Page 35 of Blacklist

At the funeral I’d seen a number of new faces among the house staff, but an old, familiar one greets me at the door. Felix betrays no recognition as he opens the door to the house. The man was ancient when I first met him and the years have left their mark. There’s a tremor in his step as he moves to the side to allow entrance.

“I’m expected,” I say coolly, wondering if his memory is going along with his body.

“Yes, Mr. Malcolm, pardon me, sir, Mr. MacLaine, is in the sitting room,” he corrects himself. It must be hard to give an old dog a new master. “He asked that you join him for a drink before dinner.”

It’s impossible to judge whether his ignorance of me is deliberate or not. Butlers have a peculiar sense of decorum even with old friends, and truth be told, I always liked the old butler. I have no idea how he puts up with the lot of them. But loyalty is a tricky thing. Sometimes it’s only habit. Sometimes you don’t know better. Like any relationship, sometimes you stay when you should go.

He shows me to the sitting room, which I could find on my own. Like most of Windfall, nothing’s changed. An oil painting of the family hangs over a carved Italian marble hearth. Despite the warm weather outside, a gentle fire burns in its grates. The room’s temperature remains perfectly controlled, naturally. The MacLaines aren’t the type to worry about energy efficiency. It’s all part of the traditional Southern image they project. Felix moves to stoke the fire as Malcolm rises from a leather wingback. He’s abandoned his suit and tie for a checked shirt, rolled at the sleeves and crisp khakis. It’s all the very picture of gentility.

He extends his hand to shake mine. “Mr. Ford, I’m pleased you can join us. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Whiskey over ice,” I say.

“Felix, did you open that bottle of West Reserve?” It’s an order masquerading as a question. Malcolm MacLaine doesn’t serve drinks to his guests no matter how important they are.

“Yes, sir.” Felix moves to a bar cart in the corner and begins preparing my drink. Ice cubes clink in the Waterford tumbler. I can’t help but notice how his hands shake as he drops them in one at a time.

I move closer as causally as possible, taking the drink when he turns to deliver it. I won’t watch the old man spill.

“Aged fifteen years,” Malcolm brags as he takes a sip of his. “So complex. You can taste the oak and sherry in it.”

I nod in agreement, unsurprised that he doesn’t seem to notice that I’m not drinking. People rarely do. Accepting the drink is the important part of the transaction between men with money. I learned a long time ago that powerful men see the world and its people through their own filters. Some men, like Felix, exist to serve. Most men exist to be intimidated, kept carefully under thumb. Other men might be useful but there’s always a test to be sure. Those are the types you offer a drink. Acceptance is simply the first step toward partnership. I’ve shown I’m willing to take something he gives me. Now what other offers will he make?

“I’ll send you a bottle,” he says. A gift? A bribe? There’s hardly a difference to a MacLaine. “Tell me about this real estate transaction.”

He manages to hide the panic in his voice but a small note of anxiety sounds in the background.

“A penthouse,” I tell him. “I need a place to stay in the city.”

“So you won’t be staying in Valmont?” It’s a loaded question. He wants to know how close I’ll be to the dragon’s hoard he’s trying to protect. Or if it’s already too late.

He doesn’t need to know the truth. “I prefer the city.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s harder when you have a family.” He glances at a framed picture on the mantle. I recognize his wife but I’ve never seen the dark-haired girl before. “My daughter, Ellie. I don’t think we could coop her up in an apartment.”

“Better to give her fifty acres to roam,” I say, my words an innocuous reminder that I’m well-schooled on this estate.

“Indeed.” He reaches to straighten a tie that’s not there, tugging loose the top button instead. “I’m sure dinner is nearly ready. My wife will be joining us.”

He rises and I follow suit. I don’t ask about Adair. Malcolm MacLaine knows what I’m after, which means she’ll be there, too. He doesn’t need to know how much or why. Not yet.

When I don’t prod him for more information, he adds, “And Adair, of course.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” I murmur as we make our way toward the dining room.

“You never told me how you know my sister?” He stops for a second. “You do know my sister?”

Bless his heart. This was the best Angus MacLaine did as a replacement. It’s going to be far too easy to ruin the entire family. “I attended Valmont with her.”

“Oh, you’re a Viper.” He references the school’s mascot like the overly devoted former frat boy he is.

“More or less. I started at Valmont, but I finished my education elsewhere.”

Wheels turn in his dark eyes as he ushers me into the dining room. An arrangement of roses and tulips in various hues of pink rests artfully in the middle of the table laid with crystal and gold-rimmed china. Malcolm MacLaine is showcasing his wealth to remind me who I’m getting into bed with. But it’s more than a performance, he’s trying to figure out who I am. He thinks I’ve given him a clue. I have. When this is over, I want the MacLaines to know exactly who ruined them. I want them to know there’s no mercy coming from me. I want them to remember sitting down to dine with the enemy.

12

Adair