“Aha! I’m starting to get the picture. My guess is that we’ll soon be in the market for a new anchor. Am I right?”
“Just drive,” Kurt said.
True to his word, Kurt pushed open the door to his office almost to the second of his eleven o’clock commitment. Both Spencer and Paul were already there, accustomed to his signature punctuality. Kurt brought his rucksack over to the desk and dropped it. It made a resounding thud against the desk’s metal surface.
Spencer and Paul were sitting in the two chairs facing Kurt’s utilitarian desk. Their eyes had followed Kurt from the moment the security chief had walked through the door. They were waiting for him to say something, but Kurt took his time. He took off his black silk jacket and draped it over the chair. Then he pulled out his gun from its holster in the small of his back and carefully placed it on the desk.
With obvious exasperation, Spencer exhaled noisily and rolled his eyes. “Mr. Hermann, I am forced to remind you that you work for us and not vice versa. What the hell is going on? And it better be good, for having dragged us in here in the middle of the night. I happened to have been pleasurably occupied.”
Kurt peeled off his form-fitting gloves and put them next to his automatic. Only then did he sit down. He reached out and lifted his computer monitor and put it to the side to have an uninterrupted view of his visitors.
“I was forced in the line of duty to kill someone tonight.”
Both Spencer and Paul’s mouths slowly dropped open. They stared in consternation at their security supervisor, who calmly stared back at them. For a beat, no one moved and no one spoke. It was Paul who first found his voice. He spoke hesitantly, as if afraid to hear the answer: “Could you tell us who it was you killed?”
Kurt used one hand to open the buckle on his rucksack and the other to pull out a billfold. He pushed it across the desk at his bosses and then sat back. “His name is Gaetano Baresse.”
Paul reached out and picked up the wallet. Before he could open it, Spencer slammed his palm down on the surface of the metal desk hard enough to make it sound like a kettledrum. Paul jumped and dropped the wallet. Kurt didn’t visibly flinch, although all his honed muscles tensed.
After pounding the desk, Spencer leaped to his feet and began to pace with both hands clasped on top of his head. “I don’t believe this,” he wailed. “Before we know it, it will be Massachusetts all over again, with the Bahamian authorities instead of U.S. marshals knocking at our gate!”
“I don’t think so,” Kurt said simply.
“Oh, yeah?” Spencer questioned sarcastically. He stopped pacing. “How can you be so sure?”
“There’s no body,” Kurt said.
“How can that be?” Paul asked, as he bent over to retrieve the wallet.
“As we speak, Bruno is dumping the body and its effects into the deep. I returned the man’s rent-a-car to the airport as if he left the island. The man is just going to disappear. Period! End of story.”
“That sounds encouraging,” Paul commented, as he opened the wallet and pulled out Gaetano’s driver’s license, which he examined.
“Encouraging, my ass!” Spencer shouted. “You promised me this . . .” Spencer pointed at Kurt while searching for the right descriptive word, “ . . . this half-assed Green Beret wouldn’t kill anybody, and here we are, barely with our doors open, and he’s already iced somebody. This is a disaster in the making. We can’t afford to move the clinic again.”
“Spencer!” Paul said sharply. “Sit down!”
“I’ll sit down when I feel like sitting down! I’m the head of this freaking clinic.”
“Suit yourself,” Paul said, gazing up at Spencer, “but let’s hear the details before we fly off the handle and conjure up doomsday scenarios.” Paul looked at Kurt. “You do owe us an explanation. Why was killing this Gaetano Baresse from Somerville, Massachusetts, in the line of duty?” Paul put both the wallet and the driver’s license on the desk.
“I told you I got the bug in Dr. D’Agostino’s phone. To monitor it, I had to stay close. After dinner, they took a walk in the Ocean Club’s garden. As I followed at a distance, I realized this Gaetano Baresse was also following them, but much closer. So I closed in on them. It soon became apparent that Gaetano Baresse was a professional hit man, and he was about to do in the doctors. I had to make an instantaneous decision. I thought you would want the doctors alive.”
