wanted me to bring Dennis along, thinking
that Dennis might be able to get close to Muller and get some information out
of him.”
“Doesn’t Muller know that Dennis works
for the Treasury?”
“He might know his name, but not his
face: they had never actually met. Dennis did all the prep work, but he was not
part of the deposition proceedings; that part was handled by the lawyers in the
Enforcement Division.”
“I see. So you chickened out and instead
of asking Dennis you asked Laskin?”
Janet nodded. “At least that’s better
than going alone. Besides, Laskin is sharp.”
“From what you told me, he sounds like
an ace.”
“Be nice.”
“Not if it’s going to stand in the way
of your happiness. In fact, I’ll be as mean as possible to get you off your
butt and into Dennis Walker’s arms.”
***
David Muller entered the swanky interior
of the Carlyle hotel on the Upper East Side. “How may I help you, sir?” The
head waiter hovered by David’s elbow.
“I’m meeting John Francis,” Muller gave
the alias that Cornelius Finnegan had told him to use.
The head waiter nodded. “Right this way,
sir.”
David followed the head waiter through
the dimly lit carpeted lobby into the restaurant. It was a little after six in
the evening, and the dining room was mostly empty. David prided himself on
patronizing New York’s most distinguished restaurants, but the Carlyle had
escaped his attention until now. In his mind the establishment was obsolete.
Only someone as socially unrefined as Cornelius Finnegan would choose a place
like this for a meeting. But then again, unrefined or not, Finnegan’s powerful
connections could not be underestimated.
“Here we are, sir.” The head waiter opened
the heavy curtains that hung across the entrance into the private dining room,
then quietly left.
David immediately saw Finnegan’s hefty
frame behind the round dining table, but the primary object of his attention
was the man seated next to Finnegan. The two made the most incongruous pair,
with Finnegan resembling a giant spud, and his companion being as willowy as a
reed.
“David, there you are!” Finnegan’s
brogue filled the room.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” David
replied in the crispest American diction he could master.
“David, I’d like you to meet my good
friend Kevan Magee. Kevan, this is David Muller, a very capable and smart young
man who also happens to be my daughter’s soon to be fiancé.”
David did his best not to wince at the
introduction. If things went according to plan, there was a good chance that
Finnegan would soon abandon his patronizing ways toward David. He brushed his
hand against his jacket pocket, thinking of the brilliant plan he had devised
to get rid of Finnegan and his homely daughter. Now, all he had to do was get
Kevan Magee to talk.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kevan,”
said David and offered his most open smile.
Kevan extended his bony hand. “Any
friend of Cornelius’s is a friend of mine,” he said in a voice that was as thin
as his physique.
“What do you say we eat first and talk
later? I’m starving.” Finnegan patted his ample stomach.
“Sounds good to me,” Kevan agreed.
“What will you be drinking, David?”
Finnegan asked.
David glanced at the glasses that stood
opposite Magee and Finnegan; he did not even have to guess what was in those
glasses: eighteen-year-old Macallan was the only drink that Finnegan favored. “I’ll
have a gin martini with a lemon twist,” replied David. He was not speaking out
of spite; it was simply that the smoky smell of Macallan gave him a headache.
Finnegan burrowed his nose in the menu,
licking his lips as he always did in anticipation of a meal.
David eyed the menu with indifference.
Food was the last thing on his mind: he was hungry for far more important
things. With the help of his lawyer, Tom Wyman, David had spent the past two
weeks setting up a network of companies through which he
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