Warren Murphy - The Last Alchemist

"He came right into my office. Right here. I saw him alive, and he assured me . . ."

"Our dear Bennett, do not trouble yourself. Come up to our place in New Jersey and ease your worries. Let me comfort you in your hour of need."

"Are we all right, we ... I mean you and me ... sir ... your Highness?"

"Of course. You must come up here and let us talk. We can reassure you."

"Do you think we ought to be seen together? What with everything happening and all?"

"There is no one here to see you who does not wish to make you comfortable. Come, let us remove the doubts and worries that plague you, good friend," said Caldwell.

Bennett Wilson heard these words while he sat in the prison of his office, terrified. On one hand there was Washington, where he jumped at every phone call, sure it would be some investigative agency that had discovered what he had done. On the other hand, there was the soothing voice of a man who said he only wanted to reassure Bennett.

Some people got their reassurance out of a bottle or a sniff of white powder. Bennett Wilson would get his from the man who had to be his friend. Why? The man was in it even deeper than Bennett. It was he who figured out everything. He who directed which dispatchers should be bribed and even selected the routes for the trucks.

Bennett Wilson was just a poor employee of the government who had made a mistake. Of course, Harrison Caldwell would protect him with all the money at the man's disposal.

Wilson was even more reassured when he saw where and how Caldwell lived. The metal fence around his estate went on for miles. Guards were at the gates. Servants groomed lawns and bushes, and carried trays around this massive brick-and-marble edifice set on a vast lawn. It was a castle. And in this castle, Harrison Caldwell was most assuredly a king.

When Bennett Wilson saw the proud figure seated on a thronelike high-backed chair, Wilson fell to his knees to kiss the offered hand.

"Your Majesty," said Bennett Wilson.

"Bennett. Our good, good Bennett," said Caidwell. "Rise. Come. Tell us your troubles."

"The man you sent is dead. I went to the morgue. Saw him myself. They said it wasn't an accident. A professional had killed him."

"And whom did you tell about this?" asked Caldwell.

"You."

"And?"

"No one. My lord, do you think I'd want anyone else to know about these things? I never should have become involved in the first place. If it weren' t for my daughter needing to go to a special college ... I never thought I would be dealing in murder. I was just helping out an American manufacturer." Wilson was crying now.

"Bennett. Bennett. Bennett. Please. Do not trouble your heart."

"I'm so afraid," said Bennett, clutching his hands. He couldn't control his body anymore. The tears flowed freely. "They came. The ones who were at the McKeesport plant. The ones whose pictures you gave me. They came with the woman."

"What woman?"

"Director of Security Consuelo Bonner."

"And does she know?"

"No. Your man said he would take care of them. Instead, they took care of him."

"The reports implicate those two?"

"Who else could it be?"

"Many people, Bennett. Many people. Perhaps the ones you told you were coming here did it."

"I didn't tell anyone. My wife doesn't even know where I am. Do you think I would want to tell someone?"

"But certainly, you must have confided in someone. What is a world without a close friend?"

"I didn't even want to let your man into my office. But he said you sent him. Now he's dead. They killed him. They're going to get us. They will. I know it."

"What you need is some fine wine. We will pour it ourselves, with our own hands."

Harrison Caldwell led the trembling man down to the vast wine cellars of the estate. There was a special bottle there they would share, one Harrison Caldwell was saving for just such a moment, just such a friend.

"You know, Bennett, we are lonely. We know few men whom we can trust. But we know we can trust you."

"You can. All of you," said Wilson.

"But we know you must have shared these troubles, with your wife at least." Caldwell examined the bottle in the dim light. Instead of a corkscrew, Caldwell used a small thin dagger with a jeweled pommel to remove the cork. He was careful not to jiggle the dark bottle excessively. Good wine always had a sediment. If it had been served to him, it would have been allowed to rest and then been decanted, the top wine being poured into a carafe for serving into glasses. But they were just friends here in the cellar, and what was a shared bottle, somewhat murky, between friends?

"Believe me, your Majesty. I am a very secretive person. I have worked for the government all my life and I trust no one."

Caldwell passed him the bottle. Wilson shook his head. "I'm not thirsty, sir."

"Are you afraid of the wine?" asked Caldwell.

"No. No. I trust you." Bennett Wilson was almost crying again.

Caldwell gave him a warm smile, put an arm around Wilson's shoulder, and then as proof took a long mouthful of the wine. Smiling, he handed the bottle to Wilson.

Seeing Caldwell take a drink, Wilson thought it had to be safe.

"Not that I didn't trust the wine . . . or you, your Majesty. It's just that this is so dark ... and wine cellars make me suspicious."

Caldwell said nothing, but nodded for Wilson to drink. Wilson held the bottle in both hands and took a long hard swallow, handing the bottle back. Then he dropped the bottle. His hand didn't seem to be able to close on things too well. The crack of the bottle against the floor sounded dull and muffled. So did the sound of his head against the floor.

He wondered how he came to have such a view of the stone ceiling and why, if he had fallen, he felt no pain. His arms were there but unmovable. So were his feet. Then his Majesty Harrison Caldwell spit the mouthful of wine over Bennett Wilson's body, along with a remnant of a pill that neutralized the poison's deadly effect. Even the slight amount of absorption of liquid in the mouth could kill.

So the wine was poisoned, Wilson thought. It was a strange thought, sort of a vague far-off wondering that really didn't have much to do with anything anymore. Nothing he thought had much to do with anything. His body was numb and on its way out. And he was sure he would go with it. And then he was sure of nothing. He wasn't thinking at all.

Caldwell rubbed his tongue along his sleeve to make sure none of the poisoned wine was accidentally swallowed. He washed out his mouth and then informed the local coroner, who was on the estate's payroll, that a man had died of a heart attack in his cellar. He even spelled the words for the coroner. An inquest would not be necessary.

He even took care of the funeral, planting the portly body of the former head of the Nuclear Control Agency under the sycamore where, if the coffin rotted in time, the body might help nourish the tree.

The link between Harrison Caldwell and the uranium had now been severed. This might slow up his two enemies or even stop them completely. With no apparent leads they might never find him. He had enough gold for a while. Caldwell and Sons needed no more uranium immediately.

But he had not eliminated pathetic Wilson to sit back and live off his gold. He would finish his enemies. And with gold a man had all the power he needed if he used his mind well.

He had two things to work with. One, that Braun had failed several times to kill them, and two, that they had killed him. Therefore they were special, superior to the average hired killer.

If gold was power, knowledge was the steering wheel which guided it. And Harrison Caldwell would get just what he needed. He wanted to know everything about Braun's first failure, the failure that brought death to the Islamic Knights in McKeesport. Harrison Caldwell knew that to rewrite the history of his modern monarchy he would have to start at the very beginning.