Chapter 17

Thule sat in his car, parked on the mountain across from the Vandevoort Estate, smoking a cigarette and watching. The party was obviously a much larger event than he had anticipated. The first guests were already arriving and handing their cars over to valets who were driving them over to the empty, grassy space a quarter mile down the road. Assuming they expected to fill the lot they'd cordoned off, there would be easily five to six hundred cars by the time they were done.

Stripping out of the shirt he'd put on for the party and folding it neatly on the passenger seat, Thule trotted quickly into the woods around where he'd parked.

As always, it took Thule a couple of minutes to find his lookout post. He'd hammered wooden handholds into an ancient oak and built a duck blind about thirty feet up. The woods around here were full of them, although few were this close to anyone's house.

Balancing himself on the blind, Thule strapped his duffel bag to his back, reached up to a thick branch, and continued to climb. Another twenty feet up the tree, the handholds started again. Eighty feet up the tree, Thule had built a second platform, much too high for hunting ducks. This platform existed because it gave him a line of sight over the conifers that acted as a natural fence around the Vandevoort estate, allowing him to see right down into the back yard of the estate itself.

There were three main buildings to the estate--the main house and two guest houses, arrayed around what was probably an olympic-size swimming pool. The fourth side of the pool, normally open ground, was now covered by an immense tent, big enough to house a small circus.

Thule put the duffel bag down on the platform and extracted a shotgun microphone. It took a while to set up and fine tune until he could hear voices. Everything he heard was small talk except for a few details of how security was being maintained.

Thule made note of those details, but they were mostly old news to him. He'd been collecting information on the estate's security for years. It hadn't been easy. Ivan Vandevoort's security chief, Vil Umanski, was a world-class professional paranoid who ran a tight ship. Even details about the man himself had been scant and hard to piece together.

Thule knew that Umanski had served in the NKVD during World War II. In 1954, he had quietly defected to the United States a few weeks in advance of the founding of the KGB, an event that probably would have landed him in a Siberian gulag or an unmarked grave. He'd signed on to work with Ivan's father in 1964. Thule had been able to find out almost nothing about him, but he must be at least eighty years old by now, based on his history. Despite the fact that Ivan barely acknowledged Umanski's existence, his thorough handling of the Vandevoorts' personal and corporate security had been the main obstacle to all of Thule's plans and the reason Thule had to keep everything he did so low-key, to stay below the old man's radar.

Compared to Umanski, Thule was an amateur and he knew it. Thule only had two advantages over the old man. The first was the location of the estate itself. Isolated in the foothills of the mountain Thule now sat on, it was surrounded by acres of undeveloped land, much of it higher in elevation than the house. Even with the considerable security resources of the Vandevoorts, it was impossible to keep a watch on more than a small fraction of the surrounding countryside. The second advantage Thule had was Umanski's neophobia. His techniques and technology lay firmly planted in the past. He used new technology only grudgingly. Thule suspected, if he could get inside the security office on the northwest corner of the estate grounds, he would probably find an enigma machine.

Still, Umanski was neither stupid nor careless. A little over a year ago, Thule had taken advantage of a county-wide blackout and placed an electronic shunt in the surveillance system that was used to watch over the estate. If it had worked, Thule would have been able to watch everything that went on in front of a security camera there. But, within 24 hours, the shunt had been found and destroyed.

Still listening to the microphone, Thule extracted a pair of high-powered binoculars and scanned what he could see of the grounds. Even though the party wasn't scheduled to start for another half hour, a slow stream of cars was already disgorging passengers onto the front steps. The cars were expensive, the clothing elegant. Security guards escorted them into the main house, then out the back and out to the eastern guest house. Thule assumed they were Vandevoorts. But, there were a fair number of Asian men mixed in with them. From previous surveillance, Thule had wondered who these men were. They dressed immaculately and were preceded by their own security--men in black uniforms who arrived in black vans. As they climbed out of their vans, they collected in a cluster off to one side of the front steps, not mixing with Vandevoort's men.

