really hate you, Jack.”
“Enough of this male bonding. We have to get things ready. At the moment, I don’t know what those things are, but I have a few clues. I need you on this, Harry. I also have other news. Guess who else called me today?”
“The president?” Harry asked sourly. “You better not be telling me God called you.”
“Not even close. Mark Lane, my old buddy from the FBI. As you know, he went private. But he has all these great contacts. He called me just as I was getting out of court. Ted Robinson hired Tick Fields, the private dick who advertises on TV. He plunked down a five-grand retainer at three o’clock this afternoon. A personal check. Mark does work for Tick from time to time. And they’re personal friends as well. Fields wouldn’t disclose what he was hired to do, ethics and all that. All he would say was Robinson hired him.”
“Don’t tell me he’s downwind of this,” Harry said, jerking his head in the direction of the World Bank’s headquarters. “If you just found out, how the hell could he scoop you? You must be slipping, Jack.”
Jack blew another smoke ring, not as perfect as the first one. He tried still another, his gaze sweeping the street in front of him. “I don’t think it has anything to do with this. I think he’s trying to figure out where everyone went all of a sudden, including his old girlfriend, Maggie. He knew what went down a while back. He got slapped down at the Post. He’s still smarting over that. Let’s face it, Harry, we did rub the guy’s nose in it. He’s going to be on us like white on rice because he knows we’re the key to it all. So that means we both keep a sharp eye out. Don’t give him anything to feed off.”
The beeper in Jack’s hand went off just as he crushed out his cigarette on the curb.
“I knew I should have killed the son of a bitch,” Harry said, trailing behind Jack.
“Sounds good, but we aren’t in the business of blowing people away. You wouldn’t do well in prison, Harry.”
A sound that could have been mistaken for laughter escaped Harry’s lips. “Who said anything about me going to prison? I would have framed you to take the rap.”
“Oh,” was all Jack could think of to say.
Harry emitted the funny sound again as he shouldered his way past the crowds to follow a leggy blonde hostess leading them to their table. She slapped down two menus, winked at them, and left. Neither man seemed to notice because they were too busy eyeing the three men at the next table: Ted Robinson, Joe Espinosa, and Tick Fields.
Chapter 4
The women looked at one another as they trooped into the Big House, where Charles was waiting for them. They chatted among themselves about how different it was here on Big Pine Mountain. In the beginning when they first formed the Sisterhood, meetings were held in the tunnels beneath Myra’s farmhouse in McLean, Virginia, because it was essential that the meetings be kept secret. Then, when they moved to the old monastery in Barcelona, the meetings were conducted in the same manner, in the catacombs beneath the monastery.
Here on Big Pine Mountain, the meeting they were about to attend was held in Charles’s computer room. The physical room looked different from the tunnels and the catacombs, but as usual, the equipment was so high-tech it would have been the envy of the CIA or the White House.
The windows afforded a clear view of the pine forest and the helicopter pad. The chairs were deep and comfortable, the plasma televisions huge, and the temperature on the cool side because of the special computers Charles worked on around the clock.
The women settled themselves in the chairs, their eyes on the bright red folders in Myra’s hands.
Time for business.
The women slid their chairs closer to the table as they steeled themselves for what was to come. The rule was, Myra handed out the folders, but they were never opened until Charles gave the signal. First came an update, then the monster TVs were turned on so that Lady Justice could oversee the meeting.
It was always a sobering moment when Lady Justice appeared because the women knew what they were doing was illegal. When the legal system failed those in need, when there was nowhere else to turn, the Sisterhood stepped in and served up their own brand of justice.
They were about to break the law. Again. This time for money. It was a first for them. They’d carried out nine missions with funding from Myra and Annie’s vast store of wealth. While they were accepting money to do this particular mission, they weren’t keeping it. Or as Kathryn had said, “We’re playing the role of modern-day Robin Hoodettes.”
It was Annie who’d said that simply taking the money meant they had crossed the line and become guns for hire. Then she went on to say, “And why not? We’re the best at what we do, and if we can rectify a wrong with our expertise, why not take payment? Then, by giving the money away it makes it a win-win situation for the Sisterhood.” Before she finally stepped off her soap-box, she’d said, “And screw anyone who doesn’t understand.”
The women offered up a standing ovation. Even Charles clapped his hands in approval.
The women now waited expectantly for Charles to end the call he’d just taken. They eyed the red folders now resting on the table in front of Myra. All of them noticed that they were thick folders.
Murphy and Grady got up and paced the room. The women frowned. The dogs were picking up on something. Possibly the tension in Charles’s shoulders. The dogs had been fine before Charles’s special phone buzzed to life.
As one they knew it was a glitch. A problem of some kind. And the mission hadn’t even started.
The moment Charles snapped the phone shut, the women sat up straighter. Myra picked up the folders. Nikki looked around, expecting a starter gun to pop announcing the beginning of a race. All she could think of was seeing Jack again. Within days. Just days. She closed her eyes, imagining how it would feel to be wrapped in Jack’s arms and to kiss him with all her pent-up hunger. She almost swooned at the thought.
“Ladies!”
Nikki and the others snapped to attention as Myra slid the folders across the table. Charles pressed the remote control in his hand. Front and center on the plasma screen was a life-size picture of Maxwell Zenowicz, the president of the World Bank. He was tall, with a swarthy complexion and an impressive comb-over. He wore sunglasses that were too small for his hawklike face. Whoever had taken the picture had captured him in midstride. He was nattily dressed, his shoes buffed to a high shine. The Halliburton briefcase held tightly in his hand. It looked like he was about to enter the World Bank.
The next picture appeared to be of Zenowicz exiting the building. The sun had moved off to the west, so it was later in the day but still daylight. He still looked just as nattily dressed, but he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He had small, hooded eyes.
The third picture was of Zenowicz entering the Fast Track watering hole.
Charles cleared his throat. “Mr. Zenowicz likes to socialize after work with the little people. Complete with his security force. He enjoys…uh…bellying up to the bar and buying rounds for all the lovely ladies who are gathered there. Prior to the opening of the Fast Track, Mr. Zenowicz walked several blocks to an establishment called the Capitol Grill. He orders a scotch on the rocks. Sips a little, never finishes his drink. He smokes but not in public.
“Mr.
