Endangered Species: PART 1 (11 page)

“
We have a mutual contact
in the
An Garda
Síochána
.”

Christie felt a chill run
through him, and the pain in his stomach ramped up several degrees.
He fumbled one-handedly to open the top right-hand drawer of his
desk. There had to be a pack of Rolaids in there. He didn’t know
what to say. How could Maksym know about his connection with
INTERPOL Washington and the link with the informant in
An Garda Síochána
? Was
Maksym trying to blackmail him again into doing something criminal,
maybe treasonous? He found the Rolaids, squeezed three of them from
the pack and tossed them into his mouth.

“
You are surprised that I
know this, yes? Not to worry, Special Agent, I am assuming you are
still interested in catching this man, Whelan. And I will not share
the information I’m about to give you with anyone.”

Struggling to find something to say, yet
reveal nothing, Christie said, “I’m no longer directly assigned to
that particular investigation, but I’m happy to pass along relevant
information. It’s part of my job.”

“
Yes, of course it is.” Was
that sarcasm in Maksym’s voice? “I am aware of your new status with
your employer,” Maksym continued. “Yet, I am certain you would like
to see justice done, given all the effort you put into this matter,
not to mention your own personal suffering.”

Yes, Christie thought, the man definitely
was mocking him. “So what exactly do you expect to get in exchange
for this information?”

“
Nothing,” Maksym said. “I
simply am a man doing his civic duty in helping a criminal be
brought to justice. That and the satisfaction of knowing that a
hard working civil servant will finally get the credit that is due
him.”

Christie was silent for several moments.
Maksym’s patronizing attitude infuriated him. Finally, he said,
“What’s this information you want to share with me.”

“
I am going to tell you
exactly where Brendan Whelan is.”

Chapter 9—Naples,
Florida

Naples, Florida, or, as
the local Chamber of Commerce preferred, Naples On The Gulf,
drifted past the darkened windows of the limousine.
The town had long banned billboards, and the
poorer areas were carefully screened from sight.
Local business and tourism interests liked to
tout the town as the wealthiest in Florida, but that wasn’t quite
true. The entire county, Collier, sometimes topped the list for
highest per capita income in Florida, higher than Palm Beach or
Sarasota Counties.

In terms of net worth,
Forbes Magazine ranked the town at 20
^th
, pegging the net worth of its wealthier class of citizens at
$16,000,000. But that put it behind six other areas in the State.
The problem with that math, the local swells might claim, was that
it factored in ordinary working stiffs whose annual income just
happens to exceed $200,000 per year. Instead, they would point to
the enclave known as Port Royal, occupying a mostly man-made
peninsula between Naples Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. The original
developer named it after the legendary sunken city in Jamaica. The
names of its narrow winding lanes reflected that theme—Rum Row,
Spyglass Lane, Kings Towne Drive. Even in times of economic
recession homes still sold for sums that reached well into the
millions. Massive Gulf-front estates, on the infrequent occasions
when they were sold, commanded prices of $50,000,000 and
higher.

A home in Port Royal often
is regarded as the top choice in the flight to quality by the
wealthiest business and industrial tycoons – old money and
nouveau riche
alike. And
why wouldn’t they? Golf, boating, and tennis in a year-round
temperate climate.
Palatial homes in the
Addison Mizner-inspired style of Spanish revival architecture,
surrounded by immense lawns
fronting on
the Gulf, the bay, or both.
Lush green
landscaping and impeccably manicured lawns.

The sole passenger in the
limousine, Harland Phillip Edwin Fairchilde, IV, was not impressed.
He often thought that if the late Walt Disney had tried, he
wouldn’t have been able to replicate such a fairy tale setting as
contrived as Port Royal was. For God’s sake, he thought, it wasn’t
even gated and its streets were publicly maintained. That meant
that
anyone
could
use them. Despite the fact that his family was among the wealthiest
in the nation, he wouldn’t even consider buying a home in such a
place.

He stared dispassionately
out the window at the seemingly endless string of lawn maintenance
vehicles lining Gordon Drive, the wide avenue that formed the spine
of the peninsula. An army of workers was swarming over the immense
yards trimming trees, mowing, edging, gathering the debris and
hauling it away in large vans towed behind even larger trucks. The
trucks and vans all had various landscape companies’ names on them.
Most were Hispanic. That brought a trace of a smile to his thin,
almost bloodless lips. These were good people, he thought. They
worked hard, did what they were told, and didn’t cause problems
outside their own more humble areas in the county. And they voted
the way they were instructed to vote; that is, the ones who managed
to be here legally. To him, they were the perfect citizens in the
evolving world. Do as you are told and you will be taken care of.
Cradle to the grave. Stray from the reservation and there would be
a very steep price to pay.

The limo moved south on
Gordon Drive paralleling the Gulf. Port Royal had been pumped from
the bay bottom in the late 1940s, before mangrove swamps were
recognized as marine fisheries and defenses against erosion caused
by storms. Also before state and federal agencies spewed forth
reams of regulations to ban dredge-and-fill activities. Homes and
homesites in the enclave were coveted by the
über
wealthy, but there were still a
few unimproved sites left. Fairchilde knew they were referred to as
Club Lots. The greatest symbol of wealth and status in Port Royal
and beyond was membership in the Port Royal Club. Membership was
available only to those who owned real estate in the privileged
neighborhood.

It was late in the season
and traffic on Gordon Drive was not too heavy. But there were
enough tourists motoring slowly along the street to annoy
Fairchilde. They stopped and started, slowed and sped up, all the
while yammering on their cell phones and streaming narrated videos
to their friends and relatives back north. The fact that they were
awed by the discreet display of enormous wealth didn’t faze him.
His great grandfather has been an original robber baron, a railroad
magnate. The family’s wealth had grown exponentially over
succeeding generations. How they had managed to do that, and how
they intended to further increase it were the reasons for his visit
to Naples.