Shortly after the vans, a group of three black towncars pulled into the long driveway. The strange security men sprung into action, forming a security cordon around the side of one car. A man and a woman stepped out of the car. Thule adjusted the focus to get a better look at them, but had only the sense of an older Asian couple before they disappeared into the house.

No sooner had they disappeared into the house than a pair of long, red conversion vans pulled into the driveway. Thule recognized the thug who had delivered Ivan's money to him when he got out of the driver's seat of one of the vans. But, it wasn't really the thug who was interesting.

Out of each van stepped a half-dozen women. They were dressed like high school and college girls, but carried themselves like they were college age or older. Some already had plastic cups that they sipped from. They gathered around the thug, who seemed to be giving them some sort of instructions before leading them around the main house to the western guest house where Randy and his brother Koyla lived most of the time.

Thule recognized that they weren't local. Even from here, he could tell that they were universally pretty. Whoever had chosen them had done a good job. They didn't look like strippers or pros, but Thule knew them for what they were--ringers, girls brought in specifically to ratchet up the party atmosphere of an event. He'd never heard of Randy using ringers before, though. Their presence was a clear indicator that this was probably going to be bigger than any party Randy had thrown before.

He stayed on his perch until he'd seen a dozen cars that belonged to students arrive. Then, he collected up his gear, piled it carefully back into the duffel bag, and worked his painstaking way down the tree again. Once back in his car, he popped a couple of internal pockets, emptying them of their contents. The items in them were too bulky to pass scrutiny in a pat-down. Most he put in the glove compartment. The Swiss Army knife went directly into his pocket, since it might be reasonable to be carrying one and he could always surrender it if necessary.

Taking a deep breath, he started the car and drove up to the front gate. His car looked out of place in such surroundings, but not much more than those of Randy's other friends. Some members of the football team came from wealthy families, but many more were working class or poorer. That fact did not keep the valet from sneering at Thule's car when he took the keys. Thule just smiled as if he didn't notice.

Trotting up the long driveway, Thule reminded himself that he'd never been in this house before. He knew the layout, had spent countless hours watching the place, knew many of the employees that worked on the grounds and more who used to. As he approached the wide marble front porch, a security guard, complete with sunglasses and ear wire as if he were in the Secret Service, stepped out from behind one of the broad Doric columns on the uppermost landing. He took Thule's name and gave him a perfunctory patdown that probably would have missed a gun if Thule had been carrying one.

"Check that guy out good," said Randy, lounging against the front door, his voice radiating good humor. "He's fucking nuts."

"Yes, sir," said the guard, ignoring the suggestion.

"Hey, Postal," said Randy jovially, a hand on Thule's shoulder, drawing him to one side of the porch, "glad you could make it. After you were a no-show at the warm-up, I thought you weren't going to."

Thule shrugged, "I was out when you called. But, you can count me out for that sort of shit, anyway."

"Postal," said Randy, chiding, "don't tell me you've got a fucking conscience about that sort of girl? You're not going all social worker on me. Are you?"

Thule chuckled, "Fuck that. I just don't stir another man's tapioca. That's nasty. If I want pussy, I know where to find it." He lit another cigarette, hoping to prolong the conversation since he knew he couldn't smoke in the main part of the house, "So, who was it anyway?"

Randy wrapped his arm around the back of Thule's neck so that they could talk with some discretion before he said, "June Kane," his eyes twinkling with amusement.

"No shit," said Thule. "That might have been worth it." Then, quieter, he added, "Won't Brianne be pissed?"

Randy waved the suggestion away, "Nah. She was supposed to provide some dreg girl, I don't know who. But, June's not exactly Brianne's favorite person right now. Even if her little present had shown up, we probably would have fucked her, too."

Thule had a hard time not letting his rage get the best of him. It took him a few seconds to ask, "You think Brianne set June up on purpose?"

"Fucked if I know," said Randy, "Ah, well. You didn't miss much. Cops showed up before we could get much action. Half the guys didn't even get a go. Besides, I expect there will be much better pussy here tonight."

Thule smiled as if savoring the prospect of good pussy. Really, he was mentally filing the information he'd just received. Also, he was remembering how many times he'd spotted Randy out by the pool from his perch up on the hillside and realized he could end the young man's life with a high-powered sniper rifle. He didn't actually own a sniper rifle or a rifle of any sort, but he now found himself more sorely tempted to buy one than he ever had before.

