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  Unless the grieving widow had a good reason, she firmly told herself. With that resolve, she spoke.

  “John, can you tell me about the structure of IWRC?”

  He smiled in return. “You’ve been very patient.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yesterday you asked me basically the same question, and on impulse, I suggested this restaurant for tonight. You’ve been gracious to wait this long to pursue your reason for agreeing to join me.”

  Paige blushed. “It’s just that...”

  John interrupted. “Don’t explain yourself. I’m a big boy. I fully intended to answer. As I said yesterday I had too many meetings that I couldn’t cancel. And I didn’t want you shuffled off to the PR. department. Answering your questions as well as possible was the price I expected to pay for this pleasant break in my grinding schedule.”

  With smooth, silent efficiency, their waiter placed white china cups between them and disappeared again. John lifted his cup from his saucer and, holding the coffee, just below his nose, inhaled deeply.

  “It never fails to amaze me,” he said, “the joys of life that come without a price tag. The aroma of this coffee for example. No amount of money could buy the ability to smell it, enjoy it. Our Five senses come free at birth.”

  He pointed at her cup. “Come on. Smell it as if smelling coffee for the first time. Taste it and concentrate on the taste.”

  John smiled as she followed instructions. Paige had to agree that the coffee did taste much better when she gave it some attention.

  “I find it ironic,” John said, “as my wealth accumulates – and once you get to a certain point, it grows as if it has a mind of its own – I tend to search for ways to enjoy life without it. Night skies, sunsets, the satisfaction of hard exercise. Nobody needs money for those. All of it’s there for the taking. And no matter how much one person takes, there’s enough for everyone else.”

  Paige nodded an encouraging smile, something she had been doing frequently in John’s presence. If he’s for real, she thought, he would be a terrific catch for someone. Considerate, thoughtful, attractive, and well off. Again, a stab of guilt. Then anger. Darby, she told him silently, if you hadn’t run out on me and your problems, I wouldn’t be here...

  “...a roundabout way to tell you about starting IWRC,” John was saying, “from a philosophy that once you have enough money for what you need, your money should go to other people’s needs.”

  “We’re just asking for your leftovers...” Paige said.

  John grinned back. “...only for the crumbs from your table. Not a bad slogan, huh? It’s served us well over the years, brought in millions in donations.” His grin continued. “Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for it. Some whiz kid at a New York ad agency picked my brain for an hour, then wrapped it up in that slogan,” the grin became wry, “and charged me a grand.”

  He paused to sip more coffee. “I’m not sure what you know about the beginning of IWRC. When you hear the truth, please don’t be too disillusioned.”

  Darby’s voice came back to Paige. I’m tired of it. The ends don’t justify the means.

  “You see, I began by registering it as a nonprofit organization. I lent it five million dollars, the amount I figured necessary for two things: a year’s budget for extensive national advertising to solicit donations and a year’s worth of salaries for a team of the best executives I could find. I had decided if it wasn’t bringing in enough donations to cover expenses by the end of the first year, I would pull the plug.”

  John shrugged. “As you might be able to guess, it was these executives who put together what it took for IWRC to continue. Again, I can’t take credit.”

  Paige let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. “That should disillusion me?”

  “Contrary to what most people believe, I didn’t give IWRC any money at all. I simply advanced a loan. It’s still on the books. I can get my five million back at any time now. In fact, I’ve used the outstanding loan as an asset to leverage more than one development deal over the last couple of years."

  “But if the concept hadn’t worked, you would have lost that five million.”

  He shook his head. “No illusions. It would have given me some hefty tax breaks. And New York real estate was booming so much at the time, I actually needed as much tax relief as possible.”

  Paige forced herself to concentrate on the crumpled stationery in her purse. How, with the muted conversations of other diners in the background, with an elegant, handsome man across from her, how could it be real that some dark secret had driven her husband to kill himself only days earlier? This seemed more like part of a dream world. Suddenly, she felt ridiculous.

  “Do you mind if I excuse myself?” she asked.

  “Certainly not.” If her abruptness bothered John Hammond, he gave no sign.

  In the ladies restroom, Paige followed her routine without thought. She applied lipstick, powdered her cheeks, smoothed her dress. All automatically. Her mind was so much on the notes in her purse that she finally pulled them out and reread them. Slowly, the horror came back to her. The horror of the sound of a single gunshot, the disbelief of opening the door to see him slumped in his own blood.

  She returned to the restaurant table with new resolve.

  Blueberry marbled cheesecake, fresh from the pastry chef’s kitchen, awaited her. She took one bite, didn’t taste it as she swallowed, and returned to her questions.

  “Structure, John. You’re at the top?”

  “Symbolically. I overview some of the major decisions, sign all checks over fifty-thousand dollars, visit once a month.”

  “You know the structure?”

  He was amused. “I did supervise the setup. Why?”

  “Darby never said much about what he did. And I never cared much, except that his paychecks arrived on time. Can you tell me how IWRC functions?”

  The slight amusement remained on his face. “Simple. Through national advertising, we canvas the United States for donations. We ship food, medicine, and supplies to disaster areas across the world. And we do it more efficiently than any other relief organization. Which results in us continuing to get a bigger share of every charity dollar.”

