Sir Jeff nodded. “In her condition, are you seriously considering bringing her to work? She may be too fragile.”
“I think I’ll need help that nobody knows about. I’ll make up my mind after I see her. Fragile, she ain’t. You know that.”
Lady Patricia released a stream of smoke. “Oh, poof. You can’t make that decision to keep her out of things, Kyle. If trouble begins, and you’re involved, she’ll want to be right there, and you know it.”
“Only time will tell,” he said, lowering his voice to mock a television reporter. “When this is done, I’ll send her packing over here for you to take on holiday. Out on the boat, maybe. Go shopping. Woman stuff.”
“There’s a leak in the CIA?” Sir Jeff interrupted. “Of course there is. So who benefits from this? There are a lot easier ways to take you off the board than by concocting some complex scheme involving the Central Intelligence Agency. You may be the link, Kyle, but it might be bigger than you.”
“Again, I don’t know enough yet.”
Sir Jeff had a frosty glass of lemonade. “What’s the one thing the CIA, or any intelligence service, truly fears?”
“Losing its secrecy. Inner workings coming to light. Outsiders getting a look at what it’s doing and planning,” Kyle replied. “They even warned me that someday this might come before a congressional hearing. None of us want that.”
“So there you go, my boy. Perhaps the question should be not who has the most to gain but who has the most to lose. And why? Isn’t that interesting?”
Kyle nodded. He had first met Sir Jeff and Lady Pat years ago when he was a Marine Corps sergeant and Jeff was a medically retired colonel in the British Special Air Services. Sir Jeff used his savings to start a weapons-development business, and the U.S. Marines lent him their best shooter to develop a world-class sniper rifle. They had warmed to each other right away, and created the Excalibur, the best of its kind in the world. After that first success, Excalibur Enterprises never looked back.
That seemed so long ago now. Sir Jeff had found that he was even better in the business world than he had been as a commando, and the company had grown and expanded until it became a major player in the weapons game. And he had brought Kyle along for the ride, persuading the Marines to allow him to borrow the young marine whenever his special experience was needed, which was often. That closeness eventually led to Kyle’s becoming the executive vice president of a huge enterprise, leaving the Marines, and becoming heir apparent to Sir Jeff, with an obscene salary and benefits program.
The flip side and hidden fuel behind the success was that the Pentagon and the British government, the CIA and MI6 were able to cloak many delicate operations behind a front that was willingly supplied by Excalibur. Somewhere along the way, the aging British couple formally adopted Kyle Swanson, who had grown up as an orphan in the States, to be the child they never had.
Like all families, they had disagreements, the major one being that Kyle wasn’t yet married. Lady Pat wanted grandchildren, and Sir Jeff wanted whatever she wanted. Coastie had once been a candidate, and, as Lady Pat often reminded Kyle, it was his own fault that she got away.
“Tell me more about this Gibson fellow?” Sir Jeff brought the conversation back to life. “Can you work with him?”
Kyle shrugged. “I have no real choice in that. He seems capable enough, and the Berlin incident proved that he has balls.”
“Watch your language, dear. The ducks are listening.” Lady Pat smiled. “You were lucky that Mr. Gibson was there.”
“No such thing as luck, my dear.” Sir Jeff finished off the lemonade, put his feet up on a garden bench, and closed his eyes. “Check him out thoroughly, Kyle. Your life may depend on it.”
The Prince was not a prince at all, in the traditional sense of the word. His father was a king in name only, and neither of them carried a drop of royal blood. Others had bestowed the title on him, and he kept it because he liked it.
He was alone in a booth at Joe’s Stone Crab in Washington, pondering the next move in protecting his drug kingdom, a vast enterprise that extended from the poppy fields of Afghanistan to the refineries in Mexico, and, finally, into the noses and veins of willing American customers. It was very profitable. It was also powerful, which was why he was at one of the favorite restaurants of the men and women who ran the nation’s capital. This place was a fund-raising heaven, allowing political figures to wheedle campaign donations while enjoying excellent food.
He spotted Congresswoman Veronica Keenan the instant she entered. Tall, dark-haired, and attractive, the freshman legislator was trolling for support and her aides had set her up with the moneyman waiting in a private booth. She hated begging, but it was the name of the game. It took a lot of cash to stay in office, to which she had only recently been appointed upon the death of her husband, who had held the seat for three terms. The campaigning never stopped; she had a lot of bills to pay, including thousands of dollars in dues to her political party.
A waiter escorted her to the table, and she followed with a confident walk. She extended a hand and a high-wattage smile. “Mr. Prince, a great pleasure to meet you.” She measured Harold Prince carefully. A mane of thick black hair was swept low across the forehead like a rock star from the eighties. The teeth sparkled. Glasses with tinted lenses kept his eyes in a bit of shadow. There was a small flesh-colored Band-Aid on his cheek that drew her eyes away from his other features. He was in his thirties and was totally unremarkable in any way. Wig, caps, dark glasses. Phony, she thought.
Prince welcomed her, and when a bottle of wine appeared at the table they each had a glass and the waiter poured and withdrew. He had seen this dance hundreds of times; members of Congress did not come to Joe’s just for the food.
They clinked glasses, and Veronica Keenan said in a low voice, “Let’s get the nasty part of this meeting out of the way, Mr. Prince, then we can have a nicer chat. I appreciate your generous donation to my campaign.”
The Prince had a delivery service take an envelope to her office that morning. In it were a check for $9,999 and the supporting paperwork to show where it came from. Donations below $10,000 didn’t draw close scrutiny. “Congresswoman, my firm admires your work and we are happy to support you.”
“The people of my district thank you, sir. As do my party and I. Every little bit helps.” Ten grand wasn’t big league enough to buy special favors. The congresswoman could probably find that much money in the cushions of her office sofa after an important lobbyist visited. She thought that Prince was smart enough to know that. It was enough to get a lunch.
The Prince smiled. “I know. I know. It isn’t much,” he said. “It is a gesture of goodwill and gives me this chance to have your ear for a moment. “It is information, not cash, that I bring to your table today.”
Veronica Keenan suddenly grew attentive. The handsome man had undergone a change of expression and his eyes had sharpened. Behind those shaded lenses, she couldn’t see their actual color. The waiter came back and took their orders, then left again, not wanting to witness whatever was about to be discussed.
“You want to be a crusader, Congresswoman, but you have not yet been able to grab an issue that will vault you into the limelight. That is the assessment of my friends, at least.”
“That is candid, rude, and wrong,” she sniffed, taking a sip of white wine. “My work is forcing the big pharmaceutical companies to make major concessions in the pricing of their drugs.”
The Prince laughed softly. “Sure. No matter what you do, those companies will not be hurt, because America is a nation of pillheads and cocaine freaks, and you, madam, have no real clout.”