Дэвид Балдаччи - King and Maxwell

ALAN GRANT KISSED HIS WIFE LESLIE goodbye that morning. In her arms was the youngest of their three children, a son. They were going to have more kids. He wanted a large family. To make up for the parents he had lost.

She said, “Alan, you’re looking tired. Are you sure everything’s okay?”

He smiled. “Your dad asked me pretty much the same thing.”

“He cares about you. We all do.”

Grant reached over and gently held his child’s little fist. He looked at Leslie. “Things are fine, honey. I’m a little stressed, but then who isn’t these days? I’ve just got some things to work through and then how about a vacation? Everybody. Your dad too. Someplace warm.”

“Warm sounds wonderful.”

He kissed her again and smiled. “Then it’s a done deal.” He let go of his son’s hand. “See you, little guy.”

He drove straight to the cemetery in Arlington from his home in western Fairfax. He parked his car and walked the rest of the way to the grave sites. He stood in front of them and read the names on the plaques.

Franklin James Grant, his father.

Eleanor Grant, his mother.

They had died on the same day, at the same hour, at the same minute, and in the same place.

A suicide pact. A car with a towel stuffed in the tailpipe, the windows rolled up tight, and the engine on while inside a rented storage space. A note was left trying to explain why they had done it, but the note was unnecessary. Everyone knew why they had decided to take their lives.

Grant had been thirteen years old when his parents had left him. Back then he didn’t really grasp why they had done it. It was only when he reached adulthood that he came to understand the truth.

It was years later before he had settled on a plan to avenge his parents’ sacrifice. He had long since forgiven them for leaving him an orphan to be raised by relatives who had not been pleased to have the added burden of another mouth to feed. But his rage over the reasons behind their deaths had increased with each passing year.

He set the flowers on the graves and stepped back. His father had been a soldier’s soldier. A chest full of medals from Vietnam and stints stateside serving his country in various capacities, including time as a staff member on the National Security Council back in the 1980s. And then his life had gone to hell. And he had chosen to end it. And his wife had chosen to join him in death.

Grant could have blamed her for abandoning him. The shame had belonged to his father. It was misplaced shame, Grant felt, but still, his mother was untainted. She had chosen death with her husband rather than life without him. There was nothing wrong with this, Grant felt. A wife’s place is with her husband. He had no doubt his mother loved him a great deal. She simply loved her husband more.

Grant had opted to stay in the military for only one tour. He had fought in a war. He had been wounded, not badly, but wounded just the same. He had displayed suitable heroics, saved the lives of his comrades in arms, and they, in turn, had saved his on occasion. All was as it should have been.

He had left with his own share of medals and an honorable discharge and a wide-open door into the Pentagon that had served him well as he built up his private contracting business in the military sector. He had beefed up his cyber skills over the years. And, as part of his plan, he had assembled a team whose collective hacking talents were far better than his.

At age thirty-eight he was not incredibly rich, yet he was affluent and lived very comfortably with his wife and children. He hoped to make more money in the coming years, but the truth was money did not interest him. Power did not interest him. This made him an unusual creature inside the Washington Beltway where others thirsted, plotted, and stabbed one another in the back to gain both money and influence.

He walked away from the graves thinking positive thoughts about his visit, the energy it had inspired in him to keep going. He got back into his car and drove to Reagan National Airport. He parked, walked into the terminal, passed swiftly through security, arrived at his gate, and boarded his flight right on time.

Later he landed in Florida. A car was waiting for him that took him well away from the city in which he had landed. The car pulled up in front of a home that was palatial by any standards. Grant wasn’t enamored of the architecture or landscaping. It was all far too grand for his tastes, with too many pinks, salmons, and turquoises along with statuary lavish enough for a museum.

He climbed out of the car and walked up the wide marble steps to the front door. He knocked once and the door was almost immediately opened. He was escorted inside by a man dressed in black livery – a butler in the twenty-first century. Grant trusted he was well paid to re-create this archaic occupation.

He didn’t dwell on the lovely paintings professionally hung on the enormous walls with two-foot-thick moldings. The ocean views did not capture his interest, either. Nor did the costly furnishings at eye level or the impossibly expensive Oriental rugs underneath his feet.

He was escorted into a wood-paneled room that ought to have been a library, only there was not a single book on the shelves. In their place were collections of what looked to be paperweights, coins, timepieces, and model trains. The door was closed behind him as the butler receded to wherever butlers spent their time between duties. Perhaps polishing the silver, Grant idly thought, and then he thought no more of it.

He sat in the chair pointed to by the occupant of the large room that, too, looked out upon the Atlantic.

The man’s name was Avery Melton. He had inherited a small fortune over thirty years ago and through hard work, occasional ruthlessness, and the more-frequent bribe, he had multiplied that inheritance a thousandfold. He was sixty-four years old but looked older. He spent too much time on the golf course where the sun beat as relentlessly down on him as it did on the laborers who maintained his lovely grounds. Nature played no favorites on that score.

He was five-eight, with a paunch and rounded shoulders, but his eyes were clear and his mind clearer still. He was a businessman with many interests and few scruples. He had products and services to sell and he needed buyers to complete the transaction. Grant was a buyer, Melton a seller. He did not make it any more complicated than that.

He said, “Good flight?”

“Always a good flight when the plane lands on its wheels,” said Grant.

“Money?”

Grant opened his briefcase and slid out a piece of paper. They would not be using anything so coarse as money in rubber-banded bundles. He handed the paper to Melton, who studied it.

It was a wire transfer notification showing that twenty million dollars had been placed into an account controlled by Melton. He nodded. No grin, just a nod. This was business. He dealt in such numbers all the time. Some smaller, some bigger.

“I’ve already been told of the deposit confirmation, but it’s good to see the paper too. I’m old school. Don’t use computers.”

Grant nodded and waited. The money had been delivered, but that was only one half of the transaction. Now he needed the other half.

Melton unlocked a drawer in his desk and pulled out a small hardback black book. He opened it, glanced down the first page, and then handed it to Grant, who performed a similar inspection.

Melton said, “The codes and other necessary details are all there. All your guys have to do is dial it up, input the codes, and you have an entire satellite all to yourself, the MelA3.” He held up a cautionary finger. “For the stated time only. Then it’s mine once more. The codes expire and the access is no longer valid.”