  “How much?” Paige realized John’s amusement arose from her sudden switch to detached questioner. It surprised her, too, and she wondered where this determination came from. Through twelve years of marriage, her role had been much more passive.

  “How much? Last year alone, $275 million. Not including another $120 million in goods and services donated from the corporate sector. We also receive some government assistance, hitching rides whenever possible through peacetime military actions.”

  Paige wondered how to ask her next questions without raising suspicion. She was floundering, and she knew it. She sensed Darby’s death had resulted from money – he was an accountant, after all, and in his last conversation had mentioned corporations – but how could she struggle through a maze of money questions when she knew so little about finances, and how could she hope to maneuver around John Hammond, so obviously expert and comfortable with large-scale finances?

  “Could... could donations come in and not be recorded?” she finally asked.

  “Impossible,” John replied, “All donations are public knowledge. All expenses are public knowledge. We cannot afford to leave one penny unaccounted for. Not only that, but the system was set up – by Darby – to make any discrepancies impossible.”

  You get paid a half-million a year? she heard the raspy voice. And Darby’s reply. For my time and expertise. Not for my conscience.

  As she kept a smile on her face and returned John Hammond’s gaze, Paige screamed inside against the conclusion she did not want to draw. If Darby had set up the system, Darby could also beat it.

  ***

  One hour had passed since midnight. Both guards had two hours remaining on their shifts. Yet neither yawned or blinked as the hallway clock delivered magnified
ticks in the silence. Neither shifted weight in restlessness. Neither spoke. At Bethesda Medical Research Center, on this high-security wing, undeviated attention to duty was the only duty.

  A muted bell announced the arrival of a visitor. To this, both guards shifted slightly, more a honing of attention than actual movement.

  Seconds later, the elevator doors released a single man. He approached the armed guards with confidence. He carried nothing in his hands. His dress, casual – a black golf shirt and khaki trousers. The bright hallway lights bounced off a smooth, middle-aged face, and he smiled acknowledgment as he reached the guards.

  “Jack Tansworth. General Prowse is expecting me.”

  The first guard consulted a clipboard. “Tansworth. TechnoGen, Inc. The general expected you by 10 P.M.”

  “I, too, expected to be here by 10 P.M." An unruffled smile. “I suggest you consult with General Prowse. Chances are he won’t be asleep.”

  The guards remained silent.

  “Think this through, gentlemen. I’d be surprised if more than three other names have been cleared to visit the general. That in itself should indicate the importance of my visit. What’s a bigger mistake? Disturbing the general? Or sending me away?”

  The first guard grunted, an impressive noise from someone young, solid, and brush-cut fit. He turned without consulting his partner. During the wait, Tansworth and the second guard watched each other without expression.

  “He’s cleared,” the first guard announced on his return.

  Tansworth made to step forward.

  The second guard gripped Tansworth’s bicep. “Identification.” Tansworth turned his head to glance at the guard. A hardness transformed the middle-aged smooth face into something forceful enough for the guard to add a single word. “Sir.”

  Tansworth patted his back pocket, came out with a wallet, and handed his driver’s license to the second guard. The first guard patted searching hands up and down Tansworth’s body.

  “Take him in,” the First guard said.

  Tansworth followed the second guard around a corner of the corridor.

  The first resumed his watch of the silent hallway.

  ***

  “Privacy,” the general croaked.

  The guard beside Tansworth hesitated.

  “I will not explain an order. Privacy. Now. Close the door behind you as you leave.”

  “Yes sir.” The guard saluted and spun on his heel.

  General Prowse closed his eyes. The show of will power had drained him. He was a sagging, wrinkled rag doll with a long nose and a thatch of gray hair. The hospital sheets clung to his body like a shroud. He looked eighty but was at least fifteen years younger.

  The man in the black golf shirt stared down, hardly hiding his scorn. What a fragile package of protein and neurons. The general’s only remaining worth was the power of his reputation and his signature on whatever documents Van Klees requested during infrequent visits as Jack Tansworth, a man fond of casual dress and a driving force behind the corporation called TechnoGen.

  “Good evening, General.” Josef Van Klees nodded slightly at the man in the bed. “I shall sit, if you don’t mind.”

  Van Klees pulled a chair up to the bed without waiting for permission.

  “Tansworth, you do take liberties.” General Prowse raised his upper body and rested on his elbows as he spoke to Van Klees. “That’s a bloody golf shirt you’re wearing. And I’ll bet it’s been thirty years since anybody was late for a meeting with me and forgot to apologize.”

  Van Klees smiled. “I didn’t forget.”

  The general’s face arranged itself into a grimace. Or maybe a smile. Van Klees couldn’t tell. Nor really care. Not with the secrets they shared together.

  “You can relax,” Van Klees said. “At the latest, your liver will be here by the weekend.”

  “Too bloody long to wait. And I shouldn’t have to wait, not with what I’ve given you over the years.”

