End Game (Will Robie #5)(64)

“No,” said Robie. “Nothing.”

“Maybe they got out of here then,” said Patti with a wistful look.

“Is that your goal? I thought you liked it here.”

“I do. But the world’s a big place. I’d like to see some of it before my time’s up.”

“You’re still young, Patti.”

“I’m not that young. I’ll be forty soon. But around here, you always feel older than you really are.”

“Your mom seems really cool.”

“She is. And I’d miss seeing her.”

“And your dad? Is he still around?”

“No,” she said firmly. “He’s not.”

Robie was about to say something else when the door opened and a tall, lean man with a full head of silver hair walked in. He was dressed in a dark suit with a pocket kerchief and a white shirt, open at the collar. His face was deeply tanned. He looked to be in his late fifties.

“Roark,” said Claire, going over to him and bussing his cheek with her lips.

“Claire, how do you manage to get younger and more gorgeous every time I see you?”

“I knew there was a reason I invited you tonight.” To Robie and Reel, she said, “This is Roark Lambert.”

Robie said, “You rented out the cabin to Roger Walton.”

Lambert nodded. “Claire told me what had happened. I think one reason she invited me tonight was so you could ask me questions.”

“We all want Roger back,” said Claire. “And as quickly as possible.”

They went in to dinner, which was served around a large table in the middle of what had to be the library, given the number of books on the shelves.

Lambert was seated in between Robie and Reel.

As the food was served and they began to eat, Robie said, “So Walton had rented from you before?”

“Several times. I own a number of cabins in the area. It’s a nice business. Never going to get rich doing just that, but it’s positive cash flow.”

“Did you ever meet Walton?” asked Reel.

“A few times, yeah. Once here at Claire’s. I’m from Denver and don’t spend much time out here. He was tight-lipped about himself. I sensed he had some high-stress job and just liked to get away from it all. This is a good place to do that.”

“How’d you end up owning rental cabins out here?” asked Robie.

“Well, Denver’s not all that far away. And my father was born right across the border in Nebraska. When I was a kid, we would come through here on the way to visit his parents. There’s not much out here, but it has its charms. And if you like to fish, bird-watch, take photos, or do some hunting, this isn’t a bad place to be. I made some money in private equity and have now deployed it in real estate.”

“So the rentals are your business?” asked Robie.

“Not my main business, no. Just a sideline. I’ve got my fingers in lots of pies. But what I’m focused on now is luxury prepping.”

Robie and Reel looked at him strangely. Robie said, “I don’t know what that means.”

“You’ve heard of preppers, surely?”

Robie shook his head but Reel said, “You mean people getting ready for doomsday?”

“Well, at least for civil unrest and social upheaval,” amended Lambert. “Doomsday Preppers is a show on the National Geographic Channel. Hell, it turned out to be the most popular show they ever had. So the interest in Armageddon is there. Some folks call it WROL, meaning Without Rule of Law. Others just call it SHTF.” He grinned. “Shit Hitting the Fan. There are lots of problems out there. The social fabric is increasingly fragile. So people stock up on food, water, guns. They have survival shelters or plans when things go to hell. Some are just like cargo containers buried about twelve feet down with water and air capabilities. Nothing too fancy, but it’s some protection.”

“But you said ‘luxury’ preppers,” pointed out Reel.

Lambert took a sip of his wine. “Right. There’s no money in ordinary preppers. They get their stuff from the stores or online. But for those who can afford it, there are opportunities for profit. A lot of profit.”

“How?” asked Robie.

Malloy, who was seated across from them and had been listening said, “Secure facilities when everything goes to hell.”

“And where would that be?” asked Robie.

Lambert said, “In a former Atlas ballistic nuclear missile silo. I’ve finished two, one here in Colorado. I missed out on another one in the area. But I’ve got another silo done in Kansas. And I’m developing several more.”

“Missile silos?” said Robie.

Lambert nodded. “They were decommissioned a long time ago and the government has been selling them off. At first you’d wonder what the hell to do with them. But then, when you combine the point one percenters’ cash with the world looking increasingly shaky, you have a wonderful answer. You take an already hardened facility in the middle of nowhere and you turn it into luxury living. Then the very rich have a place to go to and be safe when everything goes to hell.”

“And if it doesn’t go to hell?” asked Reel.

Lambert shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to these folks. They have homes all over the world. The silo condo—that’s what they are, by the way, each floor is comprised of condos—is just insurance for them. They probably never want to use it because that means the civilized world is no more. And they’re apt to lose a lot more of their wealth, if that’s the case. You know, stock markets tank, gated communities and high-dollar properties are overrun by the masses. But at least if they come to the silo they’ll get to live. Then when things quiet down, they can come out and pick up the pieces.’