The Raiders

1

AN ODDITY OF THE RECURRING DREAM ABOUT The Centurion was that the telephone ring that interrupted it always happened forty-seven minutes past the hour. It could be 1:47, 2:47, or 3:47; but when he woke and looked at the clock it was always forty-seven past something.

This was not the same. The telephone did not ring once. It persisted. And when he opened his eyes and looked at the clock, the time was 2:06.

The phone had rung maybe six times when he picked it up. He was groggy. He'd eaten well, drunk a little more than usual, and had finished the evening with a round of good sex with Monica. Waking was not easy.

"Yeah ... ?"

"Jonas, this is Phil."

"You know what time it is?"

"What time you think it is in Washington? Listen to me. A friend — never mind who — woke me up to read me a highly confidential document. Plan on a visit from a United States marshal. He'll be early. He means to get to you before you leave the house."

Jonas switched on the bedside lamp. He lifted himself to a sitting posture. He was stark naked. He didn't own such a thing as a pair of pajamas, and it took a cold night in a badly heated bedroom to make him sleep in his underclothes.

"Phil ... What the hell are you talking about?"

"The airline hearings, for Christ's sake! They've issued a subpoena for you. They want to grill your ass, Jonas. You didn't appear voluntarily in response to their request, so— "

"Bunch of two-bit politicians want to make names for themselves by cross-examining Jonas Cord."

"Maybe. But they're United States senators, and they've got subpoena power. If you don't show, you're in contempt of Congress. People have gone to jail for contempt of Congress."

"I hold Congress in complete contempt."

"You're not in the world's best position, Jonas. If those contracts for gate positions in New York and Chicago were in fact rigged the way — "

"Phil. Never mind. I know what they accuse me of. I don't want to talk about it."

"Yeah? Well, if the senators subpoena you to talk about it, you're going to have to talk about it. You don't have any choice."

"Except one," said Jonas.

The lawyer was silent on the phone for a moment, then said, "As your lawyer, I can't advise you to take that option."

"As my friend ... ?"

"That's why I called you in the middle of the night."

"I'll be in touch, Phil. I won't tell you where I'm going. If they ask, you really don't know. But I'll be in touch."

Monica had wakened, had sat up, and was squinting curiously at him. She was naked, too, as Jonas noted in a quick appreciative glance. Her boobies, that had always been a pleasure to look at and fondle, had grown plumper and more rotund since she had gained a little weight in her late thirties. Her belly was cute and roly-poly now, like a smooth little melon riding in the bowl of her pelvis. Her legs remained thin and sleek, and she had put on no new flesh around her neck or jawline. Her dark-brown hair, now pillow-tousled, framed her face, which was as strong as always, maybe a little stronger as the years had imposed character.

"Do I hear that you're going somewhere?" she asked.

"I have to scram for a while," said Jonas. "A marshal is coming to serve me a subpoena. A couple of senators want to grill me in the Senate airlines hearings. I really don't want to testify. I can't afford to testify."

"What have you done?" she asked.

"Nothing illegal," he said acerbically, annoyed that she would even suggest he'd done something crooked. "Competent counsel have advised me at every step. But congressional investigators like nothing more than making a businessman look bad, particularly if the businessman is one who gets newspaper coverage. They might even pressure the Justice Department into going for an indictment. I have done nothing illegal and would be acquitted for certain — but that would be after an ordeal of two or three years."

"But what are you going to do?"

"I'm just going to make myself unavailable for a while."

Monica sighed and glanced around their bedroom, at new furniture she had not yet grown accustomed to think of as hers. "I can't believe this! Goddammit! We've only been in Bel Air four months. Jo-Ann is just getting settled in at Pepperdine and — "

Jonas was out of bed now and was dressing. "This has got nothing to do with where we keep a home or where Jo-Ann goes to school. You're staying here. Both of you. Those bastards might force me to duck their process server, but they're not forcing us out of our home or Jo-Ann out of her university."

Monica got out of bed. She reached for a lavender dressing gown with white lace trim — not quite sheer but not quite modest either. She pulled it on.

"How long is this going to last?" she asked.

"Not very long," he said. "I can get it straighted out in a few weeks, maybe two or three months. The lawyers will talk for me. I've got a few political contacts, after all."

"Why don't you just accept the subpoena and face it?" she asked.

She picked up a pack of cigarettes from the night table on her side of the bed, shook out a Tareyton, and lit it with a paper match. "If you've got nothing to hide — "

"I didn't say I have nothing to hide. I said I haven't done anything illegal. This kind of thing — a congressional hearing, maybe having to defend myself in court — could damage some of my businesses. Severely."

"More than skipping?" she asked skeptically, even a little scornfully.

He zipped up his pants. He smiled wryly. "Business people will see skipping as smart."

"But — "

"Look. If I'm compelled to testify, I'll have to tell how things are done. Inter-Continental Airlines wasn't built by chance. You have to be smart. You have to find ways and means of doing things. We have business secrets. Understand? Do you understand, Monica? It's business."

"Is there something wrong with your SEC reports, Jonas?" she asked.

"Not unless the smartest lawyers on Wall Street have fouled them up. And taxes ... Our accountants are meticulous. We don't fudge on taxes."

"What could they indict you for? You said they might indict you. What would that be for?"