He calmed down by reciting the same mantra he'd used when the thought of a quick kill had occurred to him before: A quick death is too good for Randy. Randy was going to go to jail and pay for his crimes. "Some dreg girl," indeed.

Provided that he'd gotten a decent recording today, Thule was about ready to go to the FBI with what he knew. If it was obvious that the police knew what was going on and did nothing, even better. That meant that he was going to have to move quickly against Brianne if he was going to do so at all. Once the FBI's scrutiny hit Mannsborough and him, Thule would never be able to continue to operate in anonymity.

"Come on," said Randy, taking Thule by the shoulder again, "My father wants you to meet the family before we get to the real party. Watch your back, though. The bastards are always up to something." He said it jovially, but his eyes were deadly serious.

Thule wondered, with more than idle curiosity, how much Randy knew about the machinations of the Vandevoorts. Hours of poring over the dry language of corporate reports, wedding announcements, and the careful doublespeak of official press releases had revealed a family that could give the Borgias a run for their money. But, Thule knew how much he had to read into what he could get his hands on to come to that conclusion. If he were skirting the edge of paranoid dementia, maybe meeting the Vandevoorts en masse would be a sanity check. Of course, it might also confirm his most paranoid fantasies.

As Randy led him through the house, Thule gawked as discretely as he could. The front door led onto a ledge that ran around the edge of the main room, a palatial chamber done mostly in the same white marble as the front steps, polished to a glossy shine. Thule didn't know much about furniture, but what he saw looked old and expensive. The rug that defined the center of the room looked like one of the handmade Persian ones that took a whole village a year to make and probably cost upwards of a half million dollars.

"Tell me you're not going to pack this place with high school kids," said Thule, almost involuntarily.

"Here?" asked Randy, "Lord, no. By even walking you through here, I'm violating some dire, unwritten rule. Ivan doesn't bring anybody in here unless he's trying to overwhelm them with how much money he has."

Thule didn't raise an eyebrow. Did Randy even realize what he had just said? Why not just say, "I'm taking you through here to show me how much money I have?" Of course, it could also be Randy's way of saying, "I don't play games like that," which was, of course, a game in and of itself.

Still, Randy led Thule down the sweeping, curved staircase, through the main room, down a long, wide corridor, and out the back door. Everything in the main house was remarkably tasteful--from its neoclassical architecture to the starched gray and white uniforms worn by the staff as they moved silently around the two, engaged in their daily routines. Outside, he led Thule down a brick path, bordered by a high hedge that separated it from the pool area.

"So," asked Thule, "where does the actual party happen?"

"My house," said Randy.

"Your house?" asked Thule, "Don't you live in the main house?"

"Sort of," said Randy, "I have a room there, but my half-brother and I spend most of our time in the larger guest house. I'll show you." Navigating around a few more hedges, he led Thule out to the pool area, where the ringers were standing around, chatting among themselves. Ignoring the women, he pointed to the left, "That's the large guest house. Kolya and I live there, more or less. That's where we'll have the party." He pointed to the right, "That's the small guest house. We've put the family up there, those who came early enough to need rooms and are too young or too old to enjoy the atmosphere in my house. I've been playing host to about a dozen cousins of various ordinals and removals there."

As he walked past the pool, Randy continued, "The official party is going to be in the tent and at the pool. That's where the family and my guests will comingle."

"Your guests?" asked Thule, "Isn't this your party?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Randy, "It's sort of a family tradition. It goes all the way back to when the Vandevoorts were running ships out of Amsterdam."

Thule raised an eyebrow, "So, I take it you're not talking about a kegger."

Randy shook his head. He was all serious now, "It could be. In some of the less prosperous branches, it's been that or worse. Because Ivan is seen as the family patriarch in America, he'll do it up the whole nine yards, no matter what I might have wanted. But, it's really his party."

"So," asked Thule, "what's going to happen?"