  Van Klees leaned forward. “I can answer your comment in one of two ways. The first way, I’ll describe to you in great detail the logistical difficulties of finding a qualified surgeon who will agree to perform the operation, then arranging to deliver him to the site, and finally of shuffling the papers it will take to explain the wonderful coincidence of a donor’s liver that conveniently matches your blood type when a thousand fatal car accidents haven’t been able to do the same.”

  Van Klees moved his face to within inches of the general’s. “The second way, I simply remind you of the mutual blackmail material we have pointed at each other like nuclear bombs. And of the no-win destruction of unleashing those bombs.”

  General Prowse didn’t flinch. “Go easy on an old man, Tansworth. No need to bring out the big artillery. I’m just crotchety at the best of times, and more so without a liver.”

  Van Klees leaned back, satisfied that the general had bared enough throat to the leader of the pack. Van Klees enjoyed pushing the general. Enjoyed the power of knowing that should either this general or his stiff-backed crony, General Stanley, call his bluff, they would only discover their blackmail bombs exploding harmlessly against the illusion called Jack Tansworth. How could they destroy the life of a man who didn’t exist?

  “Rwanda,” Van Klees said. “Relief troops are finally moving in. I’d like you to arrange one cargo flight for me.”

  “Hellfire, boy! Wasn’t Bosnia enough?"

  “I don’t tell you how to run the military.”

  “No, you don’t.” The general groaned. “Still, every run you get just ups the odds that some paper shuffler will ask the wrong question. With me here, Stanley will have to make the arrangements, and he’ll scream bloody murder. Can’t you hold off?"

  Van Klees leaned forward again. “I can answer your comment in one of two ways, General. The first way, I’ll describe to you in great detail how and why we set all of this up. The second way, I’ll remind you of the packets of information I can release to the Washington Post at any time.”

  “Boy, there are times, like now, I’d like to put a bullet in your head.”

  “Which would be the fastest way possible to have those packets released. General, with all due respect, my schedule leaves me less than four hours of sleep a night. I don’t have time to argue with you over details.”

  General Prowse waved weakly. “You’ll have the bloody cargo flight. Leave the particulars in the usual way. Just get me my liver by the weekend.”

  “Certainly.” Van Klees bestowed the general a magnificent smile. “Isn’t that what much of this is all about?”

  Chapter 6

  Saturday, May 18

  "With all due respect, do we have to go through the usual cloak-and-dagger stuff? Every time I get home, I’ve got bruises you wouldn’t believe. And in places you wouldn’t believe. Try explaining that to a girlfriend.

  “What kind of transport do you use any –”

  Henry L. Mosse snapped his mouth shut as Zwaan directed a steely stare at him. Satisfied with the results, Zwaan diverted his attention again to the crazed California drivers around him on Interstate 5.

  For several minutes, as he pretended interest in the passing hills barely visible through the locked-in smog of an inversion, Mosse kneaded his hands together, something he didn’t realize he did as a subconscious warmup to major surgery. He also sniffed frequently as he restlessly kneaded his hands, another habit he failed to notice, because noticing would require he admit to himself that his cocaine use had skyrocketed beyond his control.

  It had been a snort of cocaine just minutes before stepping into the car, in fact, that had fueled his courage to allow him for the first time to actually question the freak behind the steering wheel. In a less altered state of consciousness, Henry L. Mosse prided himself on his practicality and, coldly sober at five feet three inches, never saw a percentage in antagonizing anybody, let alone a bald freak-show monster. Coked up, however, he had a whole new attitude, and it took Henry L. Mosse less than five mil
es of air-conditioned luxury rental car comfort to break his self-imposed silence.

  “I mean, it’s not like I’m going to spill my guts to Time magazine or anything,” Mosse said. “I wouldn’t kill the golden goose, if you get my drift. Besides, why would I want to put myself behind bars?”

  Zwaan didn’t glance over this time. Something about the glossy edge to Mosse’s voice told him nothing would stop the babble. Repugnant as it was, to enforce silence Zwaan would actually have to touch the greasy little man in his trendy designer blue jeans and silk shirt to enforce silence. At least he would have the pleasure of inflicting pain.

  “You are an excellent reason to vote against public medicine,” Zwaan said. He slid his hand over and gripped Henry L. Mosse’s thigh directly above his knee. Zwaan began to squeeze. As Henry yowled, Zwaan brought his own leg up to press his knee against the steering wheel, allowing him to guide the car hands-free. He kept his attention on the road, changing lanes to miss a slow truck as he used his left hand to adjust the radio volume to correspond with the rising pitch of Mosse’s protests. Sadly, at full volume, the radio didn’t quite drown him out.

  Zwaan sighed at the inefficiency of the sound system. Mosse’s squealing would deliver a headache long before Zwaan could work his fingers down to the bone beneath the man’s flabby thigh muscle.

  Zwaan released his grip.

  Henry L. Mosse could only gasp for breath. He’d never felt such tearing pain, never believed a man could be so strong. Mosse had frantically pulled at Zwaan’s iron wrist with both of his hands. He had almost bucked his way out of the passenger seat and through the front window, yet the pressure had continued to go deeper and deeper, and Zwaan had idly kept watch on traffic.