Page 109 of The Fourth Option
Carolyn had told him that now was the time to play up his modestN’awlinsbackground, his working-class roots, the Budweiser to Moët story. She had remained in New York, making sure the previous day’s sound bites stuck. As he descended the stairs and felt the heat on his shoulders, a familiar wave of irritation washed over him. She better make that story stick. This was the moment, the golden opportunity. In the interval between the FBO lobby and the driveway, he developed a scowl, annoyed by the smell of the baking asphalt.
His mood changed when he saw his driver standing in front of a new Tesla Cybertruck, the angular stainless steel body glinting in the sun. If he were to be seen as a tech disruptor, he needed to upgrade from black SUVs.
While Dale stowed the luggage in the truck’s bed, Matheson admired the vehicle in the warm breeze. This was his day. But just as every rose has its thorn, every cherry has its pit. Matheson found his when Dale opened the rear door revealing Walt Kimbel, his face creased with worry.
“Problem?” Matheson asked, knowing the look all too well.
Kimbel answered by jabbing a thumb at the flight line. “See that last Gulfstream over there?”
Matheson slid inside and looked through the tinted glass. “What about it?”
“It belongs to Vargas. We’re on our way to see him.”
“Please inform Mr. Vargas we’re here,” Kimbel said to the woman behind the desk at the New Orleans Four Seasons Hotel.
Matheson lounged in the plush seating area, suit jacket on, no tie. Harris had taken a standing position where he could see the revolving doors and most of the lobby. A tan line outlined his eyes and the bridge of his nose where his wraparounds usually rested.
“Someone’s coming down,” she replied.
Someoneturned out to be a Latin man with spiky black hair and a goatee wearing a loose, short-sleeved button-up with a wide collar. “Let’s go,” he said.
Kimbel signaled Harris to step forward.
Vargas’s man shook his head. “He stays here.”
In the elevator, Kimbel and Matheson were subjected to a frisk.
“Is this really necessary?” Kimbel asked.
The man didn’t answer. He simply went about patting them down, checking their pockets, treating them like they had been selected for secondary screening at a TSA airport checkpoint.
“Well, well,” Vargas said when the door to the presidential suite opened. “It has been a while, hasn’t it?”
Matheson was forced to squint to get a good look at him. The far side of the room was nothing but glass, a view over the Mississippi River and the flat marshlands that stretched for miles to the south. The clouds had thickened with the afternoon heat. Some of the flat, gray bottoms beneath them showed dark streaks, stretching down to the ground like the tentacles of a jellyfish.
“This is a very pleasant surprise,” Matheson said.
Kimbel was equally gracious.
“Leave us,” Vargas said to his security man as he poured two fingers from a bottle of Patrón en Lalique Serie 2 into a glass at the bar.
Fulgencio Vargas was a legitimate, self-made businessman, presiding over a business that exported sugar from San Salvador to the U.S. and Europe. He was also an increasingly ruthless drug boss who went by the nameCuchillo. As the value of the latter business had grown, Matheson was increasingly uncertain as to which of those personalities would show up whenever they met.
Matheson led with cautious solicitude. “I saw your new jet on the tarmac.”
Vargas waved at a room service table with ice buckets. “Drink?”
Kimbel took a beer from the ice, relieved that the Central American sugar-magnate personality was presiding and not the terrifying drug lord. Matheson snatched a Topo Chico sparkling water and popped the top.
The two Americans settled onto a sofa. Vargas took a chair, his back to the windows, his hands resting comfortably on the squared-off armrests.
“I watched the earnings call,” he said. “Good numbers.”
“Not bad,” Matheson said with obvious satisfaction.
Kimbel stepped in. “We are forever in your debt. Long-suffering cancer patients will soon have the pain relief they require. Xylaxyn really has a chance to change things.”
“I stopped by the Tulane wing,” Vargas answered, his face shadowed and hard to read against the white sky behind him. “My mother.”
