by the American multibillionaire Thomas Hammond, who’d made his fortune the old-fashioned way—by screwing people out of their money.

The afternoon was soft as Hammond sat drinking champagne on his grand veranda overlooking the corniche road as Susan Patterson’s soft gray Bentley GTC Continental convertible, the top down, glided as if on the wings of angels in a romantic movie, and he had to smile.

Actress that she’d always been, she wanted to make a grand entrance wherever she could. At forty-eight, she still had the stunning body and good looks of a beauty half that age, unless you looked closely.

Where Hammond, who’d been one of the California dot-com boy geniuses, was worth in the neighborhood of $30 billion, give or take, Susan, who’d parlayed most of her early acting money into producing movies of her own, and then buying every movie theater she could get her hands on, plus a movie-only television pay-per-view network, was worth only a third of that.

But they were both players in every sense of the word. Cannes for the movie festival and Monaco for the Grand Prix race, Davos for the economic summit where the superrich mingled with governmental finance ministers, art and music festivals and the yacht run.

They’d both been guests at the White House, and she almost always dressed to the nines, her hair and makeup perfection. He, on the other hand, favored tattered jeans, black T-shirts, and boat shoes, his short, blond hair mussed, though he did look presentable in a French-tailored tuxedo.

Susan’s car disappeared below as she turned onto the driveway up to the wrought iron gates, and moments later, Peter, the houseman who’d been one of the Queen’s guards from the Scots Guards Regiments at Buckingham Palace, came to the french doors.

“Pardon, sir, but Ms. Patterson has arrived. Shall I show her up?”

“Yes, and we’ll need another bottle of wine, and a glass; she’ll want to celebrate,” Hammond said.

Where’d he’d always been satisfied to drink a common Dom Pérignon, Susan was a snob and wanted a Krug—especially the ’95 Clos du Mesnil Blanc de Blancs—if she was feeling good.

“Of course,” Peter said, withdrawing.

A minute later, even before Susan had parked her car and come up, Clarice, the house sommelier, came with the Krug, her assistant a young man from right here in Lombardy carrying two flutes and an ice bucket. She presented the bottle, Hammond nodded, and as soon as they set it up, they withdrew.

Hammond was opening the bottle when Susan breezed in, her high cheekbones slightly red and puffy and her Botoxed lips tight. She gave him an almost chaste kiss on the cheek and plopped down across the table from him.

She was tired and frustrated. “That might be a bit premature,” she said. “But I could use a decent drink.”

Hammond poured for her. At the best of times, she tended to be histrionic, but this afternoon, she wasn’t herself, and considering what they had put in play last month, he was concerned.

“How was Athens?”

She drained her glass and held it out. He refilled it.

“Closure,” she said.

Hammond was vexed. “Don’t be cryptic. What happened?”

“A fucking cock-up, that’s what. I took the bastard up into the hills and put a bullet into his fucking moronic brain. End of story.”

“Except for McGarvey, I’m assuming.”

She looked away. “I don’t know, Tom. According to Bell, it was a done deal. McGarvey and his broad somehow figured out what was going down, and they both went into the building.”

“And then?”

“Nothing. Bell assured me that with Slatkin’s firepower and the fact he held the high ground, he couldn’t have missed.”

“Reasonable—” Hammond said, but Susan cut him off.

“Are you fucking nuts?” she screeched. “The former director of the CIA is gunned down across the street from his apartment in Georgetown and it didn’t hit the news?”

Hammond poured himself a glass of the Krug and smiled. It was good. “About what we expected, no?”

“We’ve gone up against this son of a bitch before and lost.”

“We didn’t lose; we just didn’t win,” Hammond corrected. “But Slatkin was just the opening shot. I didn’t expect him to kill McGarvey. And if he had, I would have been disappointed.” He shook his head. “No, sweetheart, this is just the beginning.”

Susan looked away for a moment, the flute raised to her mouth, but she didn’t drink. “Where’s the profit in it, Tom?” she asked absently. “We lost an opportunity with the bitcoin deal he offered us. But so what?”

“I don’t like losing.”

She looked at him. “I like adventure as well as the next girl, but I don’t like losing either. Especially not my life.”

“Whatever the South African accomplished or didn’t, you took care of it.”

Her eyes widened a little, and she sipped the wine. “Actually, that part was pretty good.”

“Better than acting on a sound set?”

She smiled. “Oh yeah.”

“Then we’re ahead of the game.”

“A quarter million short.”

“But