Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [46]
Fortress was on the seventh floor. Walking into its lobby, you could imagine yourself in the waiting room of a medium-sized advertising firm. The space was formed almost completely from horizontal planes of veined white marble, cut glass, bronze tubing, and glittering black granite. The only clue as to Fortress’s actual purpose was the bas-relief of an ancient Greek helmet, sculpted out of bronze, that rode over the receptionist’s head like the cloud of combat.
When Naomi produced her ID and asked to see Fortress’s president, she was politely but firmly told to wait while the receptionist—a young man in a sleek dark suit—spoke quietly into the mike of the headpiece encircling his head like a halo.
A short time later, another young man in a sleek dark suit escorted Naomi down a softly lit, carpeted hallway, lined with paintings of famous battles throughout history. Naomi recognized Alexander the Great, the great Spartan stand against Xerxes’s Persian army, Ajax and Achilles outside the walls of Troy, Napoleon at Waterloo, George Patton rolling over Europe, and so on and on, a seemingly endless display of man’s propensity for bloodlust and warfare. It was no surprise to Naomi that not one woman appeared in any of the paintings.
Andrew Gunn, the president of Fortress, rose from behind his desk as she was ushered into the room. Her guide immediately withdrew, closing the door behind him. Gunn seemed to unfold like a praying mantis. He was tall and thin with prematurely white hair and a nose like the prow of a ship. His steel blue eyes regarded her out of a rugged face, as scarred and pitted as the curve of the moon.
He came around, extended his hand, and smiled. His teeth seemed to shine in the muted afternoon light. Naomi had dealt with the top echelons of the private security firms. They all seemed to fall into two groups. Either they were ex-Marines, hard, angry, and bloodthirsty, or they were ex-CIA assets, anonymous, slippery, and bloodthirsty. She found it interesting that Gunn fell into neither of these camps. Rather, he seemed like a good old American cowboy, the way he had been played by Gary Cooper or depicted in the iconic Marlboro Man ads. He smelled good, as well, like the woods at night.
Instead of returning behind his desk, he led her to the far more informal seating area, which was comprised of an ultramodern sofa, two matching chairs, and a low coffee table made of a thick slab of white granite.
As they settled themselves, he said, “I assume, Ms. Wilde, that your visit concerns the death of one of my men, and the attack on two others.”
She nodded. “That’s right.”
He shook his head. “Well, then, I’m at a loss to understand the involvement of the Secret Service.”
“The prime suspect is the First Daughter.”
“Ah, Henry Holt Carson’s niece.”
“That’s right.”
His serious expression deepened. The frown made him look like a caricature of himself, as if he wasn’t used to frowning. “With all due respect, I find the notion that this young girl could have overpowered three of my men inconceivable.”
“Nevertheless, Mr. Gunn, that is very well what might have happened.”
He spread his hands. “Surely there must be another explanation.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I, but perhaps together we can find out.” She took out a small memo pad. “Mr. Carson came to you directly?”
“Yes, that’s right.” The phone rang, but Gunn ignored it. “Hank and I are old friends.”
“So you and Mr. Carson have done business before.”
“I said we’re friends.”
Naomi glanced up, trying to discern whether Gunn’s mood had changed. “Has he had occasion to avail himself of your services before?”
“Once.”
Only Naomi’s training allowed her to pick up on the minuscule hesitation. “And when was that?”
Gunn unfolded his lanky frame again and walked over to his desk. “Can I get you anything to drink?”
“Thanks, no.”
“We have our own barista.”
She laughed. “A double macchiato, then.”
“That’s the spirit!” Using