killer, he would be doing no more global deals. Richmond’s support would
be discreetly withdrawn.
Everyone who counted would understand that silent retreat.
“Alan, you want to set Sullivan up for a murder?” These were the first
words Russell had spoken. Her face betrayed her complete astonishment.
He looked at her, with unconcealed contempt in his eyes.
“Alan, think about what you’re saying. This is Walter Sullivan, this is
not some two-bit crook no one gives a damn about.”
Richmond smiled. Her stupidity amused him. She had seemed so bright, so
incredibly capable when he first brought her on board. He had been
wrong.
The President did some rough calculations. At best Sullivan had perhaps
a twenty percent chance of going down for the killing. Given similar
circumstances, Richmond would take those odds. Sullivan was a big boy,
he could take care of himself And if he faltered? Well, that was why
they had prisons. He looked at Burton.
“Burton, do you understand?”
Burton didn’t answer.
The President said sharply, “You were certainly prepared to kill the man
before, Burton. As far as I can determine, the stakes haven’t changed.
In fact they’re probably higher. For all of us. Do you understand
Burton?” Richmond paused for a moment, then repeated his question.
Burton finally looked up and said quietly, “I understand.”
For the next two hours they laid their plans.
As the two Secret Service agents and Russell rose to leave, the
President looked at her. “So tell me, Gloria, what happened to the
money?”
Russell looked straight at him. “It was donated, anonymously, to the
American Red Cross. I understand it was one of their biggest single
contributions ever.”
The door closed and the President had smiled. Nice parting shot. Enjoy
it, Luther Whitney. Enjoy it while you can, you insignificant little
nothing.
CHAPTERTWENTY-THREE
WALTER SULLIVAN sgi-rLED INTO HIS CHAIR WITH A BOOK but never opened it.
His mind wandered back. Back to events that seemed more ethereal, more
wholly unconnected to his person than anything else that had ever
happened in his life.
He had hired a man to kill. To kill someone who stood accused of
murdering his wife. The job had been botched. A fact for which Sullivan
was quietly thankful. For his grief had subsided enough to where he knew
what he had attempted to do was wrong. A civilized society must follow
certain procedures unless it were to become uncivilized. And no matter
how painful it would be to him, he was a civilized man. He would follow
the rules.
It was then that he looked down at the newspaper. Many days old now, its
contents continued to beat incessantly into his head. The thick, dark
headlines shone back at him on the white background of the page. As he
turned his attention to it, distant suspicions in his mind were starting
to crystallize.
Walter Sullivan was not only a billionaire, he possessed a brilliant and
perceptive mind. One that saw every detail along with every landscape.
Luther Whitney was dead. The police had no suspects.
Sullivan had checked the obvious solution. McCarty had been in Hong Kong
on the day in question. Sullivan’s last directive to the man had indeed
been heeded. Walter Sullivan had called off his hunt. But someone else
had taken up the chase in his place.
And Walter Sullivan was the only person who knew that for a fact other
than his bungling assassin.
Sullivan looked at his old timepiece. It was barely seven in the morning
and he had been up for four hours already. The twenty-four hours in a
day meant little to him anymore. The older he grew, the less important
became the parameters of time. Four o’clock in the morning could find
him wide awake on a plane over the Pacific while two in the afternoon
might be the halfway point in his sleep for the day.
There were many facts that he was sifting through, and his mind worked
rapidly. A CAT scan done at his last physical evidenced a brain with the
youth and vigor of a twenty-year-old. And that splendid mind was now
working toward the few undeniable facts that were leading its owner to a