A chorus of negative replies circled the table before the men returned to their previous conversations. Listening to the discussion of thoroughbred racing, or the current crop of award-winning roses, one would never guess that the collective assets of the eight men in the room rivaled the combined resources of the United States, Great Britain, and most of Europe—or that the council controlled virtually every financial institution in existence, along with the bulk of the energy, pharmaceutical, and agricultural corporations.
He removed a bucket of ice from the minifreezer and grabbed a pair of tongs.
“Gentlemen, the bar is open.”
He mixed the requested drinks, passed them out, then dropped a couple of ice cubes into a crystal tumbler, filled it with water, and carried it to the head of the table.
He was a big believer in a clear head, untouched by alcohol, when conducting business. However, it never hurt to mellow one’s competition.
While the men chatting around his table weren’t exactly adversaries, they weren’t exactly friends either. They were simply men—dangerous ones—who shared a particular agenda, bought and sold lives with regularity, and wielded the kind of power that could gut the most prosperous countries and wrench them to their knees.
He couldn’t afford to trust any of them.
“You’ve gone soft, Manheim,” David Coulson announced in his habitually harsh tone that turned even a joke into a clipped accusation. He held his Waterford tumbler up to the light and glared at the amethyst ring circling the top half of the glass as though it personally affronted him. “You’ve turned sissy on us.”
Eric smiled benignly, not bothering to dig deeper into the comment for a hidden indictment. Knowing Coulson, there was bound to be one. “A gift from Esme. She appreciates a more contemporary touch.”
“Esme isn’t joining us?” Samuel Proctor asked. At the shake of Eric’s head, he reached beneath his jacket and liberated a thick cylinder of tightly rolled tobacco.
While the council was sensitive to Esme’s distaste for cigars, the instant she failed to show for a meeting, the stogies came out. Eric accepted the Gurkha Black that Proctor handed him and lifted it to his nose, breathing in the musty fermented aroma with pure appreciation. Gurkhas were one of the rarest and most expensive cigars available, and worth every pound paid for them. There were few things he missed since marrying Esme, but Gurkhas were one of them. Reluctantly he passed the cigar to James Link, on his right.
“Right on then, Manheim. What of those SEAL chaps and Dr. Ansell? Where do we stand there?” Giovanni asked, his English as clipped and perfect as the royal family, even though his native language was Italian.
It spoke to their concern that the first topic to hit the table revolved around the mess Mackenzie and his men had stirred up.
“No sign of them, but their faces are on every television and newspaper in the country. Someone is bound to recognize them and turn them in for the reward,” Eric said. He took a sip of ice water and shrugged. “We wait and move when we’re sure the intel is solid.”
From the frowns circling the table, his associates were no happier with that plan of action than he was. But then, he had no intention of waiting for random recognition to pin those bastards down.
“Mackenzie and his boys obviously have help,” Link said, staring into the amber depths of his crystal tumbler as his long fingers slowly rotated the glass. “What of the property in the Nevadas? Did you track down an owner?”
“The owner died in 1972,” Eric said. “No next of kin. No other property listed under his name.”
A moment of tense silence touched the table as the council digested that news.
“An alias?” Proctor asked, fishing a platinum cigar guillotine out of his breast pocket and clipping the tip off the Gurkha. “Mackenzie, or one of his boys? Maybe the Winchester gal?”
“Maybe,” Eric said after a lengthy pause. But his gut was telling him no. There was a third party involved. A well-heeled third party. “The best chance we have of locating our adversaries is through Amy Chastain—John Chastain’s widow. All evidence points to close ties between Amy and her family. At some point she’ll seek out her children. When she does, she’ll lead us back to Mackenzie.”
“You’re assuming she’s with those chaps.” Proctor lifted a gold cigarette lighter and let the flame sear the end of the stogie. After a few seconds he lifted the tapered end to his mouth and drew deeply.
“She was on the lab footage,” Eric said, dragging the thick, musty scent of perfectly cured tobacco into his lungs. “She hasn’t been accounted for since. She’s with them.”
“You’ve tagged her boys?” Coulson’s harsh voice sounded more like an accusation than a question.
“Her kids have been injected, and the data stream is live,” Eric said after a quick glance at James Link for confirmation. The tracking technology was Link’s baby. “Thanks to Agent Clay Purcell, the woman’s brother.” Or stepbrother, as Purcell insisted.