For a little less than ten minutes neither of them moved. Then Jo Stanley reappeared through the revolving doors of the market and hurried back toward her Chevy. She was toting a small plastic carrier bag. As she passed the parked Nissan the driver opened the door and casually trailed after her. While Jo placed the bag between her feet and busied herself with unlocking the driver’s door—Jeez, it’s time I got a car with central locking!—he walked on by without so much as glancing at her.
Jo got the door open and slipped behind the steering wheel. She reached across and placed her carrier bag on the empty passenger seat beside her, not noticing that the lock was still up on the passenger’s door, slammed the driver’s door closed, and leaned forward to insert the key in the ignition.
While her whole attention was fixed on getting the car started, the man crouched on the floor behind her rose up and slipped his right arm around her throat from behind. Holding her in a neck lock he leaned back with all his weight, pinning her to the seat and smothering the frantic cries she was trying to utter as her hands clawed ineffectually at his arms.
The second man who had walked on past the Chevy doubled back swiftly and yanked open the passenger door. As he slid into the seat beside Jo he reached into the front of his jacket and brought out a ten-inch butcher’s knife. With his free hand he ripped open the front of Jo’s mink jacket and laid his open hand on the bottom of her ribcage which was arched backward by the neck lock of the first assassin. With the skill born of long practice he placed the point of the blade on Jo’s skin, as precisely as a surgeon’s scalpel and with a single hard thrust drove the steel full length upward into Jo’s heart.
Both men froze, holding her from struggling, choking off any noise she might make. At the end she shuddered and her whole body slumped in death.
Neither of the men spoke a word throughout the entire procedure, but once she was dead the knife man used a small hand towel he brought out from his pocket to staunch the residual bleeding while he withdrew the blade from Jo’s chest.
The man who had pinioned Jo ransacked her handbag quickly and found her wallet. He removed a small roll of ten- and twenty-dollar bills but left her driver’s license. Then between them they pushed her corpse down on to the floor where she would not be obvious to a casual passer-by.
Then they slipped out of the Chevy unhurriedly, locked the doors and—still unhurriedly—walked back to their own vehicle and drove away.
Jo’s dead,” said Ronnie Bunter over the telephone.
“No, that can’t be right.” Hector Cross spoke quite calmly, certain that there must be some mistake. “I just read an email she sent me.”
“I’m sorry, Hector, but it’s true. She was mugged right outside the Central Market, on Westheimer. She’d just gone in to get some deli for her dinner and they were waiting for her when she went back to her car.” Ronnie Bunter had a calm, punctilious, old-school lawyer’s mind, but his distress had overwhelmed him. He was having difficulty forcing the words out past the sobs that Cross could hear gathering in his throat. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Bunter went on. “I mean, it’s a good neighborhood and she had a real nice apartment on Post Oak Boulevard . . . This is a safe area, Heck, I recommended it to her myself, but . . . but . . . I guess some guys, druggies or something, they were waiting for her in her car. They stabbed her, and took her purse . . . she died for a purse, Heck. What is this world coming to?”
“She didn’t die for a purse,” Cross said. “She died because she got too close to the Beast.” He drew a deep breath. “I am to blame for this. But I promise you one thing. I will avenge her. You can count on that.”
The following morning, Dave Imbiss informed Cross that he had devised a plan for dealing with Aram Bendick that would, at the same time, bring Jo Stanley’s killers to justice. The O’Quinns were immediately summoned to a meeting at which the scheme would be discussed, analyzed and pored over for any possible weaknesses before a final decision to put it into effect was made.
“Please, Dave, don’t tell me that your idea begins with me getting that disgusting man into bed,” Nastiya joked as they helped themselves to freshly brewed coffee.
“Don’t be daft, woman,” said Paddy. “If I know Dave, he’ll be after raiding Bendick’s house and killing him before he can reach his getaway car. That’s the kinda plan that always works perfectly, in my experience!”
