The Chairman - A Novel Part 15

"How old is she?"

"Twenty-six."

The same age as Faith. He'd thought she was younger. "How long is she visiting?"

"We're trying to get her into the local community college. If we do, she'll stay with us until she has a chance to get on her feet and get a place of her own. I don't want her going back to Puerto Rico. There's nothing for her there."

Gillette heard a car pull up outside. Jose. "Would she go out with me if I asked?"

Selma laughed. "I don't know. Ask her and find out."

Gillette spotted Isabelle as soon as he and Jose emerged from the small study off the living room. She was sitting at the kitchen table, reading. "Thank you, Senor Senor Medilla," he said, shaking Jose's hand. Medilla," he said, shaking Jose's hand.

"Sure." Jose's voice was low.

Gillette could tell that what they'd discussed was still sinking in.

"I always told you I'd do anything you asked," Jose spoke up. "And I meant it. I'll talk to Alex when he gets home."

"Good." Gillette spotted Selma coming down the stairs. "I hope Alex and his wife had a nice time shopping tonight," he said. "The bills for their credit cards will come directly to me. The same way it works for you and Selma."

Jose shook Gillette's hand warmly. "Thank you, Christian. I don't know what to say. Your kindness is very great."

"Don't say anything. It all evens out in the end."

"I guess you're right," Jose agreed quietly. "Would you like something to eat?"

Gillette smiled. They were always trying to feed him. "No thanks."

"Honey, I need you upstairs for a few minutes," Selma said, moving beside her husband.

"Why?"

"There's a lightbulb out in the bedroom."

"I'll take care of it later. I want to talk to Isabelle about something."

"You'll take care of it now, now," Selma ordered, taking Jose's arm and tugging him toward the stairs. "Bye, Christian," she called.

Gillette hesitated as Jose and Selma climbed the steps. He could hear Jose grumbling, then there was silence.

He took a deep breath. He could deliver Bill Donovan's eulogy to a congregation packed full of Manhattan luminaries and hold them spellbound. Fire the CEO of a $3 billion company and barely feel his heart rate change. Take a pop star to dinner and charm her. But suddenly, standing in this middle-cla.s.s home in central New Jersey, his palms were clammy.

"What are you reading?" he asked, moving into the kitchen and sitting down across from Isabelle. She had the book in her lap.

"Gone with the Wind." She held the book up so he could see the cover. She held the book up so he could see the cover.

"Wow. That's a big project." He couldn't think of anything else to say. "You know, you have very pretty eyes."

"Gracias. I mean . . . thank you." I mean . . . thank you."

He gazed at her. Her whole face lit up when she smiled. "So, what do you do for fun around here?" He chuckled to himself. A silly thing to ask, but he was a little on edge. His natural ability to make conversation was jammed by her incredible beauty. Something he wasn't accustomed to.

"Not much," she answered, putting the book down.

She still hadn't looked directly into his eyes, he realized. "Want some dinner?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry but I can fix you for something."

He laughed. "No, you don't understand." Her eyes raced to his for the first time, and he saw a flash of anger, as if she thought he was making fun of her grammar. "I mean, I didn't explain myself very well."

"Oh," she said softly, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had condensed. "What did did you mean?" you mean?"

"I'd like to take you out out for dinner." for dinner."

Her gaze fell to her lap again.

"Don't get so excited. All that jumping up and down might be tough on your heart."

"Sorry."

"I'm kidding. I was just hoping for a different reaction."

"I don't think it would be a good idea to go out for us," she said quietly.

"Not even for a quick bite?" he asked, holding back a smile at the way she had mixed her words a second time.

"No," she answered, standing up, "but thank you. I'll tell Jose you're leaving," she said, heading quickly out of the kitchen.

"Isabelle," he called after her, rising from his chair.

But she was gone.

Gillette scrolled through his e-mails as he waited at the stoplight. The New Jersey Turnpike, on the other side of the small village of Hightstown, was only a couple miles away. Ahead of him, Route 1 lay across the road he was on. He'd be back in Manhattan in an hour.

He looked up, through the darkness. The light was still red. He shook his head. Isabelle had turned him down flat. That hadn't happened in a long time.

"Oh, well," he sighed, glancing back down at the now darkened Blackberry screen. "Never up, never in."

He pressed a b.u.t.ton on the tiny keyboard, illuminating the screen. In the eerie blue florescent light he saw that one new message had just arrived. He didn't recognize the sender's address, but the subject line blared "READ ME NOW." Most likely an add for a dating service or a travel agency. The spam was constant, but there was nothing else to do while he waited, so he pulled the full text up on the screen.

His eyes narrowed as he scanned the words: Don't stop for anything anything until you're back in the city. They may try again tonight. until you're back in the city. They may try again tonight.

Gillette glanced at the sender's address again.

A moment later there was a tap on the b.u.mper and the Taurus lurched forward. Gillette's eyes flashed to the rearview mirror. The car behind his had hit him. Not hard, but enough to get his attention. He opened the door and rose quickly from behind the wheel. The woman who'd hit him was getting out of her car, too.

He glanced around the intersection. There were three cars in front of him waiting at the red light. Lots of cars flashed by in both directions out on Route 1. A strip mall to his left with a bakery, a liquor store, and a dry cleaner. Several people inside. Visible through the gla.s.s.

"I'm so sorry," the woman called, trotting toward him. She seemed sincerely upset. "Are you all right?"

Gillette checked the pa.s.senger seat of her car. Empty. He glanced back at her as she moved toward him. Middle-aged, wearing a nice dress and tennis shoes. Probably on the way home from work. Walking in the oncoming lane, he noticed. On the other side of the double yellow line. She seemed to be watching something as she came toward him. Something over his shoulder.

