Old law partners. Thursdays, 11:45 A.M. at Tadich Grill in the San Francisco financial district. None of the waiters and none of the other regulars gave it a second thought after all these years.
Countless attorneys had been cut off mid-closing argument, even in mid-sentence, FBI agents had been left waiting outside chambers with search warrants to be signed, and juries left sitting with verdicts held over, all so Brandon Meyer could make it to lunch on time.
Marc Anston leaned a little closer toward Meyer sitting across the cloth-covered table. His Putin-like head gleamed in the light from a pendant fixture above, while his wireless glasses reflected the one suspended beyond the next table.
Looking back at him, Meyer felt, as much as saw, the familiar. A thin, old-money face, twelve years older than his, containing eyes that never stared or peered or gawked or leered or squinted. They only gazed, taking in, never projecting out. They were eyes formed by years of cold war intelligence work beginning in Moscow after Yale Law School and ending in Afghanistan in the 1980s.
“Gage knows about TIMCO,” Anston said. “All we can figure is that he found Wilbert Hawkins and applied some pressure.”
“What about the money trail?”
“We have to assume Hawkins told him about the million, but Gage didn’t say anything about payoffs when he confronted Karopian.”
Brandon took in a long breath through his nose, then breathed out, eyes fixed on Anston’s. He interlaced his fingers and rubbed his thumbs together.
“What about Palmer’s hard drive?” Brandon asked. “Anything?”
“Nothing. Our people searched every which way. There’s no mention of Pegasus anywhere.”
Brandon shook his head. His voice rose. “There has to be. He threatened to e-mail the spreadsheets to CNN.”
Anston raised a palm toward Brandon. “Take it easy.”
“It just pisses me off. That little punk takes a look at the grim reaper, then goes to jelly.” Brandon pounded his middle finger on the white tablecloth. “None of us got into this for money.”
“Except Palmer.”
“And that’s what’s biting us in the ass,” Brandon said. “He never believed in the cause in the first place. And once he realized money was no good in heaven or in hell-wherever he thought he was going-he caved. It’s a damn good thing he had the seizure before he spilled it all to Gage.”
“You know Gage,” Anston said. “Is there any way to get him to back off?”
Brandon shook his head. “But we don’t need to. Hawkins can’t take Gage beyond Palmer, and Palmer’s dead. Karopian knew how you fit in, but he’s dead, too. Another lucky break.”
Anston half smiled. “And Gage is in way too good a shape to have a seizure or a heart attack.”
“What do you mean?”
Anston’s smile faded. “Nothing.”
“But what if he finds out about the Pegasus companies and all the accounts?”
“It won’t make a difference. He’d have to go one step farther to connect them to us, and the Cayman Exchange Bank is never going to give up those records.”
Both Anston and Brandon leaned back as the waiter set down their seafood sautes and remained silent while he topped off their water glasses.
“New subject,” Anston said as the waiter walked away. “How did we do with OptiCom?”
“Should be around ten million.”
“Ten?”
Brandon nodded. Big smile. “It’s a multibillion-dollar company. Ten is nothing. Hardly a blip, and no one will be able to trace it to us. I’ll find some way to suppress the evidence as soon as the defense files a motion to do it. I’ll make a record so strong the U.S. Attorney won’t even bother appealing. In the end, it’s a no-harm, no-foul case. OptiCom pays a little money for FiberLink’s switch as part of a civil settlement and everything is back to just the way it was before.”
“How much more does your brother need?”
“For his campaign or the Supreme Court nominees?”
“One thing at a time. The nominees.”
“I don’t know for sure. We got pledges of about five in Silicon Valley during his last visit. It really depends on how big Landon’s promises have to be to get his colleagues’ confirmation votes once he gets the nominations out of the Judiciary Committee.”
Anston fixed his eyes on Brandon’s. His voice was low and hard.
“He’s going to have to do whatever it takes. If Reagan had the guts to put up a fight in 1987, we’d have gotten Robert Bork instead of that wimp Anthony Kennedy. That lunatic cited European law more often than the U.S. Constitution. And I don’t want to wait another twenty-five years for those idiots in Washington to get it right.”
Anston stiffened as a two-term member of the city council passed by their table, a transsexual with the body of a linebacker, encased in a short-cut pant suit.
Anston shook his head as he stared after her.
“I hate this fucking town.”