Randy shrugged, "It's a family thing. Ivan will announce that I'm getting the bulk of his estate when he kicks off. We'll introduce my fiancee officially. Then, Ivan will tell everyone what arrangements he's made for me, during and after college."

"Arrangements?"

Again, Randy shrugged. Thule noted that his brash confidence was gone now, replaced by a quiet uncertainty. Also, his speech patterns had changed, becoming more sophisticated. Thule knew that he was being let far more deeply into Randy's confidence, but as of yet, didn't know why.

"He hasn't told me a damned thing," said Randy, "but the usual form is a house somewhere near school, followed by a plum job at one of the family's businesses. Even the branches that have fallen on hard times have their tuition paid by a trust my great grandfather set up and some sort of job. The Vandevoorts look out for their own."

"Admirable," said Thule, not entirely ironically.

"So," asked Randy, "what are your plans after school?"

Thule wondered for a moment if that was all this was, some form of one-upmanship. He bristled a little at the idea and almost blurted out what he really intended to do. But, in the few steps it took him to calm down, he said, "Work for Jonas. Make sure he can't live without me. Convince him to take up golf and other retirement-type activities."

Randy laughed, "I hear you, but don't knock golf. Jonas has probably lost a metric buttload of money because he doesn't play. Try fly fishing."

"So," asked Thule, "why the sudden interest in my future?"

"What do you know about my family, Thule?"

Thule felt a chill go up his spine, but he forced himself to shrug nonchalantly, "Just about what everybody knows."

Randy stopped walking and eyed Thule evenly. For a few seconds, Thule thought the who game was up. But, when Randy spoke, he said, "My father has a man named Vil Umanski. Before my father took over, Vil worked for my grandfather. His official title is head of security, but he keeps the whole ball of wax operating. The funny thing is that Ivan has no fucking idea how important Vil is to his operation. Either that or he chooses to belittle the man at every opportunity out of some mistaken desire to keep him in his place."

Thule nodded, "Every organization has a few people like that."

"No," said Randy, his eyes flashing, "Not like Umanski. He's one of a kind. He's ex-KGB, never takes his eyes off the prize. He's completely indispensable," He took a deep breath, then went on more calmly, "And he's older than dirt. At some point, he's going to die. Even if he hangs on another twenty years, at some point, I'm going to have to replace him."

Thule felt his shoulder muscles starting to ache from keeping a poker face throughout the conversation and a single bead of sweat ran down his spine. Still, he managed to say calmly and with a reasonable facsimile of clueless curiosity, say, "What does that have to do with me?"

"Jonas has a controlling interest in a Boston electronics firm called Spartan Security Systems," said Randy, "As far as I know, his management of it has been completely hands off since he took it over from its insolvent founders. You should work there."

"In security?" asked Thule, "Me?"

Randy laughed heartily, "Such modesty. Postal, I've been watching you for a while. When I found out that little Latin piece I did freshman year was yours, I saw the looks you would give me and thought you were going to try to kill me. So, I kept an eye on you. When you didn't come after me, I thought you were weak. But, then I figured out, you're just smart--smart enough to know how to pick your fights. And you've got this incredible self-control. If the situation had been reversed, I would have killed you in a second, not thinking about the damned consequences."

Thule nodded, as if acknowledging the correctness of Randy's assessment.

Randy went on, "But, until recently, I thought you had no ambition. Then, you moved in on Tarr. I don't know how you did it, but it was smooth. And I realized that there's not one person in this whole goddamned useless school I'd want watching my back but you."

Thule nodded a little in acknowledgement, "I'm flattered, but..."

"Don't be," said Randy, "Listen, in a few weeks, I have to give up all this high school bullshit. I've been sloppy about a lot of shit, but I always had my old man and Vil to cover my ass. Once I get out of college, I'm pretty much on my own. I need somebody like Vil."

"You think I'm like Vil Umanski?" asked Thule, absurdly pleased.

"Not the old part, of course," said Randy, "but I imagine you're like he was at your age, when he first joined the KGB."

"NKVD," said Thule.

"What?" asked Randy, puzzled.

"If he's as old as you say he is, there wouldn't have been a KGB when he was my age. The Soviet intelligence division at the time was called NKVD. The KGB wasn't founded until 1954."

