Castro Directive (7 page)

"Lots of clocks," he said to the bodyguard, who'd followed him into the study.

The man made a guttural sound and took out a pen and pad. As he scribbled on it, Pierce discreetly studied him: He was blond, had a square jaw, and a handsome, youthful face. He was surprised the man was a mute, but imagined the handicap suited Andrews just fine, an audience who couldn't interrupt. Actually he probably considered him more a roving piece of furniture than a fellow human. But then again, he wasn't sure what Andrews thought about anything. Not anymore.

He held up the paper to Pierce. On it was written: "A hundred and sixteen clocks plus forty-two watches."

"That's a lot. What's your name?"

He didn't think the man had watched his lips, but wasn't certain. A moment later, he held up his pad and Pierce read the two-letter name.

"K.J., nice to meet you," Pierce said, speaking in a loud, clear voice and shaking the man's huge hand.

K.J. scribbled something again. "Mute, but not deaf."

Pierce grinned, embarrassed. K.J. pointed at the sofa, then backed out of the room, closing the door after him.

He sat down, but only for a moment. He saw a partially opened door behind Andrews's desk; a glow of colored neon emanated from it. He walked over and looked inside. It was a bathroom, and the glow was from the pink and blue tubes of a neon clock on the wall. He leaned over the sink toward the mirror. The swelling on his head was less noticeable, but the skin was turning an ugly purple and looked particularly bad under neon. He ran a hand through his hair, covering the bruise as best he could.

He was about to return to the study when he realized there was another door opposite the sink. It was covered with the same pink and blue geometric designs as the walls and the handle was a latch set into the door. He tugged lightly at it and the door opened. He glanced about quickly. The room was equipped with computers, fax machines, a dozen telephones, and a paper shredder. Andrews's war room, he thought, and retreated into the bathroom.

As he moved back into the study, he saw a photo on Andrews's desk and picked it up. Ginger and Ray were arm in arm on the deck of a yacht, and in the background he could read the name, Argo-II, no doubt a reference to Jason and the Argonauts and the search for the Golden Fleece. He focused on Ginger. Even though she was smiling, there was a distant, vacant look on her face. She'd died a year ago; a suicide, the papers said. He'd called Andrews in the aftermath to express his condolences, but had been told he was unavailable.

He put the photo back in place, wondering how long it would be kept on the desk. He didn't think Andrews was the kind to torture himself over a lost love. Pierce remembered a man who quixotically bounded from one affair to the next, never satisfied, always seeking someone new. More than one young woman had been discarded like yesterday's garbage.

He walked over to a wall and examined framed magazine covers of Time, U.S. News and World Report, and Business Week featuring Andrews. Cover boy. Maybe living in the shadow of Ray Andrews had become too much of a burden for Ginger.

All the articles focused on Andrews's role in the new capitalism sweeping Eastern Europe. While others feared the chaos and played a wait-and-see game, Andrews had immediately begun setting up deals, acting primarily as an intermediary between the new capitalists and the old ones. He was so successful that diplomats on both sides sought him out for advice in political maneuvering. One headline was entitled: AMERICA'S EMISSARY TO EASTERN EUROPE. Another read: MINISTER OF CHANGE. The third: ENVOY OF THE NEW ENLIGHTENMENT.

Pierce turned as the door opened and a middle-aged woman in a business suit entered. "Mr. Pierce, Mr. Andrews is in a meeting right now. He told me to tell you he'll be with you in a few minutes. Would you like something to drink while you wait?"

"Iced tea or a glass of water would be fine."

As the woman left, he walked over to a bookcase and examined the titles on a row at eye level. Most were tomes on philosophy, mysticism, mythology. Andrew's esoteric side, he thought. One leather-bound book stuck out a bit further than the others. He pulled it off the shelf. The binding was well worn, and it opened to a page that was marked.