Paul glanced back up at Spencer with arched eyebrows to question Spencer’s reaction to what he had just heard. Spencer leaned over and picked up the driver’s license. He stared at the photo for a second before flipping it back onto the desk. He yanked his chair back to where he was standing and sat down, slightly apart from the others.
“How are you so sure this Baresse guy was a professional hit man?” Spencer asked. His voice had lost most of its bluster.
Using his left hand, Kurt again opened his rucksack. Reaching in with his right, he pulled out Gaetano’s gun. He pushed it across the desk as he had done with the wallet. “This is no Saturday night special, particularly not with a built-in laser and a suppressor.”
Paul picked up the weapon gingerly, glanced at it, and extended it back toward Spencer. Spencer motioned that he didn’t care to touch it. Paul put it back on Kurt’s desk.
“With my mainland contacts, I may be able to learn more about this man,” Kurt said. “But until then, there is no doubt in my mind he is a professional, and with a weapon like this, which he had to have gotten since his eight o’clock arrival, he’s connected.”
“Talk in English!” Spencer commanded.
“I’m talking about organized crime,” Kurt said. “He was undoubtedly connected to organized crime, probably drug-related.”
“Are you suggesting our doctor guests are into drugs?” Spencer asked with disbelief.
“No,” Kurt said simply. He stared back at his bosses, challenging them to put it all together as he had while waiting for Bruno to show up at the cloister.
“Wait a minute!” Spencer said. “Why would a drug kingpin send a professional killer over here to the Bahamas to do away with a couple of researchers if the researchers weren’t into drugs?”
Kurt stayed silent. He stared back at Paul.
Suddenly, Paul nodded a few times. “I think I’m getting Kurt’s drift. Are you suggesting the mystery patient might not be connected with the Catholic Church?”
“I’m thinking he might be a rival drug lord,” Kurt said. “Or at least some sort of Mob boss. Either way, his rivals do not want him to get better.”
“Goddamn!” Paul remarked. “You know, it makes sense. It would certainly explain all the secrecy.”
“It seems far-fetched to me,” Spencer said skeptically. “Why would a couple of world-class researchers be willing to treat a drug lord?”
“Organized crime has many ways to put pressure on people,” Paul said. “Who knows? Maybe some drug cartel laundered money by investing in Lowell’s company. I think Kurt has something here. I mean, a sick drug lord from South America or a sick Mob boss from the Northeast would probably be Catholic, which could explain the Shroud of Turin part.”
“Well, I can tell you one thing,” Spencer said. “All this is souring me about finding out the patient’s identity, and it’s not just because of this killing. There’s no way we would try to lean on some organized-crime figure. We’d be shooting ourselves in the foot.”
“What about our involvement in general?” Paul asked. “Do we want to reconsider allowing the treatment to go forward?”
“I want that second payment,” Spencer said. “We need it. We should just remain passive, so as not to anger anyone.”
Paul turned to Kurt. “Was Dr. Lowell aware he was in danger?”
“Most definitely,” Kurt said. “Gaetano had confronted him and had his gun aimed at Lowell’s forehead. I took him out at the last second.”
“Why do you ask that?” Spencer questioned.
“I’m hoping Lowell will
look to his security,” Paul responded. “Whoever sent Gaetano might send someone else when they learn Gaetano failed and is not coming back.”
“That’s not going to be for some time,” Kurt said. “I went to great lengths to make the guy disappear for that very reason. And as far as Dr. Lowell is concerned, I can assure you he was scared shitless. Both of them were.”
twenty-three
2:50 P.M., Saturday March 23, 2002
The clutch of people exited the Atlantis resort’s Imperial Club elevator on the thirty-second floor of the Royal Towers west wing and started down the carpeted hallway. In the lead was Mr. Grant Halpern, the hotel manager on duty, followed by Ms. Connie Corey, the day-shift reception supervisor, and Harold Beardslee, Imperial Club director. Ashley Butler and Carol Manning were a few steps behind, slowed by Ashley’s shuffling gait, which was more pronounced now than it had been a month earlier. Bringing up the rear were two bellmen; one pushed a hotel cart stacked with Ashley and Carol’s checked suitcases, and the other carried their hand luggage and garment bags. It was like a miniature safari.
