Aphrodite (31 page)
“This is Clint calling for Gary Jenkins. Please tell him to buy his little brother an ice-cream soda or a new body piercing or anything he wants, for that matter. And tell him it’s on me.”
Assistant director in charge of the New York office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation Leonard Rollins had, during his nineteen years with the Bureau, been in many meetings, with many superiors, and given many briefings. None of those sessions, however, had ever been quite so high-powered or quite so tense. Or anywhere near this fucked-up.
It was his turn to be quiet now. So Rollins looked around the table and contented himself by imagining how genuinely miserable every other person at the table was.
To Rollins’s left was Brewster Ford. Ford was, without question, the most revered Wall Street mind of the past forty years. He was the mentor to every treasury secretary post–David Stockman, regardless of party affiliation, and had been CEO of the two largest investment firms on the Street. Ford was given a huge amount of credit, by those in the know, for much of the backroom strategy that led to the remarkable economic boom of the nineties. He was now nearing eighty and was still an unofficial—but enormously valued—adviser to the current president of the United States.
To his left was Chase Welles, the recently appointed secretary of Health and Human Services. Welles was tapping his fingers nervously, distractedly, on the top of the conference table. He seemed out of place in this setting, out of his league socially and politically. Although he was in his early fifties and the only one in the group wearing a suit and tie, he gave the appearance of being a child sitting at the adults’ dinner table.
On Welles’s other side was Fred Hoagland, the president’s chief of staff. This was Hoagland’s second but nonconsecutive term in this position. He’d served twelve years ago and was considered a genius at subtly guiding, protecting, manipulating, and, in general, saving the ass of whoever was serving as commander in chief. Hoagland was the ultimate political insider, never totally out of the Beltway loop, no matter who was in power.
Next to Hoagland was Donald Mooney, the president’s old friend, ex-governor of Maryland, and current secretary of Homefront Security. Mooney seemed uncomfortable, not restless or nervous like Welles but, rather, melancholy. He looked like a man who was hearing a confession he desperately didn’t want to listen to.
The next two men sitting at the table were Ronald Mayberry and Patrick Arnold, CEOs of the largest and second largest pharmaceutical companies in the United States. Both men seemed confident and relaxed. They had the air of rich, powerful men who were used to being obeyed and had never in their lives been intimidated by anyone or anything.
Completing the circle was Christopher Dahlberg, Rollins’s boss, the director of the FBI. Dahlberg was quiet and conservative, but Rollins knew just how deadly he could be. The director was a viper disguised as a common garden snake.
“I want to make sure one thing is understood,” the chief of staff was saying. “The president knows nothing about what is transpiring. He doesn’t know about this meeting and he has not been informed of any of the events relating to this meeting that have transpired over the past several months.”
“Nor
is
he to know,” Don Mooney said. “Ever.”
“I think you’re being naive,” Mayberry said.
“No question,” Arnold agreed. “It’s our understanding that the last three presidents have not only known about our agreement, they’ve wholeheartedly supported it.”
“Well, things have changed,” Mooney said. “You have not exactly stuck to the terms of the agreement.”
“We have,” Mayberry said. “We all have. For years. Except Kransten.”
“That’s a big fucking exception,” Fred Hoagland said. “And it changes everything.”
“He’s out of our control,” Arnold said. “We can’t possibly oversee his work. Even if we could figure out some kind of arrangement here in the U.S., which would be impossible considering the level of competition, his research facilities are scattered all over the world. There’s no way we can keep track of what he’s doing. That should be your job.”
“It
is
our job.” It was the first time Rollins’s boss, Chris Dahlberg, had spoken. “And we had things under control. Until recently.”
“What happened?” This came from Mayberry.
“I think we all know what happened,” Chase Welles said. “And I think we all know how it was resolved.”
“Well, if it’s been resolved, what’s the problem?” Arnold said.
The director of the FBI tipped his chair backward. “There are quite a few problems. There have been some new …wild cards, shall we say. But they are being taken care of, largely thanks to Assistant Director Rollins.”
