101
Ring.
Carl Barnaby glanced from his computer screen to the phone.
Ring.
His European counterpart was calling.
Surely the man was looking at the same live Alcatraz broadcast as Barnaby. A very-much-alive Senator Gina Hayes was being helicoptered away, along with the body of an unidentified woman who had taken a bullet for the senator. There was one confirmed casualty, the shooter, initial reports suggesting he was taken down by an FBI agent. Another woman was in custody inside the catering tent, her role in the shooting unclear.
Indeed.
A world-class shit show from all angles.
Ring.
Barnaby silenced the incoming call and pressed the intercom button. “Abhay?”
The background noise on the other end nearly overpowered Abhay’s voice—men yelling, computer keys clacking, paper shredding. “We are watching it too, sir.”
“Initiate Pink Washing. Now.”
He stood up from his $200,000 custom-made Parnian desk and strolled to pour three fingers of A.H. Hirsch Reserve bourbon into a Baccarat tumbler. He dropped in a single ice cube. The Hermitage Foundation’s files were all backed up, of course. The chances of the FBI obtaining a warrant were slim to none. If they beat those odds, they’d discover nothing on the headquarter computers, no trace of wrongdoing, if they even discovered the comm center two floors below.
The Hermitage would lose nothing but time.
Barnaby could live with that. He was playing the long game, his brain already working angles to get at Senator Hayes, who would almost certainly be President Hayes this time tomorrow. The Hermitage may lose millions in the interim. People might look at what Hayes accomplished and get ideas of their own. Barnaby had already seen a shift during her campaign, women pushing back against restrictions they’d always accepted as fact.
Yet, the Hermitage would survive.
They had for two millennia, in one form another.
Barnaby rattled the ice in his glass and chuckled. Survive? Hell, they’d thrive. Making silk purses from sows’ ears was Barnaby’s specialty.
It was how he’d made his fortune.
He inhaled the rich caramel of the liquor and took a swallow, letting the golden heat slide down his throat. Reaching for a remote, he clicked on music. Classical. Stravinsky. He closed his eyes and swayed, picturing his grandson. Tomorrow, he’d take the boy to the park.
An irritating reflection pulled him out of his reverie. Red and blue lights flashed outside his expansive window overlooking Central Park. It was a rare but not unheard of sight in this tony neighborhood. When they passed, they always passed quickly.
Not this time.
In fact, they were accumulating, their sirens screaming.
The pounding on the door came next.
A greasy unease settled in Barnaby’s stomach.
He set down his glass.
When his butler ran into his office moments later, the sweat had begun to pool along Barnaby’s low back, accumulating on a ridge of fat disguised by his well-tailored suits.
Yet his face remained smooth. Silk purses from sows’ ears.
“Mr. Barnaby … ”
The butler didn’t have time to finish his sentence. The lead FBI agent, at least that’s who Barnaby assumed she was, pushed past him, three of New York’s finest at her heels.
“We have a warrant to search the premises, Mr. Barnaby.”
“May I ask what you’re looking for?” His voice was cool.
She strode forward and flashed the paperwork. “A cell where you held a kidnapped and tortured woman, and approximately $60 million worth of pre–Civil War gold and jewels, if you can believe it.”
Was she smirking?
She tucked the warrant back inside her coat, the movement exposing her gun for the smallest moment. “You won’t mind that we brought a specialist to run your elevator or a forensics team to sweep the cell, will you? Our victim gave us very clear instructions on where to look and what we should expect to find.”
Barnaby’s sweat pool gave way.
Liquid coursed between his cheeks and down his legs.