“Well, well, my dear Carol,” Ashley voiced, drawing out the words in his Southern drawl but with a newly acquired monotone. “What is your first impression of this modest establishment?”
“Modest may be the last adjective that would come to my mind,” Carol answered. She knew Ashley was merely playing to the hotel staff audience.
“Now, what adjective might you believe to be more befitting?”
“Whimsical but impressive,” Carol said. “I wasn’t prepared for such theatrical grandeur. The lobby downstairs is truly creative, particularly with its textured columns and golden, seashell-coffered dome. I would be hard put to guess how tall it is.”
“It soars to seventy feet,” Mr. Halpern said over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Mr. Halpern,” Ashley called ahead. “You are so kind and admirably well-informed.”
“At your service, Senator,” Mr. Halpern said without slowing down.
“It pleases me that you are impressed with the lodging,” Ashley said, lowering his voice and leaning toward his chief of staff. “I am sure you are equally impressed with the weather as compared with Washington at the end of March. I hope you are glad to be here. Truth be known, I feel guilty for not having had you accompany me here last year on my reconnaissance visit, when I was putting this whole endeavor together.”
Carol shot a surprised glance at her boss. Never had he expressed any guilt in relation to her about anything, much less a trip to the tropics. It was another small but curious example of the unpredictability he had displayed on and off during the past year. “You needn’t feel guilty, sir,” she said. “I’m delighted to be here in Nassau. How about yourself? Are you glad to be here?”
“Most assuredly,” Ashley said, without a trace of accent.
“Aren’t you a little scared?”
“Me, scared?” Ashley questioned loudly, suddenly reverting back to his histrionics. “My daddy told me that the proper way to face adversity is to do your homework and everything else in your power to do, and then put yourself in the Good Lord’s hands. And that’s what I have done, plain and simple. I’m here to enjoy myself!”
Carol nodded but said nothing. She was sorry she had asked the question. If anyone felt guilty, it was she, since she was still conflicted about the outcome she hoped for the current visit. For Ashley’s sake, she tried to convince herself she wanted a miraculous cure, while for herself, she knew she hoped for something less.
Mr. Halpern and the other hotel personnel stopped at a large double mahogany door decorated with carved mermaids in low relief. As Mr. Halpern fumbled in his pocket for a master keycard, Ashley and Carol arrived.
“Hold on here,” Ashley said, with a quavering hand outstretched like he was making a point on the Senate floor. “This is not the room I occupied on my last sojourn here at the Atlantis. I specifically requested the same accommodations.”
Mr. Halpern’s suave expression faltered. “Senator, perhaps you didn’t hear me earlier. When Ms. Corey brought you into my office, I mentioned that we had upgraded you. This is one of our few themed suites. It’s the Poseidon Suite.”
Ashley looked at Carol.
“He did say we were being upgraded,” Carol said.
For a moment, Ashley appeared confused behind his heavy, thick-rimmed glasses. He was dressed as he always was, in a dark suit, generic white shirt, and conservative tie. A line of perspiration ringed his hairline. His doughy complexion appeared particularly pale as compared with the hotel staff’s.
“This suite is larger, has a better view, and is far more elegant than the one you occupied last year,” Mr. Halpern said. “It is one of our very best. Perhaps you’d like to see it?”
Ashley shrugged. “I suppose I’m just being a country boy, unaccustomed to being made a fuss over. Fine! Let’s see the Poseidon Suite.”
Ms. Corey, who had stepped ahead of Mr. Halpern, produced a keycard and opened the door. She stepped aside. Mr. Halpern gestured for Ashley to enter. “After you, Senator,” he said.
Ashley walked through a small foyer into a large room, the walls of which were muraled with a surreal underwater view of an ancient submerged city, presumably the mythical Atlantis. The furniture consisted of a dining table for eight, a writing desk, an entertainment console, two club chairs, and two oversized couches. All the exposed wood was carved in the form of sea creatures, including the arms of the two facing couches, which were porpoises. The prints and colors of the fabrics and the design on the rugs continued the pelagic theme.