The secretary of Health and Human Services began tapping the table with his finger. “We need assurances from the two of you,” he said to Mayberry and Arnold, “that what happened with Kransten won’t happen with you and your companies.”
“I’m not defending Kransten. You know I think the man’s—how should I put this? Oh, screw it, Doug Kransten’s a goddamn lunatic. Wild card doesn’t begin to describe him. But you guys fucked up here, not us. You have my assurance that we’ll play by the rules. But you’ve got to control your side.”
“That’s why I’m in this meeting,” Welles said. “Our side’s been controlled.”
“Well, as long as that’s the case,” Arnold said, “you can obviously count on me, too.”
“You know, we do read the news,” Mayberry said. “We’re not idiots. You’ve got a few things that don’t seem to be so under control.”
“Such as?” That was from Welles.
“Let’s start with Kransten. If he’s got what we all think he’s got— even if he’s reasonably close—and he makes it public …do you have any idea what’s going to happen?”
“Yes.” It was Brewster Ford’s first word. The financial adviser and wizard followed it up with “We know exactly what’s going to happen. It’s been my job for all these years to make sure the select few involved in the decision-making process truly understand the danger.”
“And nothing’s changed from your perspective?”
“Yes. Many things have changed. And they all make the situation more precarious than ever.”
“And this administration shares that perspective?”
“I would say they are more supportive than any previous administration.”
The pharmaceutical executives nodded, satisfied. “What else?” Fred Hoagland said.
“What else seems out of control?”
“Manwaring. He won’t go away.”
“He will.”
“I’m not so sure,” Mayberry said. “He’s a bulldog. And he’s a fanatic.”
“And he’s got no credibility. He’s no threat.”
“How about the cop? Is he a threat?”
Arnold nodded. “Yeah. What are you going to do about this cop? He seems totally out of control.”
Hoagland looked down at the notepad he had in front of him, then swiveled to face Chris Dahlberg. “I think they have a point. This Westwood could be a serious problem.”
Director Dahlberg leaned over, gave Len Rollins a hearty pat on the back. “I told you,” he said. “This is AD Rollins’s specialty. He’s
our
wild card.”
Justin Westwood watched his mother come down the long spiral staircase into the foyer. He marveled at the fact that even at her age Lizbeth never seemed to walk down; it was as if she glided several inches off the floor. Her movements were fluid and graceful and serene. More than that, her steps were rich. His mother moved, Justin realized, as if she owned the ground in front of her. It didn’t matter which ground she was walking on. She seemed to own it all.
She put her arm through his and led him into the den. His father was in the chaise longue, reading a financial report. He wore reading glasses, an added accoutrement since Justin had seen him last.
“They’re both asleep upstairs,” Lizbeth said. “I put Deena in the Blue Room. She conked out even before Kendall.”
“Thanks.”
“That little girl is something.”
“Yeah. She’s pretty special.”
“She reminds me of Lili.”
Justin felt something catch in his throat, nodded.
“I’ve never gotten to tell you,” Lizbeth said slowly, “how much we miss both of them.”
“Thank you, Mother. I miss them too.” He looked over at his father, who nodded at him. Justin took the motion for what it was: a wordless acknowledgment and a silent, long overdue moment of shared grief. “I’d like to leave Kendall here with you for a few days. Maybe longer than that.”
“Are you leaving?” Lizbeth asked.
“I have to. For one thing, it’s not safe for me here. Or for you if I’m here. It’s a natural place for them to start looking, and it won’t take them long to figure that out. I’ve got to find out what’s going on before they find me, and I won’t be able to do what I have to do if I’m lugging around an eight-year-old girl.”
“What about her mother?”
“She’ll come with me.” When Lizbeth raised an eyebrow, Justin said, “It’s the only play that makes sense. Someone is after Deena. The little girl will be safer if she’s not around. I figure you can hire a couple of bodyguards while she’s here. I already asked Billy for recommendations. Two good men, that should be enough security—no one’s going to consider Kendall a real danger. But if Deena stays here too, I don’t think you can pay for enough security. You’ll all be vulnerable.”
“And you’ll be able to protect her?” Jonathan asked.
“Nothing is going to happen to this one.”
