Vince Flynn - Act of Treason

From the shadows a voice answered, “Thirty thousand, give or take a few.”

Midway down the cavern a man stepped from between the racks. He was wearing a blue blazer with gold buttons and an open-collar white shirt. His hair was brown and slicked back, which made it appear darker than it actually was. He was of average height, tan, and overweight in a way that could be attributed more to indulgence than neglect. His nose was by far the most prominent feature on an otherwise forgettable face.

“What are you holding there?” Speyer asked with uncharacteristic concern creeping into his voice.

“Oh…this?” The man flipped the bottle up in the air. It turned end over end twice and he caught it.

Speyer gasped, his entire body going rigid. “Please tell me that is not one of my forty-two Rothschild Château Moutons.”

“No. It’s one of your forty-one Château Moutons.” The man spoke with a slight New York accent. “Isn’t that the same year your father’s friends rolled into France?”

“They were not my father’s friends, and the year was nineteen forty.” Speyer marched forward and took the extremely expensive bottle from the man’s hands.

“I thought it was well documented that the Nazis carted off the Rothschilds’ private collection during the war. It just seems a bit of a coincidence that the son of a Swiss banker would be in possession of so many rare bottles of wine.”

“I can assure you,” said a slightly more calm Speyer, “that I paid for every bottle of wine in this cellar. Most of it with the fees I earn by hiding your vast fortune from the U.S. government.”

The man with the New York accent smiled broadly showing a set of freshly capped white teeth. “You are worth every penny, Joseph. Now how about we open one of these rare bottles in celebration of our victory?”

The banker hesitated for a second and then said, “I think that is a wonderful idea. An absolutely wonderful idea.” Speyer was now nodding with enthusiasm. “I will decant it, and in the meantime I will find something significantly less expensive and infinitely more suitable to your boorish American palate.” Speyer sauntered off, leaving the two Americans alone.

“Cy, you look well.”

Cy Green was born in New York in 1950 to Jewish immigrants who had fled Hungary as the communists consolidated their power over the country in the wake of WWII. He’d made his first million by the age of twenty-five and his first billion by the age of thirty-five.

“Thank you,” replied Green. “I’ve been on vacation for a long time now.”

Ross grinned, but didn’t dare laugh.

“Congratulations on winning the election,” Green said with a raised brow.

“Thank you.”

“How is my pardon coming?”

“We’re working on it,” Ross said.

“Working on it? That doesn’t sound very convincing.”

“Cy, I can’t guarantee that I’m going to be able to pull this off.”

“You were willing to give me guarantees three months ago when you were desperate.”

“This is a delicate situation. If we push too hard it might backfire.”

“If you don’t push hard enough it might backfire,” Green said with an edge. “And I mean really backfire.”

“There’s no need for threats.”

“I have over one billion dollars in assets that have been frozen by the U.S. government, my companies in the States are paying fifty thousand dollars a day in contempt of court charges, and I have not set foot in the country I love in more than four years. My estate in Palm Beach, my penthouse in New York, my mansion in Beverly Hills…all of them have been seized by the feds. My own children aren’t even allowed to step foot in my homes.”

The mix of vodka and recent success made Ross a bit braver than he normally would have been. “Maybe you should have thought of some of this before you started trading with the enemy. Not to mention committing fraud and tax evasion.”

“Don’t lecture me on the intricacies of multinational corporations,” Green snapped. “I am the victim of an overzealous prosecutor.”

“If that’s the case, you should meet him in court with an army of high-priced lawyers and show him for the hack that you claim him to be.”

Green was not used to anyone speaking to him in such a way. Especially someone who was so indebted to him. He was about to blow his lid when Speyer returned with two glasses of wine.

“One of your countrymen sent me a case of this. Caymus Vineyards nineteen ninety-four Special Selection Cabernet. A perfectly fine table wine to be served at one of your backyard barbecues. But not at one of my parties.”

Green took his glass and said, “Joseph, I think you will need to leave us alone for a few more minutes.”

“Certainly. I will go put on some music.”

When the host was far enough away, Green’s face twisted into a questioning frown and he said, “You are either drunk or you have grown awfully proud of yourself.”

“It’s probably a bit of both.” Ross smiled. “I am after all the vice president-elect of the United States of America.” He held up his glass in a toast to himself.

Green ignored the glass. “And how did you get there? Do you think for a minute that Josh would have picked you for a running mate if his father-in-law hadn’t told him to do so? His father-in-law…my real estate partner.”

“Cy, let’s not make a big deal out of this. We’re…”

Green cut him off. “I told him if we put you on the ticket, you could make our problems go away, and guess what? I got you on the ticket and then I had to save your ass a second time. Now it’s your turn to deliver.”

Suddenly Ross wished he had been sober for this meeting. He could use a clear head right about now. “I’m sure your partner would find it interesting to know that you had his daughter killed.”

Green clenched his jaw and took a half step back. “I suppose you’ve deluded yourself into thinking that you played no part in that entire affair.”

“I most certainly did. I almost died.”

“You’re unbelievable. You’re more self-absorbed than I am.”

Ross took a sip of his wine. “I think we were beginning to close in the polls. I think we could have…”

“I think you’re an idiot!” snapped Green. “You were not closing in the polls, and even if you had been, they would have released the photos of Jillian, that little slut, giving a blowjob to a damn Secret Service agent. Now the American people might have loosened their morals a bit over the years, but they sure as hell aren’t about to accept a whore as their First Lady.”

“Those photos could have just as easily backfired, if they had released them.”

“You really are delusional.” Green laughed. “Need I remind you of the frantic phone call I received from you with one month to go in the campaign? Your pit bull of a campaign manager had received the photo of Jillian having the sword put to her by the hired help.”

“He was a Secret Service agent.”

“Exactly…and on the back of that photo someone had written the words, You’ll never win. Do you remember the phone call you made? Do you remember that you were practically in tears? Do you remember saying we should have the bitch killed?”

Green was five inches shorter and he got right up in Ross’s face. “Go right ahead and convince yourself that you had nothing to do with this. It’s probably a good place to be when you’re dealing with other people, but when you’re with me, drop the attitude. You’re a motherfucker just like I am. The only difference between the two of us is that I’m under no illusion to the contrary.”

“I have devoted the last twelve years of my life to public service, and I most certainly…”