Money to Burn

60

“WE’RE ALL SET,” SAID WALD, AS HE TUCKED AWAY HIS CELL PHONE.

He was seated beside his uncle in the cabin of a Eurocopter EC225 Super Puma helicopter. They’d just touched down on a helipad in Somerset County after a short flight from Manhattan that had reduced the famous skyline to a blur of lights on the horizon. The whir of the rotors was almost down to nothing, making it u

“Very good,” said McVee.

It was his nephew’s second update of the night. The first had been within minutes of the shoot-out at the hospital: Ivy Layton wasn’t dead, but her run had come to an end. Burn had her at his mercy and under his control, and the death van was en route to an appropriate disposal site. McVee had been just fine with that-until the surprise phone call from Michael Cantella’s brother: “Michael knows it’s you,” he’d told McVee, “and if anything happens to him, me, or anyone in our family, the FBI is going to be all over you.”

Wald glanced out the window at the rising moon, then back at his uncle.

“Are you sure about this?”

McVee’s expression tightened. “There are two ways to read that call from Cantella’s brother. One, he’s already gone to the FBI. Or two, it was a threat. A very serious threat.”

“I understand, but-”

“No ‘buts,’” said McVee. “If he’s already gone to the FBI, there’s nothing we can do about it. But if it’s a threat, and if we back away from it, extortion is right around the corner. The first payment is never enough to keep a blackmailer from telling the police what he knows. They keep coming back, and the price tag is always higher the next time. In this case, it’ll just keep going up and up until it’s out of sight-especially when Cantella and his brother get a better understanding of exactly how much we stand to profit from credit default swaps after Saxton Silvers’ bankruptcy.”

Wald smiled. “A cool bonus that taking care of Ivy Layton is so profitable.”

Remarks like that made it so clear to McVee that his nephew could never lead Ploutus. The kid always had everything backward. “Getting rid of Ivy Layton is the bonus on top of the business, genius.”

“Huh?”

“Even before she was in the picture I had plans to short sell an investment bank into oblivion. Ivy’s showing up just made it that much easier to decide Saxton Silvers should be first on the list.”

“How much do we stand to make?”

“More than you can fathom,” said McVee, “and it’s none of your business. Your job is to deal with the threat.”

“Well, we’re all set. I spoke directly to Burn. There’s been a temporary stay of execution for Ivy Layton. He is to use her as bait.”

“There’s no compromising on this point. My gut tells me that Cantella and his brother haven’t gone to the FBI yet, and I’m not about to pay them hush money for the rest of my days. Burn has to be prepared to eliminate all of them.”

“The mother, too?”

“She’s no i

“Understood,” said Wald. “All of them. I’ll tell him it’s ‘as per Michael Cantella,’” he added, referring to the infamous e-mail.

McVee unbuckled his seat belt, then stopped before rising. “Did you work out a price?”

“He said you two already came to an understanding when you went for a ride in the limo.”

“What understanding?”

“At first I thought he was making a joke,” said Wald, “but he was serious. Something about the new line on our balance sheet: Money to Burn.”

McVee almost smiled, recalling the conversation and his own play on words. He took Burn’s meaning: this job would cost so much that McVee would have to pay it quarterly, maybe even in a

“Fine,” said McVee. “Money to Burn it is.”

61

WE ENTERED THE HANGAR THROUGH THE MAINTENANCE OFFICE, AND Eric switched on the overhead lights.

At the end of a long private access road from the corporate training center, the WhiteSands heliport was one of two dozen heliports in Somerset County and one of about 365 statewide. Not all were equipped for nighttime landings and takeoffs, and some were little more than open space in a flat field of grass. As would be expected, the private facility at WhiteSands was equipped with far more amenities than it needed, including five separate hangars, each one large enough to accommodate a medium-size helicopter. We entered Hangar No. 3, which housed our ticket to escape-a pimped-out Sikorsky S76 that the head of WhiteSands’ Sovereign Fund Division “just had to have” after touring Malaysia in one with the sultan of Johor.

“Hello?” said Eric, his voice echoing as he called out.

The hangar was a gaping structure of corrugated steel, concrete block, and heavy, exposed metal beams. High-intensity lighting shone down from suspended luminaires, creating a ghostly pattern of perfectly round and evenly spaced pools of brightness across the polished concrete floor that surrounded the craft. Eric’s query had drawn no response-the hangar was completely still, no sign of anyone.

“I guess our pilot’s not here yet,” said Eric.

I walked toward the Sikorsky. It was Matterhorn white with dark blue and red accent stripes, and it looked almost new. Someone had expended untold hours of elbow grease on the wax finish. It was a habit I’d inherited from Papa, seeing an impressive piece of machinery and wondering not how much it cost or who the stuffed shirt was who got to use it, but rather, who was the average Joe who so proudly took care of it.

“Do you have his number?” I asked.

“Yeah,” said Eric, “let me give him a ring.”

He went back toward the office and dialed from the landline on the wall. I watched and listened as Eric left a message on the pilot’s voice mail.

“No answer?” I said as he returned.

“Uh-uh,” said Eric.

I glanced at Olivia. She had pretty much been a rock up until this point, but signs of stress were starting to show.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m getting a bad feeling,” she said.

“He’s only five minutes late,” said Eric. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

“Try him again,” said Olivia. “Michael already lost his driver tonight. For a guy like Burn, pilots are no less expendable.”

Eric glanced at me, but I could hardly disagree.

“Wait a second,” he said, as he fumbled for the pilot’s business card in his wallet. “I dialed his office number. Let me try his cell.”

He went to the wall phone again and dialed.

62

BURN WAS MOTIONLESS, CROUCHED BEHIND THE SECOND ROW OF passenger seats inside the helicopter. Ivy was belted into the seat in front of him, her hands still cuffed, afraid to move or make a sound. Burn’s gun was pressed against the base of her skull.

Ivy’s phone lay in the seat beside Burn, and Cantella’s cell was still transmitting to it. The speaker was switched off, however, with Burn listening through earbuds. The attack on Ivy in the emergency room had filled Burn’s risk-taking quota for the evening, and it was important to eavesdrop now more than ever. Ivy’s mother seemed to be losing her nerve.

“I’m getting a bad feeling,” she said, her voice playing into Burn’s earbud.

“He’s only five minutes late,” said Volke. “I’m sure he’ll be here.”

Burn glanced toward the aisle to where the pilot lay on the floor-a dead heap, his neck broken.

Don’t bet on it, folks.

Burn peered out the window. The glass was tinted so dark that no one outside the helicopter could have possibly seen him. Still, he was cautious, raising his head up just enough to see out, not an inch more. The five-gallon fuel cans he’d filled were still in the corner, ready for use. The Sikorsky’s turbine engines used Jet A fuel, and Burn had filled two portable cans-more than enough to torch the entire building, let alone the helicopter and its passengers. His gaze drifted back toward the triangle of conversation near the maintenance office, and as he watched, a strange feeling came over him. Before tonight, he’d never set foot in this hangar, yet there was something eerily familiar about the situation, if not the setting. The cold concrete floor. The bright garage lights shining down. Two men. One woman. The situation growing increasingly tense, the woman on edge. And the smell of kerosene. It was on his hands-Jet A fuel was a derivative of kerosene-and the odor triggered memories. Kerosene was cheap and plentiful in Mumbai.