The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [68]
A cluster of microphones jutted from a stern podium set before rows of upholstered chairs. Alongside the podium, Sarah saw a man she knew, a high-powered New York lawyer named Morton James. She figured that James’s law firm must be orchestrating everything. The idea angered her. Morton James belonged to a group described as “New York’s greediest.” He was definitely another class of criminal: pin-striped collar; blue blood; black heart.
The Midnight Club. The words played like a familiar tune inside her head. There was something uncomfortable about this juxtaposition: the ornate Waldorf-Astoria meeting room—and what was about to happen here. What was about to happen here? What did Morton James have to announce to the press?
In his inimitable way, Stefanovitch was clearing a path through the reporters, plowing down the right side aisle. He found two seats halfway to the podium.
It was almost eleven-thirty, the time scheduled for the press conference. Nothing had happened yet. Reporters continued to file into the hotel room.
A clique of lawyers from James’s firm was congregated around a silver coffee urn, a very expensive-looking samovar. Sarah felt as if she were attending some kind of stockholders’ corporate bash. It was a disturbing notion. Everything felt expertly orchestrated; everything was purposely expensive; so right, so respectable; so utterly reprehensible under the circumstances.
The lawyer Morton James was standing behind the podium and all the protruding microphones. What a pompous and self-satisfied creep. What a fine example of pond scum on the surface of life.
“Good morning,” he announced in a voice that was too silky-smooth and mellifluous, too pleasant by half. “I would like to thank you all for coming to this press conference.”
Press conference? Is that what this is? Sarah thought to herself. She had to smile.
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain appeared from behind thickset oak doors at the front of the formal meeting room.
66
STEFANOVITCH FELT HIS stomach drop. His heart began to pound so loud he thought others around him could hear it. The killer he had been tracking for almost five years was walking toward the speaker’s dais.
The Grave Dancer wore a conservative business suit, not unlike that of his Park Avenue attorney. His hair was slicked back, making his face more severe than ever. The Grave Dancer was back; and he looked as if he belonged inside the elegant Waldorf meeting room.
Alexandre St.-Germain stepped behind the microphone. He seemed very comfortable and completely relaxed. Sarah suddenly felt as if she couldn’t breathe.
Stefanovitch touched her arm. It was like electricity, live current being fed into an even stronger current. She wondered what this was like for him, being in the same room with St.-Germain.
“I have prepared some remarks which should help to explain my sudden, much-publicized disappearance several weeks ago,” Alexandre St.-Germain began in a strong, clear voice.
“On that evening, I received word that because of certain of my financial interests in Europe and the United States, an attempt would be made on my life. I was taken away from New York before a tragic shooting occurred here. A precaution, which turned out to be a necessity. My company’s security team saved my life. I was transported to Kennedy Airport. It was felt that I would be safer at my home near Nice. We are all too aware of the assassination attempts against business leaders during the last few years.
“When I reached my destination in France, I learned about the tragic developments in New York. At the time, it was felt that I should remain in seclusion, until more was known about the attack.
“I discovered that two of the European corporations in which I own a substantial interest, Ferro and Maldo-Scotti Industries, had been infiltrated by members of a crime syndicate