Zeus, the god of gods, who rules according to law, and is able to see into such things, perceiving that an honorable race was in a woeful plight, and wanting to inflict punishment on them, that they might be chastened and improve, collected all the gods into their most holy habitation, which being placed in the centre of the world, beholds all created things. And when he had called them together, he spake as follows . . .

The passage was from an incomplete work by Plato called
Critias
, which abruptly ended in midsentence. It was the second of a planned three-part dialogue on Atlantis. The first was called
Timaeus
, and the third was either lost or never written. The author explained that Plato may have stopped writing the dialogues when his patron, Dionysius I, died. He also pointed out that at the time, there were few lengthy descriptions of foreign lands, so Plato might simply have tired of the task of recreating Atlantis.

Andrews had written one word in the margin: BULLSHIT.

Pierce laughed to himself. Same old Ray, still waving his philosophic sword. He remembered how Andrews was always the center of attention at any gathering, especially when the conversation turned to mysticism, a topic in vogue at the time. One day he would attack Castaneda or the I Ching, and the next, he would play the opposite side with equal persuasiveness. He could sway you either way. He loved pulling the switch; he relished pulling it off.

When Andrews wasn't around, Pierce and his circle of friends would talk about him, try to figure him out. The conclusion, which conveniently fit their stoned mystical musings, was that Andrews must be the reincarnation of a medieval wizard. Yet, he'd always been more of a fortune hunter than a fortune-teller.

He replaced the book exactly as he'd found it. On the shelf above it, he read a couple of the titles: The Secret Teachings of All Ages, and Occult Symbols in Art. Both had several bookmarks protruding. He was about to take one down when he heard the door opening.

"Here is your drink, sir." He turned around to see a young woman with long, dark hair holding a silver tray with a tall glass of iced tea and a slice of lemon on the side. She wore a blue uniform and was obviously another hired hand. She set the tray down on an end table next to a couch and quickly left the room.

He'd only taken a couple of sips when the door opened again. "Nicholas, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long. I appreciate your effort to get over here so quickly."

Pierce stood and extended his hand. Even at six-one, he had to look up an inch or so to Andrews. His full head of black hair was swept back, and every strand was perfectly in place. He was wearing a white silk shirt and white pants, which accented his tan. He reminded Pierce of a polished Latin playboy without the accent.

"You look the same as ever, Ray." He knew Andrews appreciated the compliment, and the man did appear younger than his years. He hadn't started college until he was twenty-one, and was three years older than Pierce.

"You think so? I'll be forty-three in a couple of months."

"You'd never know it," Pierce said.

Andrews stared at him for a moment. His eyes were deep, dark, compelling. They begged for attention, were at once forceful and compassionate. "I see the swelling. Does it hurt?"

"Not much at all today."

"Why don't we go out on the veranda. It's much more pleasant for talking."

They walked out to an unscreened porch with several comfortable patio chairs and a table. Pierce moved over to the railing and gazed out at the horizon, where the lapis ocean met the pale blue sky. Even though he disliked what the concrete high-rise condominiums had done to the once pristine South Florida shoreline, he had to admit that from up here the view was pleasant.

"You've had some rough breaks," Andrews said, echoing what Gibby had said to him. "I wish you had told me you were planning to take that consumer case. Christ, I would've warned you. You can't cross lines like that."

Pierce turned, joined Andrews at the table, and set his glass down. "I realize that now."

"You've always got to guard your rear, Nicholas. Especially when you're dealing with high rollers." He jerked his head toward the interior of the house. "I was just talking with my lawyers about a corporate raider who's after Tropic Air. Believe it or not, I loaned this guy five million dollars a few years ago."

"Can you stop him?"

Andrews shrugged, looked out toward the ocean. "I don't know. I feel like Daedalus, trapped in a labyrinth of my own making. And now the minotaur's going to eat me alive." He laughed. He didn't sound too concerned. "Ah, hell, it'll work out one way or another."

"Just don't fly too close to the sun," Pierce quipped.

