Дэвид Балдаччи - Absolute Power

She put her drink down, and slowly, almost teasingly, slid out of the pullover. He exploded against her, hands digging under the bra strap until he felt it give way and she poured out to him, his head buried in the loose mounds. Next, the last remaining piece of clothing, a pair of black lace panties, was ripped from her body; she smiled as it was sent sailing against the wall. Then she caught her breath as he lifted her effortlessly and carried her into the bedroom.

The Jaguar drove slowly up the long drive, stopped, and two people got out.

Jack turned up the collar on his coat. The evening was brisk as rain-heavy clouds marched into the area.

Jennifer walked around the car and settled in next to him as they leaned against the luxury car.

Jack looked up at the place. Thick sheets of ivy swept across the top of the entrance. The house had a heavy substance to it, real and committed. Its occupants probably would absorb a good measure of that. He could use that in his life right now. He had to admit, it was beautiful. What was wrong with beautiful things anyway? Four hundred thou as a partner. If he started bringing in other clients, who knew? Lord made five times that, two million dollars a year, and that was his base.

Compensation figures of partners were strictly confidential and were never discussed even under the most informal circumstances at the firm. However, Jack had guessed cor rectly on the computer password to the partner comp file. The code word was “greed.” Some secretary must have laughed her ass off over that one.

Jack looked over a front lawn the size of a carrier flight deck. A vision galloped across. He looked at his fiancée.

“It has plenty of space to play touch football with the kids.” He smiled.

“Yes, it does.” She smiled back at him, kissed his cheek gently. She took his arm and encircled her waist with it.

Jack looked back at the mansion, soon to be his three-point-eight-million-dollar home. Jennifer continued to look at him, her smile broadening as she gripped his fingers. Her eyes seemed to glisten, even in the darkness.

As Jack continued to stare at the structure, he felt a rush of relief. This time he only saw windows.

At thirty-six thousand feet, Walter Sullivan leaned back in the deep softness of his cabin chair and glanced out the window of the 747 into the darkness. As they moved east to west, Sullivan was adding a number of hours to his day, but time zones had never bothered him. The older he became the less sleep he needed, and he had never needed very much to begin with.

The man sitting across from him took the opportunity to examine the older man closely. Sullivan was known throughout the world as a legitimate, although sometimes bullying, global businessman. Legitimate. That was the key word running itself through Michael McCarty’s head. Legitimate businessmen typically had no need of, nor desire to speak with, gentlemen in McCarty’s profession. But when one is alerted through the most discreet channels that one of the wealthiest men on earth desired a meeting with you, then you attended. McCarty had not become one of the world’s foremost assassins because he particularly enjoyed the work. He particularly enjoyed the money and with it the luxuries that money inspired.

McCarty’s added advantage was the fact that he appeared to be a businessman himself. Ivy League good looks, which wasn’t too far afield, since he held a degree in international politics from Dartmouth. With his thick, wavy blond hair, broad shoulders and wrinkle-free face he could be the hard-charging entrepreneur on the way up or a film star at his peak. The fact that he killed people for a living, at a per-hit fee of in excess of one million dollars, did nothing to dampen his youthful enthusiasm or his love of life.

Sullivan finally looked at him. McCarty, despite an enormous confidence in his abilities and a supreme coolness under pressure, began to grow nervous under the billionaire’s scrutiny. From one elite to another.

“I want you to kill someone for me,” Sullivan said simply. “Unfortunately, at the present time, I do not know who that person is. But with any luck, one day I will. Until that time comes, I will place you on a retainer so that your services will always be available to me until such time as I need them.”

McCarty smiled and shook his head. “You may be aware of my reputation, Mr. Sullivan. My services are already in great demand. My work carries me all over the world, as I’m sure you know. Were I to devote my full time to you until this opportunity arose, then I would be forgoing other work. I’m afraid my bank account, along with my reputation, would suffer.”

Sullivan’s reply was immediate. “One hundred thousand dollars a day until that opportunity arises, Mr. McCarty. When you successfully complete the task, double your usual fee. I can do nothing to preserve your reputation; however, I trust that the per diem arrangement will forestall any damage to your financial status.”

McCarty’s eyes widened just a bit and then he quickly regained his composure.

“I think that will be adequate, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Of course you realize I am placing considerable confidence not only in your skills at eliminating subjects, but also in your discretion.”

McCarty hid his smile. He had been picked up in Sullivan’s plane in Istanbul at midnight local time. The flight crew had no idea who he was. No one had ever identified him, thus someone recognizing him was not a concern. Sullivan meeting him in person eliminated one thing. An intermediary who would then have Sullivan in his control. McCarty, on the other hand, had no earthly reason to betray Sullivan and every motivation not to.

Sullivan continued, “You will receive particulars as they become available. You will assimilate yourself into the Washington, D.C., metropolitan area, although your task may take you anywhere in the world. I will need you to move on a moment’s notice. You will make your location known to me at all times and will check in with me daily on secured communication lines that I will establish. You will pay your own expenses out of the per diem. A wire transfer will be set up to funnel the fee to an account of your choosing. My planes will be available to you if the need arises. Understood?”

McCarty nodded, a little put off by his client’s series of commands. But then you didn’t get to be a billionaire without being somewhat commanding, did you? On top of that McCarty had read about Christine Sullivan. Who the hell could blame the old man?

Sullivan pushed a button on the armrest of his chair.

“Thomas? How long until we’re stateside?”

The voice was brisk and informed. “Five hours and fifteen minutes, Mr. Sullivan, if we maintain present air speed and altitude.”

“Make sure that we do.”

“Yes sir.”

Sullivan pressed another button and the cabin attendant appeared and efficiently served them the sort of dinner that McCarty had never had on a plane before. Sullivan said nothing to McCarty until the dinner was cleared and the younger man rose and was being directed to his sleeping quarters by the attendant. Registering on a sweep of Sulli van’s hand, the attendant disappeared within the recesses of the aircraft.

“One more thing, Mr. McCarty. Have you ever failed on a mission?”

McCarty’s eyes turned to slits as he stared back at his new employer. For the first time it was evident that the Ivy Leaguer was extremely dangerous.

“Once, Mr. Sullivan. The Israelis. Sometimes they seem more than human.”

“Please don’t make it twice. Thank you.”

Seth Frank was roaming the halls of the Sullivan home. The yellow police lines were still up outside, fluttering softly in the increasing breeze and thickening bank of dark clouds that promised more heavy rain. Sullivan was staying at his Watergate penthouse downtown. His domestic staff were at their employer’s residence on Fisher Island, Florida, catering to members of Sullivan’s family. He had already interviewed each of them in person. They were being flown home shortly for more detailed questioning.