The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [69]
At that moment, Alexandre St.-Germain discovered Stefanovitch in the audience. He glanced at Stef and the look was unbearably cold and detached. In an instant, he let Stefanovitch know how insignificant he was. I have returned to resume my business in New York. You mean nothing.
“Simultaneous with this announcement,” St.-Germain went on, “another meeting is being held in Europe, releasing all of the information there…my company’s full security arrangements. Everything you need to know for your stories.
“Because of the notoriety the case has received, it was felt that such unusual steps were justified, and in fact necessary… I would gladly answer any of your questions now.”
At the conclusion of his prepared statement, Alexandre St.-Germain smoothly handled questions without any assistance from his lawyers. He gained confidence as he spoke, becoming almost glib on the podium.
He could easily have been mistaken for a high-level executive from a major corporation. He had been expertly coached and prepared for the morning’s meeting. Sarah sensed that he was actually winning the group over. They were starting to laugh at his clever jokes, appreciating his style, which was sophisticated and urbane.
Alexandre St.-Germain seemed so terribly respectable. He didn’t act like the Grave Dancer; he didn’t even look like the Grave Dancer, the underworld figure she had once photographed on Fifth Avenue. He had never been more dangerous.
Stefanovitch turned to her. He was clearly disturbed. His body was tense, almost numb. “Let’s go,” he finally whispered. “I’ve heard as much as I need to. As much as I can stomach for today.”
The Grave Dancer was alive. It was starting all over again.
67
Alexandre St.-Germain;
The Seventy-ninth Street Boat Basin
A COMPLETELY NEW order would exist now, a sixth estate rising out of the impossible chaos of the old mob structure. It would be in effect everywhere that mattered: in the United States, in Italy, West Germany, in England, France, Holland, Spain, all through Japan, Hong Kong, the rest of the Orient. In all the major cities and countries of the world, respectability and anonymity would be the foundations for the future of organized crime.
The Midnight Club would operate like any multinational corporation, almost like a government. There was no room for gangsters, for unpredictable dons and bosses, when hundreds of billions of dollars were at stake. What was necessary was strong local representation, and even stronger central control.
Tonight there would be celebrations, respectable parties, the kind that any successful business might throw after a victory over the competition.
Tomorrow, the orderly investment of profits would begin. Two dozen legitimate takeover targets had been identified on stock exchanges around the world; real estate opportunities had been found in every major city.
* * *
Alexandre St.-Germain’s luxury yacht was named The Storm Rider. It was docked in its accustomed port at the boat basin at Seventy-ninth Street.
The guests had begun to arrive around nine-thirty. They were congregated on the aft deck, where every kind of drink, assorted shellfish and caviar, red meat, and exotic bird was being served by William Poll’s gourmet catering staff.
Live music played: European disco, Brazilian sambas, slightly dated punk rock. The guests of Alexandre St.-Germain included New York artists, their stodgy patrons, old eastern stockbrokers, executives from multinational corporations, Broadway actors and actresses, musicians, the usual hangers-on for each of these groups. Enormous wealth was everywhere. The confident aura of power and prestige was unmistakable.
Alexandre St.-Germain was completely at ease among the wealthy party-goers. He had selected a light gray suit that was subtle and elegant. He understood his role tonight: