Act of Treason

50

G arret stepped through the front door a few minutes early and was immediately cut off by three men wearing tuxedos. Le Bearn wouldn’t let you into the bar if you didn’t have a reservation for dinner. The shorter of the three men greeted Garret in French. He was polite but unyielding. Garret ignored the greeting and told the man he was meeting Joseph Speyer for dinner. Their attitudes changed immediately. One man grabbed his coat, the third disappeared, and the other began singing the praises of one of Geneva’s most well-respected bankers.

The man himself showed up just moments later. Next to Garret, with his frumpy demeanor and ill-fitting clothes, Speyer looked as if he’d just stepped out of a GQ ad. His two-button, blue-gray flannel suit had a faint light gray pinstripe. The fabric hung from his thin frame perfectly, the pants breaking at the perfect spot above a pair of handmade light brown Italian shoes that matched the frame of his glasses. Speyer’s thinning light brown hair was cropped short and styled slightly forward.
They had just made it to the bar when four men came through the door. Two of them were huge. Standing well over six feet tall and weighing upwards of three hundred pounds, everything about them screamed bodyguard. The two older men sandwiched in between them were Cy Green and Aleksandr Gordievsky. They were opposites of sorts. Green had a relaxed air of confidence about him. His permatan, slicked-back hair, open-collared shirt, gold necklace and watch, and double-breasted blue sport coat was the uniform of the ultra-wealthy. Compared to Green, Gordievsky looked a bit pasty. His brown hair was mostly gone, except around the sides and in back, where he grew it a bit too long. His suit was a bit too shiny, and the mock turtleneck sweater that he wore under the jacket screamed Eurotrash.
Handshakes and greetings were exchanged, and the restaurant staff made a great production out of taking care of the group. They were escorted to their corner table where Green and Gordievsky insisted on sitting with their backs to the wall. The two hulking bodyguards were given the table next to them. Water and bread were left, and drink orders were taken. A special wine list was brought to the table and offered to Green, who quickly declined and gestured for it to be given to Speyer.
While Speyer perused the list Green looked across the table and flashed Garret a devilish look. “You have picked a good time to visit. Tonight is going to be great fun. When we are done with this exquisite meal we are going to hit some fabulous clubs and then we will head back to my place for some truly unique late-night entertainment.”
Garret hadn’t flown all the way from DC to party. He wanted to get the nasty stuff out of the way, so he said, “We have a problem.”
“May we at least eat before we talk business?” Green said.
“I’d rather get it out of the way. You guys promised me that you were going to tie up all the loose ends over here.”
“And we have,” Green smiled at a passing woman.
“Didn’t you see the president’s press conference yesterday?”
Green dismissed Garret’s worries with an unconcerned look. “I’m not worried.”
“They found the guy.”
“There is no way they can trace the Bosnian back to any of us,” Green assured him.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Tell him, Joseph.”
Speyer did not bother to take his eyes off the wine list. “Everything was done with cash. We never met him.”
“How did he get the money?”
“We put it in two separate duffelbags and flew it into Cyprus on a private plane. The assassin gave us some coordinates. The bags were left behind a stone wall in the middle of the night on a deserted stretch of road outside Limassol.”
“So no one ever met him face-to-face?”
“Nope,” Green said.
“And there’s no financial records anywhere, or e-mails that could be traced back to you?”
“None.”
“So the CIA is lying,” Garret smiled.
“Or the Bosnian is lying,” Green added.
“Who the f*ck knows with the damn CIA?” Garret said. “They have got to be the most incompetent idiots on the planet.” He sat back and took a drink of water.
Green folded his perfectly manicured fingers in front of his face and asked, “So how is my pardon coming along?”
Garret squirmed in his chair for second then looked Green in the eye and said, “It’s coming along just fine.”
“I think you are lying to me,” Green said flatly.
“Cy,” Garret moaned, “we’ve come this far. I’m not going to screw you on our deal.”
“I want my pardon,” Green said in a slightly threatening tone.
“And you’re going to f*cking get it,” Garret snapped.
“If I don’t get my pardon, you are a dead man.”
Garret’s throat suddenly felt dry. His life had just been threatened by a man who he knew was capable of following through. “I told you from the very beginning that we were probably going to have to wait until the last minute.” Garret spoke in an even tone. “If the press finds out they could kill this thing. The eleventh hour…Saturday morning…that’s when it will be signed.”
Green ran his palms along the sides of his slicked back hair and accepted Garret’s answer with a nod. Then his face grew serious and he said, “That is fine, but just remember, if it doesn’t get signed, you and your boss are going to pay.”
Garret was not used to being threatened like this. He was usually the one doing the bullying. Feeling as if his back was against the wall, he decided to go on the attack. “For the last time he’s not my boss, and as long as we’re throwing around threats, why don’t you chew on this one. What do you think your old business partner, Pinky, would do if he found out you killed his daughter?”
“Shhh…” Speyer hissed.
Garret lowered his voice a notch and said, “You think just maybe he might call a couple of his old Mossad buddies and have them pay you a visit?”
Green flashed a thin smile at the political huckster sitting across the table. “Pinky should have given that little slut a lobotomy like Joe Kennedy did to his daughter. Trust me,” Green said trying to further undermine Garret’s threat, “she was a constant headache for him. He’s not as upset about her death as it might seem.”
Garret looked at the billionaire through squinted eyes. “Well, how about Josh, then? How do you think the soon to be president of the U.S. of A. would react if he found out you killed his beloved wife, just so you could keep some of your ill-gotten billions?” Garret leaned back, certain the thrust had hit home. “He might send a Tomahawk missile right up your ass. Or maybe he’ll have one of his aircraft carriers accidentally ram that yacht of yours when you’re out in the middle of the Med some night.” Garret picked up a piece of bread. “I sure wouldn’t want to piss off the commander in chief of the world’s lone superpower.”
Green’s face turned crimson with rage. “You ungrateful little shit. This wasn’t my idea.”
“The hell it wasn’t,” hissed Garret.
“You and your boss came whining to me about your problems.”
“He’s not my boss!”
“Excuse me,” said Green. “Your soon-to-be vice president.”
“Our…remember. You’re the one who wants American citizenship back so f*cking bad.”
Speyer couldn’t take any more. The restaurant was loud, but even so, a few patrons had glanced their way. “Gentlemen, I think you have both made your point. You have made a deal. Cy has completed his end of the transaction and now it is your turn, Stu. May I suggest a toast?” Speyer raised his glass. “To Cy’s pardon, which I’m sure will be signed on Saturday.”
They all clinked glasses, and Green smiled, saying, “It had better be.”
Garret returned the smile and said, “Don’t worry, it will be. Now, if you’ll excuse me I need to take a piss.”
When Garret was gone, Speyer looked at Green and said, “I have never trusted that man. I told you this was a terrible idea. What is so bad about the life you have here? Why do you need to go back to America?”
“You’d never understand. You weren’t born there.” Green looked across the room. There was a pretty blond sitting at the bar. He held up his glass and gave her a smile. Looking back to Speyer he asked, “Are you going to join us later? It should be a wonderful show.”
Speyer wished everyone would leave him alone so he could pick a selection of wines. “I’m not sure. I’m supposed to meet some colleagues later.”
Green smiled his big Cheshire cat smile. “Where…Le Pretexte for a little male bonding?”
Green was right. Speyer planned on meeting a few friends at Geneva’s premier gay nightclub. “What is that American saying you like?”
“Different strokes for different folks.” Green held up his glass. “Find a friend and bring him with. I will have them send a couple of well-endowed boys along with the girls. We will show Mr. Garret how we entertain in Geneva.”