“My, my,” Ashley voiced as he took it all in.
Ms. Corey went to the entertainment console to check on the minibar. Mr. Beardslee fluffed the pillows on the couches.
“The master bedroom is on your right, Senator,” Mr. Halpern said, gesturing in the direction of an open door. “And Ms. Manning, as requested, there is a fine bedroom for you on your left.”
The bellmen immediately began to distribute the luggage to the appropriate rooms.
“And now for the pièce de résistance,” Mr. Halpern said. He had stepped around Ashley’s blocky, stooped figure to a series of wall switches and now threw the first. With an electric whir, the drapes that covered the entire outside wall of the room began to pull apart, progressively revealing a stunning scene of an emerald-and-sapphire sea beyond a balustraded, mosaic-tiled balcony.
“My word!” Carol exclaimed with a hand clasped to her chest. From the vantage point of thirty-two stories, the view was breathtakingly commanding.
Mr. Halpern threw another switch, and the sliding-glass-door ensemble retracted to stack at each side. When the whirring stopped, the balcony and the room were one large, open space. He proudly gestured out to the balcony. “If you’d care to step outside, I can orient you to some of our many outdoor attractions.”
Ashley and Carol followed the manager’s suggestion. Ashley went right to the waist-height, reddish-brown, stone balustrade. Leaning on his hands on the wide rail, he looked down. With a mild fear of heights, Carol approached more slowly. Gingerly, she touched the top of the rail before looking down. It was as if she thought the balustrade could fall over. Below was a bird’s-eye view of the extensive Atlantis beach and waterpark, dominated by the Paradise Lagoon.
Mr. Halpern moved to stand next to Carol. He began pointing out the landmarks, including the jewellike Royal Baths Pool, almost directly in front of where they were standing.
“What’s that to the left?” Carol asked. She pointed. It looked to her like a displaced archeological monument.
“That’s our Mayan Temple,” Mr. Halpern said. “If you are feeling courageous, there is a heart-stopping waterslide that takes you down from its six-story summit through a Plexiglas tube submerged in the shark-filled Predator Lagoon.”
“Carol, my dear,” Ashley gushed. “That sounds like the perfect activity for someone like yourself, seriously contemplating the pursuit of a Washington
political career.”
Carol glanced at her boss with the fear that there was more to his comment than humor, but he was blankly staring out at the view over the ocean, as if his mind had already moved on.
“Mr. Halpern,” Ms. Corey called from inside the room. “All seems to be in order, and the senator’s keycards are on the desk. I should be getting back to the reception desk.”
“I’ll be going as well,” Mr. Beardslee said. “Senator, if there is anything you need, just let my staff know.”
“Now, I want to thank you folks for being so very kind to us,” Ashley exuded. “You are all a tribute to this fine organization.”
“I too should leave so you folks can get settled,” Mr. Halpern said, as he started to follow the others.
Ashley lightly gripped the manager’s arm. “I would be most appreciative if you would wait for just a moment,” he said.
“Of course,” Mr. Halpern responded.
Ashley waved as the others departed, then let his gaze return out to the expansive ocean. “Mr. Halpern, my being here in Nassau is no secret, nor could it be, having arrived on public transport. But that does not mean I wouldn’t look kindly on respect for my privacy. I would prefer the room be registered solely under Ms. Manning’s name.”
“As you wish, sir.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Halpern. I shall count on your discretion to avoid publicity. I want to feel I can enjoy the pleasures of your casino without fear of offending the more righteous of my constituents.”
“You have my word we will make every effort in that regard. But, like last year, we cannot prevent your being approached in the casino by any of your many fans.”
“My fear is reading about my presence in the newspapers or that someone could merely call the hotel to ascertain that I am here.”
“I assure you we will do everything in our power to protect your privacy,” Mr. Halpern said. “Now, I should leave you folks to unpack and unwind. Some complimentary champagne should be on its way, with our wishes for a most relaxing stay.”