"See?" said Randy, "that's what I mean about an eye for details. I'm figuring, if you can get Spartan to acquire or build an armed security division, I'll contract you to handle my security and you can be my Vil Umanski. After Jonas and Ivan retire, we can take it a lot farther than that. In some ways, my father is real stupid. Something happened between him and Jonas's wife a long time ago and he's let it drive him crazy ever since. I don't know the details. But, if you and I are simpatico, there's no limit to what we can do together."

Thule nodded, "So, all I have to do is take over a multimillion dollar electronics firm and build a new division while attending MIT?" He laughed, "You're putting a lot of faith in me."

Randy chuckled, "I know. If you can't do it, you're not who I think you are." He laid a hand on Thule's shoulder, "You'll manage it. Now, let's go meet the family."

-=-

The house where the extended Vandevoorts were was laid out similarly to the main house and in the same classic revivalist style. The furniture still looked expensive, but not nearly so much as Thule had already seen today. In one corner, a pianist played something soothing. Everyone seemed to be dressed for a much fancier party than Thule was. But, Randy's outfit seemed just as out of place, so Thule didn't worry much... at least, not about that. He'd always viewed Randy as sort of a vicious animal, one who might perhaps be able to rule through cunning and instinct. Again, he'd underestimated the opposition. It was becoming an unfortunate habit. Eventually, it would probably get him killed.

"For the Vandevoorts," said Randy, "keep your friends close and your enemies closer is redundant. Half the time, my father spends keeping an eye on the competition. The other half, he's watching the rest of us."

The first person to detach from the rest of the crowd was a statuesque, red-headed woman in a backless black dress who looked to be in her early twenties. When she spoke, her Russian accent was heavy, her voice faintly cross, "Randall, you know you're not to bring your friends in here. This is strictly a family party."

"Thule," said Randy, "this is my stepmother, Sveltana. She's been in charge of the planning for this whole event. Sveta, this is Thule Roemer, Marigold Tarr's intended. Ivan wanted me to see that he gets introduced to everyone."

Svetlana's eyes registered her surprise, "Oh," she said, her accent still heavy, but the ire gone, "you're that Thule." Her accent softened the "th" diphthong so that it became a soft "d."

Thule did not bother to wonder aloud how many other Thules (or Dules for that matter) they were expecting at this party. Instead, he accepted her traditional Russian greeting of a kiss on each cheek, after which she slid an arm around his waist. From the smell of champagne on her breath, he wondered if it was for support, but she walked with the easy confidence of an experienced drunk. Gently, she guided Thule towards the knot of people gathered around the long sitting room table. There were almost two dozen people in all. Other than Thule, Randy, and Svetlana, only one woman looked to be much under forty. Svetlana directed Thule straight to her, Randy in tow.

"Dule," said Svetlana, "this is Randy's older sister, Tryne."

"Tree-neh?" Thule asked, mimicking Svetlana's pronunciation and extending a hand to shake. When Tryne smiled at him, he said, "I'm Thule Roemer, a friend of Randy's."

Tryne's smile had been insincere to the point of deliberate rudeness. The handshake was brief and abrupt. The whole time, her glance was on the intersection between Thule's body and Svetlana's. Thule himself would have to admit that Svetlana was pressed awfully close to him, considering that they'd known each other less than ten minutes.

Glancing at Tryne's hand, Thule noticed the slightly lighter band of skin on her ring finger, indicating that she'd recently taken off a wedding ring.

Randy seemed to notice the glance, "Tryne's recently divorced. She's been living in the main house for about a month now while she arranges other accommodations."

"Thank you, Randy," said Tryne, pulling her hand away from Thule as if burned, but her voice cool, "Perhaps you'd like to show him my bank balance while you're at it." She turned to Thule, "Whatever my brother may have told you, I am not a brood mare to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. So, save your breath."

"Thule," said Randy, speaking a little more loudly, "is Marigold Tarr's intended."

"Oh," said Tryne, her hand flying to her mouth, "I'm sorry. I..."

