The Rescue(102)

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

Jacob Harcourt read the text on his phone and glanced up at Senator Frist, who had plopped down on the seventeenth-century Scottish Caquetoire armchair that nobody but Harcourt himself had ever sat in. Two hours into Frist’s weekend stay, the text couldn’t have made him happier.

“So? Do we have them?” said Frist.

“Yes. We have them,” said Harcourt, feigning his warmest smile. He motioned toward the exquisitely stocked built-in cocktail cabinet next to his desk, at the other end of the cherrywood study, hoping to dislodge Frist from the two-hundred-thousand-dollar Highland clan antique. “Shall we celebrate? I think you’ll find my selection of spirits worthy of the moment.”

“I’ll have what you’re having,” said Frist, shifting in the seat. “This is damn uncomfortable for a throne.”

Harcourt saw his opportunity. “Oh, it’s not a throne. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s a common chair of its era. Seventeenth century.”

“No wonder. The moment I sat in it, I could tell it was essentially junk. Expensive junk. No offense.”

“None taken,” said Harcourt. “How does a Dalmore fifty-year-old Highland single malt sound?”

Frist stood up, frowning at the antique like he’d been seated in a folding chair.

“I was thinking more along the lines of Johnnie Walker Blue,” said Frist, making his way to the deep leather chairs facing the room’s cathedral ceiling windows. “Celebrate in style.”

He wasn’t about to tell Frist that he’d downgraded his choice from a seventy-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch to a one-hundred-and-eight-dollar bottle. Why ruin one of the few moments of happiness Harcourt would experience all weekend? While Frist settled into one of the chairs, facing the other direction, Harcourt opened the cabinet below the lacquered-cherry counter and removed one of ten unopened boxes of Johnnie Walker Blue Label he kept on hand to give out as gifts.

Quietly opening the box, he tore away the bottle’s seal and lifted the cork. The smooth aroma reminded him that he was holding a damn fine bottle of scotch, just not the most expensive. That said, he had no intention of lowering his standards this early in the game. He had an entire weekend with Frist ahead of him, which was guaranteed to present more opportunities.

“Two fingers?” he asked.

“Make it a double. With Decker still on the loose, I can use the shot of courage,” said Frist, laughing.

“A double it is.” Harcourt filled the fine crystal tumbler. “You have nothing to worry about here. I have more than sixty highly trained Aegis contractors on the estate, not to mention a state-of-the-art security system. You saw the security room. Every square inch of the estate is covered with sensors, and we’re watching the sky in case he’s stupid enough to skydive in again.”

“I know. I know,” said Frist. “We’re just so goddamn close to the finish line, and I can’t stop thinking about him. I was scared out of my mind flying out here! I got in the helicopter half expecting Decker to turn around in the copilot seat and blow my brains out!”

“Gerry. You’ve been watching too much TV. Decker is a very resourceful man, but he’s just one man.”

“He apparently found an equally skilled friend. The Aleman thing was a disaster.”

“Two men,” said Harcourt, pouring two fingers of the Dalmore—then adding another. “And we have the ultimate bargaining chip.”

“If we had his daughter, we’d have the ultimate bargaining chip. It worries me that she disappeared that quickly.”

“Mackenzie beat us to her,” said Harcourt, walking the drinks over.

“At least Mackenzie’s out of the picture. If she could find Aleman, God knows what else she could have pieced together.” Drinks in hand, the senator proposed a toast. “To killing Decker.”

Frist’s single-mindedness got tiresome at times, especially when you were on the cusp of sealing a deal to make billions of dollars.

“To Monday’s vote,” said Harcourt. “May we carry the day.”

“Sorry. I’m having trouble focusing on the big picture,” said Frist, before clinking Harcourt’s glass. “To Monday.”

“Hear, hear,” said Harcourt, taking a generous sip of the fifty-year-old spirit.

He barely had time to savor the scotch’s initial palate of tangy marmalade, roasted coffee, and chocolate before the handheld radio on his desk crackled to life.

“Mr. Harcourt! Rooftop spotters report three parachutes descending toward the southern end of the estate.”

Frist downed his drink in one massive gulp, slamming the tumbler down on the marble coffee table.

“This isn’t a problem,” said Harcourt, taking his drink with him to the desk. He took a quick sip and swiped the radio from the desk. “What are we looking at, Dutch?”

“Two parachutists and one package,” said his security chief. “They opened their chutes low as hell. They’ll be on the ground in ten seconds.”

“A package?” said Harcourt.

“It’s definitely not a person,” said Dutch. “It’s about the size of a Pelican transport case.”

“They must be using an airborne guidance unit. GPS guided.”

“It might be a bomb!” said Frist, grabbing his glass before scrambling away from the floor-to-ceiling window.