John Hart - Iron House

“Will you follow me, please?”

The senator was right about one thing: his study was spectacular. Wood panels gleamed like honey; the rugs were handmade silk and at least a century old. Vane rose from a leather chair and opened his arms expansively. “Was I kidding?”

“It’s very nice.”

The senator wore a three-piece suit with French cuffs and a pink tie. He took big strides and offered a big hand. Behind him, French doors opened to formal gardens that were lit with colored lights. “What’re you drinking?”

“I’ll have what you’re having. Thanks.”

“What happened to your leg?”

“Nothing really. Not important.”

“If you say so.” Vane turned his back, selected a bottle and poured. When he turned, he looked like every politician Michael had ever seen, all smiles and twinkle and subtle dark. He handed over the glass, sipped his own, then pretended his question had not been ignored. “You’ve met Richard Gale.”

Michael knew this could play two ways: long or short. Either way, the end would be the same. “Sure.” Michael limped across the room and sat in one of the big leather chairs. He held up the glass, let light shine through the liquor, and decided to make it short. “He and a couple of his buddies smashed in my hotel door last night.”

He sipped scotch in the dead silent room.

“I don’t-”

Vane offered false confusion. Michael said, “You need better men.”

The senator put his own glass down. “That’s how it is?”

“I think we both know I’m not here to talk about Julian.”

The moment held, then Vane nodded. “Very well.” He looked at Gale, who opened the door and let three more men enter the room, probably the same three who’d been with him at the hotel. They fanned out, each of them discretely armed.

Michael held up his glass. “Can I get another one?”

The senator smiled and sat. “You’re flip. I like that. It won’t help you, but I like it. And I apologize for what has to happen tonight.”

Michael put his glass on a table by the chair. “Let me save you some trouble.”

“You’re no trouble at all.”

“And yet you plan to kill me.” Michael looked at Gale. “That is the plan, isn’t it?”

“Kidnap,” the senator said. “Not kill. Deliver might be a better word.”

“To Stevan Kaitlin.”

His eyes hardened. “What do you know about Stevan Kaitlin?”

“He’s blackmailing you-I know that much. He’s been doing it for some time, too. Years, I should think, based on the numbers I’ve seen.”

“Numbers?”

“More like a ledger, a record of what started a long time ago with Otto Kaitlin.”

Michael pictured the file that Otto had given him for his seventeenth birthday. Information on Julian’s new family. Pictures of the senator with various prostitutes. He’d assumed it was just for him, but realized now that Otto would have never let that kind of information go unused. “You paid a half-million dollars a year for five years, then three years at six hundred thousand. You’ve been at seven-fifty a year for a while, now. I’m guessing you’ve shelled out thirteen million dollars over the past sixteen years.” Michael let that sink in, then smiled. “Give or take.”

“Where did you see those numbers?”

“Same place I saw the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“I have the file.”

Vane paled, suddenly still. “Get out.” He waved a hand at Richard Gale.

“All of us?” Gale asked.

“Yes.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Get the hell out!”

“Very well.” Gale and the other men left.

When the door closed, Senator Vane picked up Michael’s glass, slopped in some scotch and handed it back. He poured one for himself and knocked it down, color coming back to his cheeks. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

Michael pulled a photograph from his back pocket, unfolded it and handed it over. “I picked one of the good ones.”

“Son of a bitch.” The senator studied it for a long time. “Who are you? And don’t give me that Julian’s brother shit. What do you have to do with Kaitlin? How’d you get that damn file?”

He was furious, embarrassed; Michael understood. Like a lot of public figures, the senator had unfortunate tastes. Prostitutes. Pages. Cocaine. “Stevan offered you a trade,” Michael said. “My life for the file.”

“Actually, he wanted you alive. He was very specific.”

“Whatever. The trade is off. I’ll keep the file, and you keep your toy soldiers to yourself.” Michael stood, put down his glass. “Thanks for the drink.”

“What? You’re leaving? Just like that?”

“I’ve said what I came to say. I plan to be here until I know Julian’s okay. In the meantime, I don’t want any more late-night visits.”

“What about the file?”

“What about it?”

The senator struggled. “What are you going to do with it?”

Michael smiled darkly as he thought of the phone call he was about to make. “Whatever I please.”

Michael was gone; the room was empty, door closed. Randall Vane stood in a raw, blind fury. Those Kaitlin fuckers had blackmailed him for sixteen years, the threat so personal and damning that he’d had no choice but to pay. Some of the worst pictures went back years, to a time when very few people knew about pinhole cameras and fiber optics. God, the shame! If the pictures came out, he would never survive it. Politically. Socially. Suicide was a real possibility.

He pulled the photograph from his pocket.

Shuddered.

Taken fifteen years ago, it showed him with a seventeen-year-old page named Ashley, a beach girl from Wilmington with blond hair and an all-over tan. They were naked in a Washington hotel room, the bed a puddle of wrecked sheets. She was laughing as he snorted cocaine off the smooth swell of her right breast.

“God…”

He burned it in the fireplace, stirred the ashes until they were dust. When he’d heard that Otto Kaitlin was dead, he’d dared to hope. But the son called a day later, Stevan Kaitlin, who wanted Michael dead. The senator didn’t even know who this Michael guy was. He’d never heard of him. Didn’t know. Didn’t care.

But Stevan did. And Stevan still had the file.

He’s coming to you. And when he does, you bring him to me.

Why?

That’s none of your business.

And the file?

Yours, if you do as I say.

It should have been so simple. Bring in some hired guns, people he could trust. The guy was a dishwasher, for God’s sake! But now…

The senator poured another drink, spilled it as his hands shook. In spite of what Michael had said, the photograph with Ashley was not nearly the worst. Otto Kaitlin had sent copies years ago: photos of him with prostitutes and attractive young lobbyists, some hard-core, graphic stuff. But the sex was not the worst of it-hell, he could survive a good sex scandal. There were financial records, too, a paper trail of payoffs and sold votes. Not all of them, but a few. It would only take one, and he had few friends on the ethics committee. “What do I do, what do I do, what do I do…”

It would start over. The payoffs. The worry. The fear. He would be forced to yield, forced to bow. Another puppet master would take the strings, and the great Randall Vane would be made to dance.

Again!

Again, again, again!

The fire tool came alive in his hands. It smashed vases and crystal, tore great, white streaks in all his lovely wood.

“Shit!” He threw the heavy metal against the wall. “Shit, shit!”

“Senator?” The door opened a crack. “Are you okay?”