"Icarus, I'm not. My wings aren't about to melt." Andrews regarded him a moment, twisting the gold band on his ring finger. "Business loans can always be recovered. Human losses are another matter. It'll be one year next Wednesday, and I still sorely miss Ginger."

"It must be tough."

"I guess I didn't pay enough attention to her. I thought everything was great, but she was hooked on cocaine. I didn't even know it until she overdosed."

The woman in the blue uniform appeared and asked if they'd like anything. Pierce said he was fine, and Andrews dismissed the woman with a wave of his hand. As she left, K.J. walked out on the veranda carrying a video camera and a tripod.

"You've got a lot of helpers."

Andrews counted them off on his fingers. "Two personal assistants, a secretary, two cooks, a housekeeper, and K.J. That doesn't count my help at the office, or the lawyers." He chuckled. "Lots of company."

Andrews's entourage, Pierce mused, and asked, "Isn't a bodyguard sort of confining?"

Andrews glanced over at K.J., who was setting up the tripod in the corner. "I used to have two of them, but they tripped over each other. I kept K.J. because he was the least intrusive." He flashed a grin, gritting his teeth. The smile was at once friendly and aggressive, ingratiating and contradictory—a visual oxymoron. A smile he remembered from the past.

Pierce looked from Andrews to K.J. and back again as the bodyguard aimed the camera at him.

"You don't mind if I tape our session, do you?" Andrews asked. "I like to keep a video record of important matters."

Pierce shrugged, wondering if Andrews really considered the meeting important, or if he was simply trying to impress him. Or intimidate him. "No, I guess not. I just hope I don't blow my lines."

Andrews laughed, then turned to the hulking bodyguard-cameraman. "Make sure we're in focus."

Pierce smiled to himself, remembering the semester Andrews had taken a filmmaking class. He'd made a ten-minute, sixteen-millimeter film called
Anything You Want,
a deliberately sophomoric spoof about the advantages of being rich. Andrews was the only actor, and his nonstop monologue had shifted from settings on Wall Street, to the front of a mansion, to a polo field, and finally to an office where he'd stood behind a desk stacked with cash. He'd ended the film by opening a closet door and piles of money had tumbled out, nearly burying him. He'd stepped back, brushed himself off, and turning to the camera, had said: "What do you do with it all?" When Pierce had asked him what the answer was, Andrews had gotten angry. "It's obvious, Nicholas. Anything you want."

The image of Andrews and the cash reminded him of why he was here. He reached into his pocket and dropped the roll of bills on the table. "I want to return this to you, Ray. It's short a couple hundred for my time and trouble."

Andrews brushed a mote of dust from his silk shirt, then turned his attention to Pierce. "I'd still like to retain you, Nicholas. I want you to find the man who killed Paul Loften and get the skull back."

Pierce reached for his iced tea. The ice was melting, and the glass was sweating in the sunlight. "That's what the police are for."

"They're overworked. It's just one more murder to them. Besides, they don't have a very good record for recovering stolen property."

Pierce knew he could use the work, but he wasn't interested in getting involved in a murder case. It wasn't the sort of case he took, and he told Andrews as much. "Hell, I don't even own a gun."

Andrews smiled and fiddled with his ring. "We go back a long way, Nicholas. I trusted you to handle my business interests in Santa Marta. You were fearless."

"That was the old days," Pierce said, glancing uneasily at the camera.

"Before the Medellin cartel, before pot was snowed under by cocaine," Andrews said. "Back when drugs were enlightening." His smile faded. "Instead of death traps."

"Jesus, you want this on tape?"

Andrews held up a hand. "Don't worry, Nicholas. It's a private tape. I have no plans to play it in front of the grand jury."

Pierce imagined Andrews studying the tape, watching his expression, looking for hints of hidden thoughts. He did his best to relax, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms. "You know, I can't remember you ever smoking a joint. Not once."