"No harm," said Thule magnanimously, waving her off, "I'm sure you must have many suitors." The word, so archaic, seemed to fit in here. Among the Vandevoorts, everyone seemed to talk like they lived several hundred years in the past.

Tryne seemed mollified for about a half second before she turned on Randy, "More than enough," she said, "who actually know me. Plus at least a half dozen you and Ivan have tried to set me up with since I moved back in." Her smile at Thule was a little bit more genuine this time, "I apologize for assuming you were another one of them."

"We're only looking out for your happiness, Tryne," said Randy.

"Funny how you assume I would be happiest with the sons of Dad's business associates," snapped Tryne.

Whatever Randy said in response was lost in the general babble of conversation as Svetlana led Thule away from them, "Come on," she said, "once they get started, they can go for hours. Let me get you introduced to the rest of the family."

What followed was a quick succession of more than a dozen introductions, made in ones and twos, to a variety of older men and women, the men all named Vandevoort, the women all introduced to Thule as "Soandso nee Vandevoort, wife of Soandso" followed by a recognizably blue-blooded surname. Many of them displayed the sandy-haired good looks or the aftereffects thereof one would expect from the finest Dutch maritime stock. To a one, they also showed a razor-sharp mind as each asked carefully guarded questions meant to determine Thule's status with the family and if they could turn it to their advantage. Thule hoped his responses indicated a basic loyalty to Randy, but a willingness to hear any offers people might have of a strategic move.

When they had a moment away from other people, Thule asked, "So, who are all the Koreans? I didn't think the Vandevoort family extended so far."

Svetlana laughed and laid a hand on Thule's arm as if he'd said something particularly witty. For the hundredth time since they'd walked in the room, Thule glanced over at Ivan. Despite the fact that the man's wife was draped over Thule's arm, he hadn't so much as glanced in their direction.

"Nyet," she said. "They are business associates of my husband's. Ivan does not discuss business with me. I am not smart enough to follow these complex deals." She gave Thule an ironic smile, "But, I have heard him refer to the man he is speaking to as The General. Come. I will introduce you."

Thule nearly balked as Svetlana guided him towards the cluster of people where Ivan stood talking to the General and an imposing, older Chinese woman who appeared to be the General's wife. Walking around with Svetlana attached to his arm like some kind of trophy was one thing. If Thule got up in Ivan's face about it, the situation would become impossible to ignore. Experimentally, Thule tried to step out of Svetlana's grip, but she hooked a finger into one of his belt loops so that he couldn't do so without hurting her.

Thule slowed his feet and looked down at her. Svetlana looked up at him. She was still smiling, but there was a determined set to her jaw that told Thule she would not be easily swayed from her course. Thule didn't know why, but she wanted Ivan to see them together.

Knowing he was seconds away from getting dragged into a scene that would probably get him ejected from the estate and possibly ruin all the work he'd done to get into Randy's graces, Thule searched for anything he could do to prevent it. Just then, a waiter walked by with a tray of champagne flutes. Thinking to spill one on himself or Svetlana, Thule reached out. Instead, Svetlana pulled him on an angle towards Ivan that caused his fingers to miss the tray by inches.

Realizing he wasn't going to get away, Thule decided it was necessary to take desperate measures. He'd worked too hard to get into this party just to get thrown out before it had really started. Searching his memory for everything he knew about Ivan Vandevoort, he came to a snap decision. Wedging his arm between his body and Svetlana's, he managed to lever himself free. Before she could turn it into a wrestling match, which would probably serve whatever purposes she had in mind, Thule slid his own arm around her waist, pulling her in close.

Svetlana looked up surprised, but didn't protest. Instead, she let her hand rest lightly on Thule's chest. Guiding her as she'd guided him, Thule fixed an arrogant sneer on his face and approached Ivan Vandevoort.

He knew this approach was going to make Ivan angrier at him, but hoped it would keep the man from making a scene now. If Thule understood how Ivan thought, he would never speak up over Thule's obvious grab for what belonged to him. To do so would draw attention to the fact that he'd been challenged. Thule had no doubt there would be an ultimate retribution, but it probably wouldn't be tonight. He would have to deal with that problem when it occurred.