He sprinted forward two steps and dove over the Taurus's trunk just as the sound of gunshots crackled in his ears. He tumbled to the asphalt on the other side of the car, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward a gas station fifty yards away. Zigzagging as he ran.

Two more shots. Like firecrackers on the Fourth of July.

A setup.

Without the e-mail, he'd be dead.

A bullet slammed into a telephone pole as he raced past it, and he glanced over his shoulder. A guy with a pistol was chasing him. The woman was still standing by the Taurus.

Gillette headed toward the gas station, but the attendant inside had seen what was happening and rushed out from behind the counter to bolt the door. Another bullet zipped by and slammed into the large window in the front of the building, shattering it. Gillette ran past the station and around back.

There was a wide, empty parking lot behind the station. With a full moon hanging in the sky like a beacon, the guy would have a clear shot at him. So Gillette stopped as he turned the corner of the building and backed up to the cement wall, sucking in air. Then he noticed the restrooms a few feet away and darted for them. The first door was locked, but the second was open and he hurried inside, leaving it slightly ajar. Climbing up on the toilet beside the door and holding his breath.

Gillette could hear the man outside, breathing hard. The guy would have to do something fast. No doubt the attendant inside the station had already called the cops-unless he'd been shot.

The man reached inside for the light switch and flicked it up and down, but the bulb was burned out. Gillette could hear the switch clicking.

Suddenly the man burst into the pitch-black restroom, shooting blindly, bullets screaming and echoing around the small, enclosed s.p.a.ce.

Gillette grabbed the beam above him with both hands and kicked, slamming one of his hard-soled shoes into the side of the man's head. The gun flew from the man's hand and clattered against the far wall as he crumpled to the floor. But he was up again instantly, racing away.

Gillette dropped down, searching for the gun in the gloom, finally spotting it under the sink. He bent down, grabbed it, and headed out the door. As he came around the side of the building, the a.s.sailant and the woman were jumping into the car ahead of the Taurus. Too late. No chance to get them.

He bent over and grabbed his knees, sucking in air. He needed to hire an outside security firm as soon as possible.

10.

Economic Incentive. If you believe that those around you are ultimately driven by what's in their best economic interest, you have only one choice if you want their best: pay them well. More than they could earn anywhere else. If you believe that those around you are ultimately driven by what's in their best economic interest, you have only one choice if you want their best: pay them well. More than they could earn anywhere else.

It's called capitalism.

It's also called common sense.

"CHRISTIAN."

Gillette glanced up from the computer screen at his a.s.sistant, Debbie Long. She was standing in his office doorway, leaning on the k.n.o.b, a pen and notepad in hand.

Debbie was young and cute-twenty-eight, with short brown hair and a trim figure. She was also a lesbian. Tom McGuire had confirmed that before Gillette hired her. So there was no s.e.xual tension between them, which was exactly how Gillette wanted it. A perfect business relationship. No chance of her developing some silly crush on him, or of him getting any stupid ideas of his own.

Debbie was very good at her job, too. Efficient, loyal, and willing to put in the time. She often worked fifty to sixty hours a week-and never complained. She had the most positive att.i.tude of anyone he'd ever met. She never seemed to have a bad day. If she did, she didn't show it. In short, she was perfect.

So Gillette paid her well: a hundred thousand dollars in salary and last year a fifty-thousand-dollar bonus. Which, even in New York, was good money for an executive a.s.sistant who didn't occasionally use the boss's toothbrush in the morning. He'd probably pay her a seventy-five-thousand-dollar bonus this January so she'd understand that the deal would keep getting better-as long as she kept performing. He might even give her a small portion of the ups. Which Cohen and Faraday would scream about, but he didn't care. This was his show now.

"What's up?" he asked gruffly.

"And a very very good morning to you, too." good morning to you, too."

He was still distracted by the incident in New Jersey last night, but he intended to do something about it this morning. "Debbie, I-"

"Come on, Chris," she interrupted. "Perk up."

Gillette's eyes moved deliberately to hers. "Someday we'll go to dinner and talk about how you stay so sickeningly positive." They'd never been together outside the office. Part of their unspoken pact to keep everything business.

"No, we won't," Debbie replied flatly.

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't be able to handle what I'd tell you."

"I can handle any-"

"Your ten o'clock is here," she cut in.

Gillette shook his head and smiled. Glad she wasn't going to let their relationship go any further. "Fine. Show him in."

Debbie moved to one side and waved the visitor on.

A moment later a well-built African-American man moved past her. He was dressed in black-jacket, turtleneck, slacks, and shoes. Cut and sleek looking, he had a cool, confident air about him. As if nothing in his world moved faster than he wanted it to.

Gillette gestured toward a corner of the office and several comfortable high-backed chairs arranged around a coffee table. "We'll meet over there." He looked back at Debbie. "Keep everyone away from here until I'm finished. No exceptions."

She nodded, her expression turning serious when she heard Gillette's tone change. "Right."

Gillette waited until Debbie had closed the door, then moved to where the man stood. As they shook hands, Gillette felt immense physical strength in his grip. "I'm Christian Gillette."

"Quentin Stiles."

"Have a seat." Gillette pointed to one of the chairs. "Would you like something to drink?"

''No.''

"I appreciate Jeremy Cole putting us in touch," Gillette said when they were both seated. Cole had called late last night to tell Gillette he'd found someone with an excellent reputation. "Thanks for coming to see me on such short notice."

"No problem. My company is based in Manhattan."

Gillette picked up a bottled water from the table. "What's your background, Quentin?"

"Five years with the Army Rangers, then three with the Secret Service. The last five I've been on my own in the private sector."