“Justin,” his father said. “You do understand that nothing you do now is going to change what happened in the past.”
“Yes, Dad.” He felt his body go rigid. “I do know that Alicia’s dead, if that’s what you’re saying.”
“No. I’m just trying to make sure that you’re doing what you’re doing for the right reason. That it’s the best thing to do, not some form of atonement.”
He forced out a long breath. And forced himself to admit that his father’s question was justified. “It is,” he said. “It’s the best thing to do.”
“Good. Then of course the little girl can stay here. And we’ll do whatever’s necessary to make sure she’s safe.” Jonathan sat back, tossed the slick pamphlet he was reading across the room. It landed on his son’s lap. “A little bedtime reading material.”
“What is it?”
Jonathan shook his head and sighed. “Do you really not know who Doug Kransten is?” When Justin shook his head, his father said, “With your business acumen, not to mention your medical background, it’s a crime. The potential that you had—”
“Dad …”
Jonathan closed his eyes for a moment, cleared his throat as if the action would also wipe clean his thoughts. When he spoke again, his voice was gentler and his tone less aggressive. “Douglas Kransten has been mentioned as being in contention for the Nobel Prize over the past few years. For his work in genetic engineering.”
“Kransten’s a scientist? I got the impression from Roger that—”
“The impression you got from Roger was correct. Good Lord, Kransten’s not a scientist. He’s KranMar’s founder and major stockholder. It’s the second or third largest pharmaceutical company in the world. Mallone knew the implications the moment you mentioned his name. Did you see his eyes light up? When he comes back with the information you asked for, I guarantee you he’ll have tied in all your various research companies to KranMar and Doug Kransten.”
“I’m sorry for being so ignorant, but where does the Nobel Prize come in exactly, if he owns a company that churns out antihistamines?”
“They do a little bit more than that. Among other things, KranMar holds the patent on several of the drugs that best combat anthrax. It’s one of the reasons their stock has gone up so much while everything else is tanking. But more relevant, Kransten spent a fortune over the years— his own fortune in addition to KranMar resources—to map the human genome. He’s been one the leading backers of research in that area. Also stem-cell and almost all cell regeneration research. I’ve made a lot of money, thanks to Doug Kransten.”
Justin glanced down, tapped the glossy cover of the report his father had tossed to him. “This is for Kransten’s company?”
“Actually, it’s for his wife’s company. It’s an old one, but it’s interesting. I dug it out of my files upstairs.”
“Can I go back to something? Did you just call him
Doug
Kransten a little while ago?”
“Yes, I know him, Justin. You’ve met him too, although you won’t remember. About fifteen years ago, when Louise Marshall, his wife, was taking her company public. They both came up here for the dog and pony show, to raise money. They came to the house for lunch afterward. You must have been home from Princeton.”
Justin indicated the report. “What’s so interesting about it?”
“You pay no attention to your financial holdings, do you?”
“No.”
“Just because we haven’t spoken, your stock portfolio hasn’t disappeared.”
“I haven’t touched it since I left here.”
“It’s disgraceful,” Jonathan said. “The waste. The money that should have been made …”
“Can we please not discuss my lifestyle choices,” Justin said, “and stick to the matter at hand.”
Jonathan nodded, took another moment to calm himself down. “If you had been paying attention, you’d know that you own a decent amount of Louise Marshall’s company. Well, you used to. Since Douglas took it over five or six years ago and they merged, it was converted and you now own KranMar.”
“I own stock in Kransten’s company?”
“Quite a bit. I was fairly prescient when I bought it for you.”
“What’s his wife’s end? What does her company do?”
“Beauty products. She isn’t exactly the Lauders, but she isn’t so far behind.”
“And what’s the connection you think you’ve found, Father, between this report and everything I described earlier?”
“An obsession.”
“I’m listening.”
“What is the point of using the kinds of products that Louise Marshall developed?”
“You tell me, please.”
“To beautify. To eradicate wrinkles and stop hair from turning gray. To create the illusion of youth.”
“Or, rather,” Lizbeth Westwood added quietly, “to extend that illusion as long as possible.”