“That’s enough!” snapped Hector, bringing the meeting to order. “This is about getting justice for Jo and for all the poor beggars who died at Magna Grande. Let’s not forget that, OK?”
The other three flashed glances at one another, like classmates who’d just discovered their teacher was in a bad mood, and sat down around the table without another word being said.
“Right then,” Cross went on, “what have you got for us, Dave?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I did consider the possibility of a honeytrap, as a means of blackmailing Bendick and forcing him to talk. And I looked at the likelihood of pulling off a forcible seizure, given that Bendick never has fewer that six bodyguards around him, both male and female, all trained by Mossad. But I rejected them both. Here’s the thing, boss. Like it or not, Aram Bendick is kind of a public hero right now. The media’s portraying him as a financial genius who called the odds and brought down an entire corporation, single-handed. It’s like David killing Goliath and then walking away with several billion dollars. Plus, he’s a blue-collar kid from the Bronx who made it all the way to the top. To us, sitting here, he’s a sleazeball who made his money over the dead bodies of innocent people. To the American people, he’s a hero. And you . . .”
Cross grimaced. “OK, I get it, I’m the Limey who screwed up and got everyone killed.”
“I’m afraid so, Heck. My point is, you can’t afford to be seen anywhere near the take-down. Nor can any of us because we’re all toxic. It wouldn’t matter what we made Bendick admit, he’d always be able to get out of it, just by saying we forced him, and the whole world would think we were trying to shift the blame for our mistakes. And that’s if the operation went right. If we messed it up and didn’t get to Bendick, or more people got hurt, well, if you think you’ve got legal problems now . . . man, they’d be a thousand times worse.”
“You told me you had a plan,” said Cross. “So far all I’ve heard is options that won’t work. Give me one that will.”
“It’s real simple. You get the law to do the work for you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, has there actually been a writ or a warrant issued against you yet?” Imbiss asked.
“Not so far as I know.”
“And if I recall, didn’t you have a contact at the Texas Rangers—Hernandez, or something?”
Cross nodded. “That’s right. Lieutenant Consuela Hernandez was her name. She sounded to me like a damn good cop.”
“Well, as I recall, the Rangers took the same sort of crap from the media and the politicians when Congo escaped as you’re doing now over Magna Grande. What I’m getting at is, if you go through Hernandez to her boss and you say you’ve got a way to solve the murder of Jo Stanley, and nail the man who helped Congo escape, and name the men who were really responsible for the sinking of the Bannock A, well, my guess is he’d be real interested in that proposition. He gets his career back on track, you get out from under the heap of crap that’s been dumped on you and a bunch of guilty men get what’s coming to them.”
“That certainly sounds appealing,” Cross agreed. “But exactly how do you propose to work this magic trick?”
“Before I tell you, I need to ask one last question: would Ronald Bunter risk putting himself in danger in order to help you out?”
“What kind of risk?”
“Making bad people very angry if things went wrong.”
Cross thought about it for a moment. “If it was just me, yes, he probably would, though he’d really be doing it in Hazel’s memory. If it’s also to help avenge Jo, absolutely,
he’d do anything.”
“Then here’s what we’re going to do . . .”
An hour later, just as Cross was bringing the meeting to an end, Paddy O’Quinn said, “There is something that has been preying on my mind ever since it all happened. The thing is, whoever was behind the attack seemed to know a helluva lot about our whole set-up. I mean, those lads on the Angolan helicopters found their way around that rig like they were carrying maps. And the fella that put the mine under the Bannock A knew precisely where to find her.”
“Are you suggesting someone betrayed us?”
“I don’t know, it just seems odd to me . . .”
A vision flashed through Cross’s mind, a memory of the terrorist leader, standing on the helideck, guiding his men to their targets around the oil platform. He knew exactly what he was doing . . . he knew!
“Suppose that’s true,” Cross said, “who was the mole? The only people who knew the whole picture and who had access to detailed plans are sitting in this room. I refuse to believe it was one of us. There isn’t anyone here whose conduct wasn’t exemplary . . . Are you saying I was the mole, Paddy . . . or Dave . . . or your own wife?”
