Christopher Smith - Fifth Avenue

He picked up one of the telephones, swiped his credit card and dialed. While he waited for the connection to go through, he thought back to earlier that evening: Leana picking up the phone, hearing the conversation with his father, and how he quickly severed the connection when Louis took a breath. Leana stepping into the bathroom, watching him while he showered.

At the time, Michael thought that if he ignored her, that if he just washed himself and acted as if nothing was out of the ordinary, she would doubt what she heard on the phone and think perhaps the lines somehow got crossed in the storm. But what if she didn’t think she heard someone else’s conversation, not his? What if she recognized his father’s voice and was just staying with him until she could safely escape? Since his life was at stake, the implications unnerved him.

Finally, the line was answered by a woman. “Manhattan Enterprises.”

“Judy, it’s Michael. Is my father in?”

“He’s in a conference, Michael.”

“Please tell him I’m on the line. I’m calling from a plane. It’s urgent.”

There was a sigh, a click and the abrupt sound of Muzak. Michael closed his eyes and felt the familiar knot tightening in his stomach. His life was out of control. Yesterday morning he shot and killed a man in his apartment after the man burned his manuscript. The police obviously were looking into that now, asking questions, following leads.

His father told him earlier that they found the charred bodies in his apartment and the Iranian cab driver dumped in an alley one block away. Although Michael rented the apartment under an assumed name, he knew that sooner or later the police would learn it was his apartment the bodies were found in.

He was famous. Although his apartment was surrounded by people whose reality was altered by drugs, certainly somebody had recognized him during the three weeks he’d lived there.

But I can help you, Louis said. Kill Redman and the police will never know that apartment was yours.

Although his father never said this, Michael knew the opposite also was true: If you don’t kill Redman, every cop in the world will be after your ass. As will Santiago.

It was an endless cycle that offered no escape. Michael wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going, how much longer he could keep up with the facade.

His father answered the line. “What is it, Michael?”

“We need to talk.”

“That isn’t possible right now.”

“Not good enough,” Michael said. “We need to talk. Now.”

“And I said it isn’t possible.”

“Who are you with?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Fine,” Michael said. “Then answer this for me and you can get back to your meeting-why did you have to kill her sister?”

“I’m not discussing this with you now. Call me when you arrive in New York.”

Michael’s hand tightened around the receiver. “Don’t hang up on me.”

The silence stretched.

“What is it?”

“I need to know if it’s safe for me to come back.”

“It’s safe,” Louis said.

“Are you sure?”

“I told you-it’s safe.”

But Michael could sense his father wasn’t telling him something. He could sense that something was wrong. “If you’re lying to me, Dad-”

“I’m not lying to you, Michael. You’re going to have to trust me on this.”

While Michael knew he had no choice but to trust his father, he couldn’t help feeling that he was being pushed nearer to the edge of a cliff. “Where do you expect Leana and me to stay when we get back?” he asked.

“That’s been taken care of.”

“Taken care of?” Michael said. “When were you planning on telling me-next week? We’ll be landing in another two hours. You’ve told me nothing-”

The line went dead.

Leana watched the night pass by, only dimly aware of the jet’s engines, the conversation of the couple seated in front of her, the diet-slim flight attendants as they whisked up and down the aisle.

She was still trying to understand and accept that her sister was dead and had been murdered only that morning. And she could still hear Harold’s voice echoing like a cold whisper: “Celina did love you, Leana. I can’t tell you how many times she told me that she missed you.”

At that moment, Leana ached with loss. She thought of all the times she and Celina could have been close and realized she never would have that opportunity now.

She was wondering who was responsible for Celina’s death when Michael sat down beside her. He reached for her hand and Leana looked at him, remembering what had happened only hours before in their hotel suite. Whose voice had she heard when she lifted the receiver? It wasn’t Michael’s voice, she knew that. But she also knew that she’d heard that voice before-just as she knew that one day she would put a face to it.

“How are you doing?” he asked.

Leana shrugged.

“Isn’t there anything I can do?”

“Not unless you can bring my sister back.”

The silence hung in the air. Michael moved to speak, couldn’t find the words and squeezed her hand harder. Leana squeezed back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for. I’m just not in a good place right now. It has nothing to do with you.”

“It’s all right,” he said. “I understand.”

She leaned back in her seat. “You know what I keep thinking?” she said. “I keep thinking how nice it’s going to feel when I find the son of a bitch who’s responsible for this.”

Michael turned to her.

“And I will find him, Michael. I swear to God I will. He’s not going to get away with this. He’s not going to get away with killing my sister. I have you to help me and I have Mario. We will find who murdered her. We’ll make him pay.”

“Leana-”

Her throat suddenly thickened. “I did love her, Michael. I never thought I did, but I did.”

He touched her hair. “We’ll get through this. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I love you,” he said.

Leana looked at him then, saw the pain on his face, the grief in his eyes and knew that he was telling her the truth. She felt guilty. How could she have mistrusted him earlier? He had never been anything but good to her. The telephone lines obviously got crossed in the storm.

Holding his hand in her own, she turned back to the window, where the world had disappeared into the darkness. For the first time in hours, she thought of Eric Parker, of the contract he had put out on her and wondered what would be waiting for her when she returned home.

Anastassios Fondaras closed the final file Eric Parker stole on the takeover of WestTex Incorporated and tossed it onto Louis’ desk.

Although the man said nothing now, his dark eyes gleamed with the sort of intensity that reminded Ryan of a tiger’s eyes before the beast moved in for the kill.

Anastassios stood. “This deal Redman has with Iran,” Fondaras said, as he moved to the far right wall of windows and looked out at the city, which was brilliant in the late afternoon light. “It’s verbal, correct?”

“Yes,” Louis said, remembering his conversation with Harold Baines. “It’s verbal. Iran wouldn’t agree to sign anything until Redman took over WestTex. They felt it was a waste of time to commit themselves otherwise.”

“I see. But I assume that in the interim Redman has been in close contact with Iran,” Fondaras said. “I assume the Iranians will keep their word.”

“If circumstances were to remain the same, I’m sure they would,” Louis said. “Under current circumstances, they actually need Redman. With the Middle East unstable, most major shipping and oil companies are reluctant to enter the Gulf-including your own. Iran needs to sell their oil in order to buy arms, but few are willing to take the risk-except George. Redman’s advantage is that he knows the exact date the Navy moves into the Gulf. If Iran knew that date was as early as next week, they’d drop the deal, knowing that the Gulf would soon be secure again for trade and that they didn’t need any private deal with an American company.”