"Inter-Continental has been getting good gate slots at major airports. Do you understand that? An air terminal can only receive so many flights a day. There are only so many gates. Some of the airlines we shut out are furious and have suggested we rig contracts, that we pay kickbacks, and so on. No one can prove we do. The truth is, we don't. But we do have ways of — Well. You can see what I mean. Another question is: Do we make deals with other airlines, violating the anti-trust laws? Again, no. But it's not all cut-and-dried stuff, not black and white. They'd love to grill me. Some of them would love to tie me up in knots for two or three years."

"Jonas ... This is the same damned thing that — "

"Look," he interrupted firmly. "A U.S. marshal may be here to serve me before dawn. I've got to throw a few things in a briefcase and get going."

"Where?" she asked. "Where the hell will you go?"

"The marshal will ask, and you can answer very honestly that you don't know. I'm not one hundred percent sure myself. I'll call you as soon as I get settled someplace and let you know."

She followed him out of the bedroom and along the hall to his little home office. He opened a big briefcase on his desk and began to shove papers into it. He shoved in a quart of bourbon, too.

"What am I supposed to tell Jo-Ann?" she demanded. "That you disappeared in the middle of the night, two skips ahead of a U.S. marshal? What's the kid supposed to think?"

"Tell her the truth. Tell her just what I told you."

"That her father's on the lam? Is that what I'm supposed to tell her? That — "

Jonas jerked his head around. "Don't put it that way!" he barked. "Not to her. Not to yourself. Business is business, Monica, and sometimes it makes us do things we don't want to do. Jo-Ann's going to be eighteen years old before very long. She's old enough and smart enough to understand."

Monica had carried her cigarette with her from the bedroom, and now she crushed it in the ashtray on his desk.

"Monica, I'm sorry," he said. The lavender dressing gown that didn't quite conceal, didn't entirely reveal, clung to her hips and reminded him of the firm smoothness of her buns, which he had been fondly caressing only hours ago. "I wish I could take you with me. We'll be together again as soon as possible."

"Sure," she grunted. "You walked out on our first honeymoon. Business called. What else have you missed? Anniversaries. Birthdays. Even Christmas afternoon last year. Business called."

He had withdrawn from the conversation. He grabbed up his briefcase and walked out of the room.

She followed him downstairs, toward the door. His Cadillac convertible sat in the circular driveway before the house. He opened the door and tossed in the briefcase.

Then he came back to kiss her.

"Baby, it won't be long," he promised. "I'll probably be on the phone with you tomorrow."

She accepted his kiss, but accepted was the right word for it; she was not hungry for it, and she was rigid in his arms. He patted her shoulder and her backside.

"Tomorrow. I'll call you tomorrow if I possibly can."

"Sure," she whispered, resigned.

"Monica, I'm sorry. What the hell else can I say?"

"Nothing."

He broke away from her and strode to the car.

2

Monica stood outside for a while, first watching the red taillights of the Cadillac disappear, then looking up at the points of starlight in an unusually clear sky. A tangle of emotions suffused her, and she was not sure if she wanted to cry or curse. Or both.

Damn him. Damn Jonas Cord! He had abandoned her on their honeymoon ... because of a business emergency, he'd said. Then he'd got it in his head that Jo-Ann was not his daughter. When he learned the truth he had begged them to return to him. After fourteen years. And she, like a fool, had gone back to him. Because she loved him. And he said he loved her. He said they'd have another child. Lucky they hadn't.

Because he hadn't changed. He was the same intriguing, fascinating, loving ... egocentric, insensitive, disloyal son of a bitch he had always been. He was obsessed with money and power, especially power. She couldn't compete with money and power. Neither could Jo-Ann. They always lost.

She began to shiver and realized it was not because the night was cold, which it wasn't, but because she was frustrated and disappointed and angry. She went inside the house and went to the bar. She poured herself two fingers of bourbon and jerked the glass back for a quick swallow. She could feel it all the way down, burning, warming. It stopped her shivering.

She jerked off her dressing gown and stood at the bar naked, even though she could be seen by anyone who walked up the driveway. That was somehow defiant, and she felt defiant.

Jonas ... It probably really had been Phil, calling from Washington. For a moment she was tempted to dial him and find out. Of course he'd lie for Jonas. A lot of people would lie for Jonas. He may have told Jonas to duck service of a subpoena, or he may have been calling to say something like "If you get your ass to Frisco before dawn, you can get in bed with Marlene Dietrich."

Of course ... If a United States marshal really showed up on the doorstep in the next six or eight hours, she'd know.

Actually, she wouldn't know, not really. If it was true he was going somewhere to hole up and let an investigation cool down, he'd for sure be taking some girl with him. A "secretary." He'd no more travel without a female to attend to his needs than he'd have forgotten to stuff that bottle of bourbon into his briefcase. She wondered which one it was this time. She'd identified three. He'd stop at a phone booth somewhere. Then he'd pick the girl up.

She tipped the glass and swallowed the rest of her whiskey. So, now she would go back to bed. She'd take a shower first, to wash his sweat off her body. And then she would go to bed. Not in the bed where they had struggled and twisted the dampened sheets into knots. She would sleep in the guest room. Alone. Alone again.

"Fuck you, Jonas Cord," she said aloud in the shower as she washed his come off her legs. "Fuck you," she said again, this time tearfully, as she dried herself and walked out into the bedroom.

To hell with this way of living. To hell with him. She didn't have to live this way, and she wouldn't. Two could play this game. She glanced at the clock and decided it was too early to waken Alex in New York. She would call him later. By God, two could play this game!

"Fuck you, Jonas Cord! I got a big surprise for you. You're gonna be served with some different legal papers. Monica's getting a new divorce!"