“No, of course not!” O’Quinn protested. “I don’t believe that for a moment. That’s why I haven’t said anything until now. It’s just that the thought won’t leave my head, that’s all.”
“Maybe there’s an innocent explanation,” said Imbiss. “You can get a pretty good picture of any rig in the world, just by going online. And it was no secret that Bannock Oil was opening up the Magna Grande field. Anyone who knew that wouldn’t have a hard time locating a damn great floating refinery.”
“I suppose . . .”
“And don’t forget, Carl Bannock isn’t officially dead,” Imbiss continued. “So he was probably being sent corporate data, which means Congo would have seen it.”
Cross sighed and then grimaced in frustration. “Of course he would . . . why was I so stupid?” He saw the puzzled expression on the other three faces at the table and explained, “Bigelow’s spin doctor, Nocerino, called me . . . it was the night the Noatak went down. Anyway, he said he was putting together an investors’ letter about the Magna Grande field. You know, a puff piece saying what a great success it was going to be. He wanted me to say something about the security we were putting in place. I didn’t give away any big secrets, but the letter had a lot of information. Not enough to give Congo everything he needed to know, but enough to steer him in the right direction.”
Paddy nodded. “Ah, well then, that explains it . . . John bloody Bigelow and his merry men gave our enemies the information they needed to destroy us, then prevented us from doing the training we needed to do our jobs properly. They didn’t just shoot themselves in the foot. They slit their own throats as well, and probably stuck a stake in their hearts, just for good measure. Arseholes!”
The matter was settled. But that evening, just as Zhenia was leaving the O’Quinns’ house in Barnes, en route for a night with Cross, Nastiya stopped her sister by the door and said, “Have you been working for da Cunha?”
Zhenia stopped dead in her tracks and stammered, “Wha . . . what do you mean? Why would I . . . how would I work for da Cunha?”
“I don’t know. I just remember how sexy you thought he was. You sounded like a schoolgirl with a crush. Did you think he was sexy enough to make you betray Hector Cross?”
Zhenia looked appalled. “Betray Hector? But I love Hector. He’s the best thing that has ever, ever happened to me. I would rather die than hurt him.”
Nastiya looked at her, saying nothing, then nodded and said, “Good, I’m glad you said that. Because if I ever thought that someone I knew had betrayed Hector, even if it was someone I loved very much, with my own blood in their veins, I would kill that person without a second’s hesitation. So, anyway . . . off you go! Spend the night with Hector Cross and show him how much you really love him.”
Zhenia dashed down the front garden path to the taxi waiting for her by the curb. Nastiya closed the front door, paused for another second’s thought and then walked toward the kitchen, cursing to herself as she realized it was her turn to make supper.
Three days after Dave Imbiss had set out his plan, an elderly gentleman in an old-fashioned, bespoke suit that was beautifully cut but just a little bit shiny at the elbows strolled up to the reception desk at the newly enlarged firm of Weiss, Mendoza, Burnett and Bunter. He smiled at the pretty young blonde in a headset behind the great slab of polished black granite that served as a reception desk and said, “Excuse me, my dear, but could you tell me where I might find the partners’ boardroom?”
Her delicate little brows creased in puzzlement. “I’m sorry, sir, but that’s only for the partners.”
“Yes, I imagine that’s how it got its name,” he said in a kindly manner. “Luckily, I am a partner. My name is Ronald Bunter. It’s right there on the wall behind you.”
Despite the fact that she spent every working day seated in front of the four names etched on to a twelve-foot-wide glass panel, the receptionist could not help but glance behind her to check. “But that’s a different Mr. Bunter, sir,” she said.
“You mean Mr. Bradley Bunter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, he’s my son and it’s a matter of opinion as to which of us is the Bunter referred to on that sign. Nevertheless, I am a partner, I believe that a partners’ meeting is scheduled for eleven o’clock this morning, which is to say, five minutes from now, and I aim to attend that meeting, as is my right. So please, would you be so good as to direct me to it?”
