Chapter 8 - THE VOICE OF THE PHANTOM
Vincent did not call his security detail. He did not press the intercom button on his desk.
He picked up his heavy gold fountain pen, slid it into his suit pocket, and placed the dark, synthetic object securely into the inner breast pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.
He walked to the double doors of his study, pulled them open, and stepped out into the grand gallery of the penthouse estate.
The hallway was quiet, flooded with natural afternoon light from the skylights above. Polished marble floors stretched toward the sweeping grand staircase that led down to the main floor.
As Vincent walked down the marble gallery, his leather-soled shoes making a crisp, rhythmic CLACK-CLACK-CLACK against the stone, he heard sounds he had never experienced in his life:
The faint sound of classical piano music playing from the kitchen radio downstairs.
The soft murmur of two housekeepers talking in the east wing linen room.
The crisp, sharp rustle of dry autumn leaves blowing against the exterior terrace glass.
Every sound was a new weapon in his arsenal—a fresh stream of real-time intelligence that he had been denied for nearly four decades.
He reached the top of the grand staircase and looked down into the main foyer.
Standing near the marble fountain at the center of the foyer, holding a leather briefcase and talking in hushed, urgent tones with Vincent’s chief of security, Frank, was his uncle, Arthur Turner.
Arthur was sixty-five years old, impeccably groomed in a grey bespoke suit, wearing gold-rimmed reading glasses. He was a man who projected an aura of total, sophisticated loyalty—the elder statesman of the Turner family who had stood by Vincent’s side at every sit-down, every court hearing, and every corporate signing.
Vincent stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Arthur.
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Because Arthur believed Vincent was stone-deaf, he was speaking to Frank in his normal, unsuppressed conversational tone, assuming that as long as Vincent’s eyes were not focused on his lips, his words were completely private.
Vincent stood in the shadow of the landing column, keeping out of sight, and listened.