The driver slowed the limo
and turned off Gordon Drive onto an elegant brick paved entranceway
divided by a median beautifully landscaped with queen palms. A
discreet sign was attached to the open wrought iron gate. It said
“Port Royal Club”. The driver wheeled the limo around a
well-landscaped center island and under the portico. The Club was
housed in a rambling one-story building that sprawled along a
priceless stretch of beach. Opened in 1950, it was painted a soft
pink and topped by a shake shingle roof. Fairchilde was from very
old money and had always been a member of a the most privileged
class. He knew the drill, and waited patiently as the Club’s valet
trotted eagerly down the entrance steps and opened the limo’s door
for him. It was April in Naples and the noonday temperature was in
the mid-eighties.

Inside, the Club was very
cool and dry, decorated with impeccable taste. From the front
entrance, visitors could see the pool through large glass panels on
the other side of a sunken reception area. Beyond the pool the Gulf
of Mexico sparkled in the noontime sun. Fairchilde paused briefly
before descending the few steps to the reception area and gazed at
the pool. The beautiful people were on full display. Mostly, they
were young mothers or mistresses with long legs, tight butts, flat
tummies and large, perfect breasts.
Another benefit of great wealth - personal trainers,
dieticians, and the very best plastic surgeons.

A hostess appeared and led
him to the left along the floor-to-ceiling glass panels. She turned
right and led him through a small bar area and into a cozy dinning
room. She brought him to a table at the far end of the room
overlooking the pool and the Gulf. There was a single occupant at
the table, a pudgy, florid-faced man about Fairchilde’s own age.
Unlike Fairchilde, who still had on the suit he wore on his private
jet for the flight from New York to Naples, the other man was
wearing Bermuda shorts, a Tommy Bahama polo shirt and sandals. It
was noon and the man was sipping a martini. Fairchilde doubted it
was his first of the day.

The man, Henry Malcolm
Ellsworth Martin, III, stood and extended his hand to Fairchilde.
They shook and the man motioned toward an empty chair. “You’re
looking quite well, Harland. Have a seat, please.”

“
And you’re looking fit as
well, Henry. I trust Cora and the other members of your family are
well.”

“
Indeed.”

Fairchilde picked up the
menu from the table and glanced at it. The Club maintained a staff
of top chefs and nothing on the menu was less than tempting. He
selected a seafood salad and placed his order with the hovering
server.

“
Are you sure you don’t
want to remove your suit coat, Harland? Regardless what you left in
New York, it’s summer here.”

“
No thank you. I won’t be
here that long.”

“
You know you’re welcome to
stay overnight. Cora would be delighted to see you.”

“
No, there are a number of
pressing matters that require my presence back in New York. I’m
here solely for this meeting.”

“
You were quite mysterious
on the phone in setting it up. I assume this concerns the affairs
of AGU?” Martin said in reference to the Alliance for Geopolitical
Unity.

The server, an appealing
young blonde girl, brought Fairchilde’s iced tea. He waited
patiently for her to withdraw.

When she was out of
earshot, Martin, whose eyes were still fixed on her well-shaped
butt, leaned in toward the other man and said, “ Wouldn’t you like
to get some of that? Can you imagine how tight and juicy that must
be?”

Fairchilde regarded him for
a few moments; the expression on his pale face was as cold and as
hard as his dark brown eyes. “I’m glad you have time for sexual
fantasies, Henry, but my time is more valuable and somewhat
limited. Let’s get down to business.”

The other man sat back in
his chair and looked away. “Fine,” he said and began pecking at his
tropical salad with a small fork.

“
The purpose of our meeting
today is to ensure your support for a change in strategy. As you
are aware, there is an AGU Board of Governors meeting next week.
Your active support could help to influence other members of the
Board.”

“
What is this change in
strategy you mentioned?”

Fairchilde sipped his tea
for a moment before answering. “With the loss of Laski, it’s become
apparent that placing all of our financial activities in the hands
of one person is not terribly efficient. In lieu of that, I’m
proposing that we utilize a number of our members to distribute
funds to the requisite organizations.”

“
Who do you have in
mind?”

“
Very wealthy, but naïve,
do-gooders. All of them are members of AGU.”

“
Could you be more
specific?”

Fairchilde regarded the
other man with an expressionless gaze, as if measuring the pros and
cons of disclosing additional information. After several moments,
he said, “Two of them are from the entertainment industry, one is a
tech tycoon, and the other one is a former senator who ran
unsuccessfully for president.”

“
And their names are?”
Martin said hopefully.

“
In good time, Henry. In
good time.”

Martin’s disappointment
showed, but he said, “I agree with the concept and will support it.
We’re better off without Laski anyway, that fat old bastard. He was
a sexual pervert and an arrogant fool.”

“
Yes, well we certainly
don’t want any sexual perversion in our ranks, do we,
Henry?”

Martin reddened slightly at
the thinly veiled reference to his comment about the young
waitress. “What about our foreign friends? Are the Muscovites still
cooperating fully?”

“
They
believed Laski was
their
operative and are less forthcoming now that he is
gone. Not to worry, they’ll come back around in good time. After
all, they have global ambitions and a one-horse economy. They need
us.”

“
But,” Martin said, “they
still are Russians and that leaves a lot to be desired.”

“
True, they are a nation of
peasants, and very low grade ones at that. But that simply makes
them easier to manipulate.”

Martin took a sip from his
second martini, set it back on the table and said, “Where do we
stand with our ‘friends’ in the Society?”