Fast Track. Fern Michaels
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The women now waited expectantly for Charles to end the call he’d just taken. They eyed the red folders now resting on the table in front of Myra. All of them noticed that they were thick folders.
Murphy and Grady got up and paced the room. The women frowned. The dogs were picking up on something. Possibly the tension in Charles’s shoulders. The dogs had been fine before Charles’s special phone buzzed to life.
As one they knew it was a glitch. A problem of some kind. And the mission hadn’t even started.
The moment Charles snapped the phone shut, the women sat up straighter. Myra picked up the folders. Nikki looked around, expecting a starter gun to pop announcing the beginning of a race. All she could think of was seeing Jack again. Within days. Just days. She closed her eyes, imagining how it would feel to be wrapped in Jack’s arms and to kiss him with all her pent-up hunger. She almost swooned at the thought.
“Ladies!”
Nikki and the others snapped to attention as Myra slid the folders across the table. Charles pressed the remote control in his hand. Front and center on the plasma screen was a life-size picture of Maxwell Zenowicz, the president of the World Bank. He was tall, with a swarthy complexion and an impressive comb-over. He wore sunglasses that were too small for his hawklike face. Whoever had taken the picture had captured him in midstride. He was nattily dressed, his shoes buffed to a high shine. The Halliburton briefcase held tightly in his hand. It looked like he was about to enter the World Bank.
The next picture appeared to be of Zenowicz exiting the building. The sun had moved off to the west, so it was later in the day but still daylight. He still looked just as nattily dressed, but he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses. He had small, hooded eyes.
The third picture was of Zenowicz entering the Fast Track watering hole.
Charles cleared his throat. “Mr. Zenowicz likes to socialize after work with the little people. Complete with his security force. He enjoys…uh…bellying up to the bar and buying rounds for all the lovely ladies who are gathered there. Prior to the opening of the Fast Track, Mr. Zenowicz walked several blocks to an establishment called the Capitol Grill. He orders a scotch on the rocks. Sips a little, never finishes his drink. He smokes but not in public.
“Mr. Zenowicz does not like to be called Max. His wrath is quick to be displayed if some friend or underling refers to him by any abbreviation of his name. It’s a well-known fact that he likes to be called Mr. President. As you can see by the pictures, he dresses impeccably. He wears an impressive watch and his college ring. Married once. Ugly divorce. Wife will be more than cooperative if you feel the need to speak with her. Children, grown, lead their own lives. He is not included in their lives. He likes to socialize as long as he’s the center of attention. He particularly likes young ladies. Early twenties. He showers them with gifts, flowers, trinkets. He drives a Bentley. He bought it brand-new last year for $300,000. He doesn’t drive to work. He takes public transportation. The Bentley is kept in a heated garage, and he takes it out on the weekends. On occasion, if there is a VIP in town, he will pick them up personally at the airport in his Bentley. Any questions, ladies?”
“How old is he?” Alexis asked.
“Fifty-nine. He had a birthday two weeks ago. He threw himself a huge birthday party. The guest list was long and distinguished. Cost $50,000. It’s a known fact that people in Washington don’t like the man but they attended the soiree to get their names and pictures in the paper. I’m quoting now from the Post.”
“Does he have any other residences aside from the Watergate?” Isabelle asked.
“Actually, he does. He has a condo in Jackson Hole, Wyoming. He also has an apartment in the Dakota in Manhattan, and there’s a chalet-type getaway he visits from time to time in Hilton Head, South Carolina. His wife got the house in the Hamptons and the boat. Excuse me, the yacht. She also received an impressive settlement that ran into the high eight figures. Mr. Zenowicz did a bit of snapping and snarling, I’m told, when the judge awarded Mrs. Zenowicz a handsome alimony. He pays it on time but grudgingly. Mrs. Zenowicz is what we in England used to refer to as ‘top drawer.’”
“Where did the money come from?” Myra asked. “I’m assuming all this happened before he took the office of president of the World Bank? If the man has that kind of money, why does he have to pilfer the money earmarked for poor, starving countries?”
Charles shrugged. “To some people a hundred dollars is a lot of money. To other people a million dollars is the end of the rainbow. Still others think a hundred million isn’t enough. But to answer your question, he inherited a small fortune, which he turned into a very large fortune in the stock market. He was heavy into the dot-com area and got out in time but that’s basically where he became a multimillionaire. He also had the good fortune to be an only child.
“If there are no more questions concerning Mr. Zenowicz, then we’ll move along to our next series of pictures. Open your folders and turn to page five.”
The women opened their folders and flipped the pages.
“Whoa!” seemed to be the consensus when they looked down at the glossy photo staring up at them.
Annie pursed her mouth like she’d just bit into a lemon. Then she sniffed. “Obviously, the woman has been surgically enhanced. None of what I’m seeing could possibly be real.”
“From top to bottom,” Yoko said.
“An easy seventy grand,” Nikki said.
Myra gasped. “That much, dear?”
Nikki grinned. “Yes. She’s too chiseled, too sculpted, too perfect. The boob job alone is about seven grand, maybe more, depending on the reputation of the plastic surgeon. Maybe some liposuction. Full face-lift. Eye job. The teeth are a dentist’s dream. All caps. At least forty grand for that smile. Collagen in the lips. Nose job. Take a good look at the picture in the folder. This woman is not young. I put her in her mid-forties.”
“Why would someone pay that much money to be sliced and diced?” Myra fretted.
“Earth to Myra,” Annie said, waving her hand up and down in front of Myra’s face. “To look like that is the reason. You’re missing the point, she didn’t look like that before she went under the knife. I think you’re wrong, Nikki, I think she’s closer to fifty, perhaps a little older.”
“Is she Zenowicz’s main squeeze? If so, I guess he paid for the…enhancements,” Kathryn said.
Charles tried to hide his smile. “She’s one of several…main squeezes, as you put it, Kathryn. But she’s the only one he pays the bills for. This particular woman used to be a dancer in Las Vegas. She…uh…migrated to Washington after a meeting with Mr. Zenowicz last year. She now works as a liaison at the World Bank. The European Commission in Belgium, to be precise. She travels back and forth. She’s well paid. Her hobby is shopping.”
“What does that mean, ‘well paid’?” Yoko asked.
Charles riffled his papers. “Her salary is $240,000 a year. She has a limousine at her disposal when she is in town. It’s a perk she insisted upon. It’s my understanding the lady has a very pleasing personality. She could very well be a nice person caught up in something she didn’t anticipate. Be kind in your thoughts until you can prove otherwise.”
“And what does she do to earn that astronomical salary?” Isabelle queried.
Kathryn uttered a very unladylike snort. “Well, it’s obvious what she does. Kinky stuff. I’d like to see her résumé.”
Charles had a hard time keeping a straight face. “Turn to page twelve.”
The sound of the flipping pages was the only noise in the room.
“She speaks three languages besides English!” Kathryn said in awe.
Alexis burst out laughing. “Yeah, Brooklynese, Southern Belle, and kitchy coo. It says right here in her résumé she was born in Brooklyn. She moved