The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [72]
Stanley Kahn from the New York Times had been asked to come by Sarah. The reporter accepted without too many of his difficult questions being answered beforehand.
David Hale and Terry Marshall from New York’s Organized Crime Task Force were already seated at the dining table. So was John Keresty from U.S. Customs. So far, none of them knew why they had been invited, except that it had to do with the reappearance of Alexandre St.-Germain.
Sarah remained standing as the others quietly seated themselves. Small details seemed charged, and terribly important that morning. The shore house felt as if it were holding more of the morning’s chill than usual.
“I might as well start with a few things that are on my mind,” she said from her place.
“For reasons that should become clear as I go on, we decided against Police Plaza for this meeting. We also decided against the district attorney’s office. Or even the Times offices, on Forty-third Street, Stanley.”
She bowed in the direction of the Times reporter, who looked slightly bemused.
“If you think you hear a little paranoia in what I’m saying, I’m afraid you do. We don’t know exactly whom we can trust in police departments,” Sarah said. She paused to let the implication of her words sink in. “Or in the district attorney’s office. Or at the Times. Or in the Treasury, or FBI. Did I leave anybody out? I assume I have everybody’s attention now?”
“Rapt,” Stanley Kahn said from behind tented hands.
Sarah watched the tightening circle of faces. None of the men and women seemed overjoyed to be among the trusted few. That was understandable. The notion that so many others weren’t trusted was overwhelming to consider.
A chair scraped against the wooden plank floor. A body hunched forward. Mostly there was silence.
“Where to start is part of my dilemma,” Sarah continued. “Maybe if I go back closer to the beginning…”
Stefanovitch was getting an uncomfortable sense of déjà vu. He had been here before and he’d been burned badly. He had trailed St.-Germain into a trap. His wife had been murdered. Stefanovitch finally spoke up from his place at the table.
“What we’re here to discuss is the possibility of playing by their law. Not just the street law. It’s not that simple. We’re talking about the unwritten laws of supernational corporate executives around the world. And the laws practiced by governments and military juntas. The laws of the super-rich, people who think they’re above ordinary laws.
“We want to talk about a crime syndicate, an entirely new kind of syndicate. It’s called the Midnight Club. It represents what’s become of organized crime.”
70
LATE THAT AFTERNOON, after all the others had left, Sarah and Stefanovitch sat up on the deck overlooking the water. The rainstorm had finally passed. A pale wafer of sun was trying to break through the cloud cover.
For the first twenty minutes or so, they talked about the important meeting that had just finished. Had they sounded too paranoid? They didn’t think so. Not based on the reactions; especially the questions asked toward the end of the session. The new Midnight Club had the full attention of everyone invited to the meeting.
“Maybe we should talk about something else for a while,” Stefanovitch finally suggested. “Sarah, I really am sorry about what happened in Pennsylvania,” he went right on—while his nerve was up.
“It’s over now,” Sarah shrugged. “I’m not sure if I understand exactly what happened, though,” she couldn’t help adding.
“I think I understand it okay,” Stefanovitch said. “I’m not so sure I can put it into the right words, and then get the words out.”
Sarah didn’t say anything. She had a sense that Stef had to do this his own way, or not at all.
She looked into his eyes. He had deep brown eyes, but too often, they seemed on the edge of sadness.
Sarah realized that part of her wanted to make the sadness go away. She didn’t know if that was possible; if it was a wise thing to want to try to do; if it was healthy for either of them. She did know that they needed a break from