STAG SAT ACROSS from Portier’s spectacular glass desk in an office that looked more like a futuristic hall of mirrors. From his seat, Portier stared at him. He returned the favor. Finally, once the secretary had shut the double doors behind her, Portier spoke.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Maguire?”
The hostility gave Stag pause. He’d found Portier to be like his pictures, an older gentleman, handsome, well dressed, the ultimate flashy watch on his wrist, the Hermès alligator briefcase next to him as if it held the launch codes for the US arsenal. According to the picture with Bill Gates, Portier rattled people more than people rattled him.
“I have some information,” Stag said, never taking his eyes from Portier. “About Mein Kampf.”
“How did you get it?” Portier was clearly a man who had his questions answered.
“My friend you murdered found it. I want to know what you’d be willing to pay.”
“Yes. I’ve expected you. We’ve read about your interest in settlements.”
A rage volcanoed up in Stag for a moment. But then with Herculean willpower, he tamped it down. “Unless you can bring Harry back, what else is there?”
Portier assessed him. “What suits a man like yourself? An island in the South Pacific? A town house in Mayfair? Nothing is out of reach, of course.”
“How about I want to be Prime Minister of the UK? Or perhaps I want the House of Saud to work for me for a change?”
Caution seeped into Portier’s cold stare. “Those things would surely take time, but, certainly, they are not impossible.”
“I can give you what you want.”
The words hung between them.
Portier nodded. “Can you prove this?”
“Yes.” Stag stared full bore. He took the sheet of silk out from his pocket and flashed it at Portier, not long enough for him to see anything but the fact that there was a lot of writing on it. “Just call me a close acquaintance of Heydrich’s.”
The hatred on Portier’s face sparked, but it was quickly replaced by the facade of reason. He was, after all, the consummate businessman.
“I see,” he said.
“I plan on doing a trade. A lucrative trade. With you,” Stag said. “However, I insist you treat me fairly. This”—he gestured to the silk stuffed in his pocket—“has been copied and is with various persons. I think this is what they call the Dead Man Switch. Should anything happen to me, it will trigger several emails to Interpol that will reveal the rest of our complicated relationship, along with your connection to 12A and the need to autopsy Harry for traces of Micotil.”
Portier nodded slowly. “We are open to negotiation. What are your terms?”
“I want to meet with the full board of Tarnhelm. The negotiations will be with them and you, not you alone.”
The older man was clearly not used to meeting demands. It obviously galled him. “That, of course, can be arranged, but perhaps it would be more efficient to deal with me. Here and now.”
“It’s an unnecessary precaution. I can do anything you might need.”
“I want the entire board.”
Portier seemed to mull this in his head. “You really don’t need—”
“And I want full third-party participation in my safety, or there will be no meeting.”
“If you’d like the board to meet with you, that can be arranged.”
“I’m the ‘little guy’,” Stag said. “I want it my way.”
“Of course. When would you like to schedule this meeting?” Portier made no attempt to hide his impatience. He clearly didn’t like anything Stag was saying.
“Wait for my phone call. I’ll set the terms.”
Portier’s mouth turned down. His stare remained unbroken. “We will meet your terms, Mr. Maguire. Simply let me know when you can return and meet the board.”
“The board will meet with me, not the other way around.”
Grudgingly, Portier said, “However you like.”
“I’ll arrange the flight.”
“Flight?”
Stag nodded. “Yes. You and the board will meet using my choice of security force, not yours.”
“You hardly look like a man who has his own security force.”
“Oh, but I do. We’re going to have a board meeting aboard a commercial Airbus A380. My security system will be TSA approved.”
“What?”
“Singapore Airlines, first class, from Frankfurt to Singapore. That’s the kind it will be. A secure one. And that is not negotiable. Our next meeting will take place aboard the commercial flight of my choosing with you and the rest of the board in tow, or it will not take place at all. And if it does not take place, then you can watch this beautiful little dream”—Stag gestured around the enormous office with the Picassos on the wall and the Modigliani sculptures on pedestals—“become nothing but a forlorn memory of days past.”
Portier finally boomed out in anger. “Who are you to dictate these absurd terms to me?”
Stag stood and began his stilted journey to the double doors, his back to Portier’s shouting. Then he paused but he did not turn around. “To rich and privileged people like you, I’m your worst nightmare. I am an unreasonable man.”
Portier stared knives into Stag’s back until he disappeared through the glossy double doors.
Alone in his office, Portier knew he should take a moment of reflection and ponder his options. But when he looked down at his newly arrived blood tests, now neatly stacked on his desk, the rage was impossible to bite back.
He was not going to have terms dictated to him by some cripple from Wisconsin. And Tarnhelm was not the corporation it was, to take orders from a snickering little journalist.
No, this was not going to happen.
Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.
And he was the fucking Lord—of Tarnhelm, of the entire world.
It didn’t matter how many blood tests they took. He was still here, and he would be till his last breath.
He reveled in the lowbrow, peasant satisfaction of being able to annihilate his enemies, the ones who mocked him, underestimated him, weighed upon him. But as much as Stag Maguire affronted him, Portier knew it was prudent to get as much information as he could before Maguire was snuffed. He hadn’t become head of Tarnhelm by being a hothead, or by behaving like a renegade. He was known for his patience, his astuteness. It was the bedrock upon which Tarnhelm had thrived.
No, it would not do to pick up the phone and order Maguire to be crushed. There was the Dead Man Switch to think of. And the information they still needed. Besides, if Luc Portier was honest with himself, as the white count on his blood tests insisted he be, the man he most wanted gone was Sadler. The American blueblood. His Washington connections went so far back that his family farm had made up the land for Congressional Country Club. It didn’t pass Portier’s notice that Sadler seemed mighty relieved his home was in America. Away from whatever beast Heydrich still could unleash on Europe.
His anger intensified. Sadler was always snickering behind his back. The man’s amusement at his prostate problems was legend. Payback from years of competition was still not settled, though Portier had been at the top of Tarnhelm for years.
Oh, but the sweet foolish notion of getting rid of all of them was delicious. Until then he would need to wring out the very last drop of his patience.