us and I don’t like people fucking with me. Do you?”
“He’s got a damned good reason to, don’t you think?”
Richmond picked up a pen from his desk and twirled it between his
fingers. “If Sullivan talks we lose everything. Everything.” The
President snapped his fingers. “Gone. Just like that. And I will do
everything possible to avoid it happening.”
Burton dropped into his chair, his belly suddenly on fire.
“How do you know he hasn’t already?”
“Because I know Walter,” the President said simply.
“He’ll do it in his own way. And it will be spectacular. But deliberate.
He is not a man who rushes into anything. But when he does act, the
results will be swift and crushing.”
“Great.” Burton put his head in his hands, his mind whirling faster than
he thought possible. Years of training had instilled in him an almost
innate ability to process information instantly, think on his feet, act
a fraction of a second before anyone else could. Now his brain was a
muddle, like day-old coffee, thick and soupy; nothing was clear. He
looked up.
“But killing the guy?”
“I can guarantee you that Walter Sullivan is right this minute plotting
how best to destroy us. That type of action does not invoke sympathy
from me.”
The President leaned back in his chair. “Plainly and simply this man has
decided to fight us. And one has to live with the consequences of one’s
decisions. Walter Sullivan knows that better than anyone alive.” The
President’s eyes again lasered in on Burton’s. “The question is, are we
prepared to fight back?”
COLLIN AND BURTON HAD SPENT THE LAST THREE DAYS FOLlowing Walter
Sullivan. When the car had dropped him off in the middle of nowhere,
Burton both couldn’t believe his luck and experienced deep sadness for
his target, now, truly, a sitting duck.
Husband and wife wiped out. As the car sped back to the Capital City,
Burton unconsciously rubbed at his hand, trying to whittle away the
filth he felt in every crevice. What turned his skin cold was the
realization that he could never wipe away the feelings he was having,
the reality of what he had done. The rock-bottom emotional barometer
would be with him every minute of every day of the rest of his days.
He had traded his life for another. Again. His backbone, for so long a
steel beam, had wilted to pitiful rubber. Life had given him the supreme
challenge and he had failed.
He dug his fingers into the armrest and stared out the window into the
darkness.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
THE APPARENT SUICIDE OF WALTER SULLIVAN ROCKED NOT only the financial
community. The funeral was attended by the high and mighty from all over
the world. In an appropriately solemn and lavish ceremony at
Washington’s St.
Matthew’s Cathedral, the man was eulogized by a half-dozen dignitaries.
The most famous had gone on for a full twenty minutes about the great
human being Walter Sullivan had been, and also about the great stress he
had been under and how those under such strain sometimes do things they
would otherwise never contemplate. When Alan Richmond had finished
speaking, there was – not a dry cheek in the place, and the tears that
dampened his own face were seemingly genuine. He had always been
impressed with his superb oratorical skills.
The long funeral procession streamed out, and, over three and one half
hours later, ended at the tiny house where Walter Sullivan had begun,
and ended, his life. As the limos scrambled for space on the narrow,
snow-covered road, Walter Sullivan was carried down and interred next to
his parents, on the little knoll where the view down the valley was by
far the richest part of the place.
As the dirt covered the coffin, and the friends of Walter Sullivan made
their way back to the realm of the living, Seth Frank studied every
face. He watched as the President made his way back to his limo. Bill
Burton saw him, registered surprise for an instant, and then nodded.
Frank nodded back.
When all the mourners had gone, Frank turned his attention to the little
house. The yellow police lines were still around the perimeter and two