slowly went down to her desk and stayed there. She began to quietly sob.
Jack looked around again. Was Barry dead? Had there been a terrible
accident and no one had bothered to tell him?
Was the firm that big, that callous? Would he read about it in a firm
memo? He looked at his hands. They were trembling.
He perched on the edge of the desk, gently touched Sheila’s shoulder,
trying to bring her out of it, but without success. Jack looked around
helplessly as the sobs continued, rising higher and higher in their
intensity. Finally, two secretaries from around the corner appeared and
quietly led Sheila away. Each of them gave Jack a not very friendly
glance.
What the hell had he done? He looked at his watch. He had to meet Lord
in ten minutes. Suddenly he was very much looking forward to this lunch.
Lord knew everything that happened at the firm, usually before it
actually did happen.
Then a thought tickled the back of his head, a truly horrible thought.
His mind went back to the White House dinner and his irate fiance. He
had mentioned Barry Alvis by name to her. But she wouldn’t have … ?
Jack practically sprinted down the hallway, the back of his jacket
flapping behind him.
FILLMORE’S WAS A WASHINGTON LANDMARK OF FAIRLY RECENT vintage. The doors
were solid mahogany and bedecked with thick, weighty brass; the carpets
and drapes were handwoven and supremely costly. Each table area was a
self-contained haven of intense mealtime productivity. Phone, fax and
copier services were readily available and widely used. The ornately
carved tables were surrounded by richly upholstered chairs in which sat
the truly elite of Washington’s business and political circles. The
prices ensured that the clientele would remain that way.
While crowded, the pace of the restaurant was unhurried; its occupants
unused to being dictated to, they moved at their own level of intensity.
Sometimes their very presence at a particular table, a raised eyebrow, a
stifled cough, a knowing look, was a full day’s work for them, and would
reap huge rewards for them personally or for those whom they
represented. Money and raw power floated through the room in distinct
patterns, coupling and uncoupling.
Waiters in stiff shirts and neat bow ties appeared and then disappeared
at discreetly placed intervals. Patrons were coddled and served and
listened to or left alone as the particular occasion called for. And the
gratuities reflected the clientele’s appreciation.
Fillmore’s was Sandy Lord’s favorite lunch spot. He peered over his
menu, briefly, but methodically surveyed with his intense, gray eyes the
broad expanse of the dining room for potential business or perhaps
something else. He moved his heavy bulk gracefully in his chair and
carefully coaxed a few gray hairs back into place. The trouble was,
familiar faces kept disappearing as time moved forward, stolen away by
death or retirement to points south. He removed a fleck of dust from one
of his monogrammed shirt cuffs and sighed. Lord had picked this
establishment, maybe this town, clean.
He punched on his cellular phone and checked his messages. Walter
Sullivan hadn’t called. If Sullivan’s deal came through, Lord could land
a former Eastern Bloc country as a client.
A whole goddamned country! How much could you charge a country for
legal work? Normally a lot. The problem was the ex-communists had no
money, unless you counted rubles and coupons and kopecks and whatever
else they were using these days, all of which might as well be used for
toilet paper.
That reality did not trouble Lord. What the ex-commies had in abundance
was raw materials that Sullivan was salivating to acquire. That was the
reason Lord had spent three godforsaken months there. , But it would be
worth it if Sullivan came through.
Lord had learned to have his doubts about everyone. But if anyone could
pull this deal off, Walter Sullivan could.
Everything he had touched seemed to multiply to global proportions, and
the droppings that went to his cohorts were truly awe-inspiring. And at
almost eighty, the old man hadn’t slowed a step. He worked fifteen-hour
days, was married to a twenty-something babe right out of a drive-in