“I . . . I . . .” Faced with the possibility that she might either be allowing a random geezer onto the premises, or barring the way to an actual partner who could have her fired, the receptionist had no idea what to do. So she made the smart move and pushed the decision up the line.
“One moment, sir,” she said with a brittle half-smile as she tapped on her keyboard. “Hi, this is Brandi. There’s a gentleman in reception who says his name is Bunter and that he’s our Mr. Bunter’s father. He wants to attend a partners’ meeting. Should I let him in?” She listened to the response, ended the call and then told Bunter, “Someone will be out to see you momentarily.”
That someone turned out to be Bradley himself.
His presence alarmed the receptionist. “I’m sorry, sir, I didn’t mean to disturb you. I just . . .” she twittered.
Bunter Jr. gave her a smile that managed to be both predatory and ingratiating as he said, “Don’t you worry, Brandi sweetheart, you did great.”
As she glowed in the warmth of his approval, Bradley turned to his father, “Gee, Dad, what brings you here today? I mean, it’s great to see you, but this is kind of unexpected.”
“I dare say it is, but here I am. Now, shall we go into the meeting?”
The other partners were no less surprised or more happy than Bradley Bunter at the arrival of the man who had been, until then, a very silent partner. And so Ronnie stayed all the way through the various items that the partners had tabled for discussion, almost all of which centered on the disastrous effect of the collapse of Bannock Oil, and by extension the Henry Bannock Family Trust, on the firm’s finances. It took quite an effort of will, since Ronnie, who had written the terms of the trust himself, and then administered it for decades without the slightest blemish—other than the obligation to pay huge sums to the odious Carl Bannock—was now seeing his life’s work fall apart before his eyes. Nevertheless, his lips were sealed.
Only when the partnership secretary asked if there was any other business did he raise his hand and say, “Yes, there are two matters, both linked to one another, that I would like to bring to my fellow partners’ attention. May I have the floor?”
The other partners could not deny him his say, and so Ronnie Bunter began: “The first matter I would like to raise, though I had hoped and expected that it would have been considered by now, without the need for me to say anything, is th
e tragic death of Jo Stanley.”
There was a low murmur of embarrassment around the table. Even lawyers could understand that there was something shameful about discussing their corporate and personal finances for almost an hour but ignoring the passing of a colleague.
“Jo worked for me for many years and I considered her a close friend, almost a daughter in some ways, I guess. I appreciate that she was much less familiar to those of you who have only just become her colleagues, but I know that many of the men and women who worked alongside her at Bunter and Theobald will have been hit very hard by her loss. I don’t know what plans have been made for her funeral, but I hope this firm will pay tribute to her in some way, and I absolutely insist that anyone who wishes to attend her funeral should be allowed to do so within working hours.”
There were nods around the table and the matter seemed settled until Shelby Weiss piped up, “With all due respect, Ronnie, we’re fighting for survival here. Every cent counts. Sure, it would be nice to commemorate Jo’s passing, but if folks are going to go to her funeral, they’d better do it on their time, not ours. I mean, what if there’s a wake and they end up getting blasted and dancing jigs when they should be back at work, racking up billable hours?”
Ronald Bunter was not a flamboyant litigator. He did not show off in front of a jury. He seldom even raised his voice. But he had a quiet, steely way of nailing a hostile witness or a lying defendant that was just as effective as any amount of showmanship. And it was that persona to which he reverted now.
“On a point of information, Mr. Weiss, Jo Stanley was not, to my knowledge, an Irish-American and so the question of a wake does not apply. I only met her parents once or twice and they struck me as delightful people: modest, understated and God-fearing. They loved their daughter very much indeed and I am quite certain that they will mark her passing in a way that reflects their personalities and their values. So I insist: the former staff of Bunter and Theobald, at the very least, must be allowed to attend her funeral without being penalized in any way for doing so. I trust we will not require a vote.”