Panic

 But he was too slow. His opponent blocked the attack and stepped left, causing him to lose balance and open up his sides to attack. Jerome pressed his advantage and struck Leopold on the upper arm as he stumbled, knocking him to his knees.

“Better!” shouted the bodyguard.

“Hardly. I can’t feel my arms, legs, or head.”

“You kept yourself from getting hit for nearly two minutes. A personal best.”

Leopold stood and bowed. Usually, the first to land two strikes would be declared the wi

“It’s over. You win.”

Jerome bowed back.

“I’m taking a shower before I regain feeling in my body and it starts getting too painful to move,” said Leopold.

“No problem. Don’t you need to be somewhere this morning?”

“Yes, I have that appointment later on, but I need to make an unscheduled stop first. This morning’s beating has given me an idea.”

The bodyguard nodded and followed his employer out. They stepped through into the main apartment, co

Leopold let out a ragged sigh as the pain in his muscles reached a crescendo, before limping off in the direction of his bedroom, where he knew a hot shower was waiting. His apartment took up the entire top floor of an Upper East Side complex, with a view of Central Park to the west that stretched the entire width of the living area, thanks to the floor-to-ceiling windows. He had inherited the property, cars, and bank accounts several years ago, thanks to a trust fund, and had systematically turned the apartment’s chic décor and expensive furnishings into something that fitted his tastes a little better. As a result the apartment resembled a bomb site, with books and equipment strewn all around, often in piles several feet high. The only area kept relatively tidy was a small space in the cavernous living room, near the fireplace, where two high-backed armchairs faced each other across a shallow coffee table on which lay the day’s newspapers and a bottle of expensive scotch.

Housekeeping staff kept the place clean, but were under strict instructions not to move anything. Food was brought in from one of the many nearby restaurants, and Leopold worked off the calories during his daily training sessions with Jerome, who lived with in a self-contained suite at the other end of the apartment, which he kept in immaculate condition.

There were no photographs or paintings on the wall, only faint outlines where frames had been removed. All the family portraits had been taken down after the funeral and Leopold had still not found the time to hang any replacements. Seeing the portraits brought back painful memories, images of the day he’d buried his mother and said goodbye to the empty casket where his father’s body should have been.

The Blake family fortune had sustained a life of luxury for many generations, but since the death of his parents Leopold had no desire to continue that tradition. Instead, his considerable inheritance went into philanthropy, scientific research, and work in the local community. Despite his general distaste for wealth, however, the money only ever seemed to grow, vast investments tied up in everything from timber and coal to nuclear power and military weapons contracts. Such power, however, has inevitable downsides, which is why Jerome was paid to stay close at all times. Powerful men make powerful enemies.

Still reeling from his beating, Leopold stepped into the shower and gasped as the hot water struck his bruised body. Eventually the heat and steam helped ease his pain, and he began to feel human again. Once finished, he dried himself off and threw on a shirt, a ruffled suit jacket, and a pair of jeans, grabbing a cup of thick espresso from the machine as he headed out the door to his first meeting of the day.

He was glad they had no idea he was coming.

Chapter 5

At seven a.m., the leafy expanse of Federal Plaza NYC was already full of people on their way to work, clocking in at any one of the dozen-or-so federal buildings nearby. The FBI field offices were located in the plaza’s newest and tallest building, on the twenty-third floor overlooking the state supreme court. It certainly was quite a view. Leopold sat at the back of the conference room and watched FBI Special Agent Todd Coleman take the podium and raise his palms to the noisy crowd of journalists that had gathered inside. The room gradually fell silent and he spoke.

“Thank you for coming this morning. As you already know, the bodies of State Senators Wilson, Carrera, and Hague underwent forensic analysis earlier this week to determine cause of death. I am calling this press conference to a

He spoke slowly and calmly. Leopold noticed his suit. Probably Armani, based on the size of the lapels, and at least twelve hundred dollars. His skin was fresh and bright, a product of regular sleep and a healthy diet. This man clearly hadn’t seen any field action in quite some time.

“The FBI would like to reiterate that there is no evidence to suggest that any of the deaths are related. The FBI would like to send our deepest condolences to the families of the victims and offer our assurances that we are doing all we can to bring the perpetrators to justice. I’ll now take questions.”

Leopold watched the hands fly up into the air as Coleman finished his statement. A deep female voice asked the first question.

“Special Agent Coleman, do you expect us to believe that three state senators turning up dead in as many weeks is a coincidence?”

“I can understand your concern, but I must remind you that we are in possession of no evidence to suggest otherwise. Next question.”

“Are you saying these people killed themselves, or that they were murdered?” a male voice continued.

“There is nothing yet to suggest the deaths were homicides. We can’t take a firm position until more evidence comes to light. I’m afraid I can’t give any more specific information at this time. Next, please.”

Another round of general questions followed, all of which Coleman answered as vaguely as possible. After ten more minutes, Coleman thanked his audience and left in a hurry. Leopold waited until the crowd of journalists began to make their way out of the door at the front of the room, and then slipped out of the rear exit while the security guards were distracted. He managed to catch up with Coleman making his way back to his office.

“Special Agent Coleman, just one second,” said Leopold, matching Coleman’s long stride.

Coleman turned, still maintaining his pace. “Who are you?”

“Leopold Blake. Pleasure to meet you.”

He held out his hand. Coleman ignored it.

“Blake? What are you doing here? I gave specific instructions to keep you out of the press conference.”

“Yes, I figured Bradley would phone ahead, so I came a little early. Nice to finally meet you, by the way. I wanted to see for myself whether you had taken my advice or not. It appears you haven’t.”

“I’m busy, Blake. There are bigger things going on today that I have to sort out, and I don’t have time to worry about this case. Tell me why I shouldn’t have security throw you out.”

Leopold took a step forward. “Because there are two dozen of the city’s most influential journalists in the room next door, just itching for some more dirt on one of the biggest stories of the year. So, if you really don’t want to talk, I can always schedule a conference of my own.”