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breath and marveled at how steady he felt, how much in control of himself. “I think you should be more worried about what you and your husband are going to say, not me. I’m just a hired gun following orders, so you and your husband can remain lily-white. I’m rather busy right now, so I’m sure you can understand if I cut this conversation short. So, if you have nothing else to say to me, I’m hanging up. Oh, wait just one minute. If I’m forced to, I will give you up. You do realize that, don’t you?” Whatever retort was hanging off Fiona Sandford’s collagen-enhanced lips went unsaid because Marks broke the connection. She’d call back—she always did—because she was relentless.
    A knock sounded softly, hesitant. “What?” Marks bellowed.
    His secretary, a dumb blonde if there ever was one, in his opinion, poked her head in the door and announced that three different reporters were in the lobby asking for comments, and no, none of the three were from the Post. “Tell them I have no comment at this time and do not bother me again. If you do, you’re on the unemployment line.” The door made no sound when it closed.
    A monster headache was brewing behind Lionel Marks’s eyes. He knew what he was experiencing was the beginning of the end. Time to pack up and head for the hills. In his case, Hong Kong, where he could get lost among the millions of people who lived there. He owned multiple properties in the New Territories, where he could hide out for the rest of his life if need be. He just wasn’t sure he could live in that culture. Still, when he’d made his plans for a getaway years ago, he’d convinced himself it would work. If it didn’t, then he’d go to Plan B, which was to relocate to Dubai. Now that the time was here, suddenly he wasn’t so sure. Especially if reporters were going to start to dog him.
    Marks thought about his wife then and his three children, who were grown and off on their own for the most part. He gave little thought to his four grandchildren. He wouldn’t miss any of them. They, on the other hand, needed his money to keep up their lifestyles, especially his wife, who thought money grew on trees. If he left, he’d just simply walk away, no baggage, and head for the airport. He wouldn’t look back, either. But he was going to need a foolproof disguise if any of it was to happen. He had long ago invested in an alias, complete with a full set of credentials in case a hasty departure was called for. His long, manicured fingers drummed the top of his shiny desk. Christmas. Maybe he could hold out, bluff it through till after the holidays to try to keep things as normal as possible. Then again, maybe he should start putting his exit plans into gear right now.
    Marks still kept an old-fashioned Rolodex on his desk. He fingered the cards, mentally cataloging how much money he made a year off each client. If even one of them thought they could make him their scapegoat, he’d throw their sorry asses under the bus so fast, they wouldn’t know what hit them.
    Time, he thought, to bring out his Rosetta Stone to brush up on his Chinese.
     
     
    While Lionel Marks was rummaging for his Rosetta Stone disks, Annie de Silva was showing that morning’s edition of the Post to Myra. “The kids did a great job on the article, don’t you think, Myra? I see Ted and Dennis playing this out for a Pulitzer, and that’s a plus for the paper. I saw on the news this morning that the tenants in the article have an anonymous benefactor. I have to assume it’s young Dennis, and that’s a good thing from where I’m standing. I just love it when right wins out. Maggie is rather upset that Ted has moved on and is doing his own thing. She called me last night, I think in the hopes that I would reel him in so that she could control what he does. I hated to do it, Myra, but I had to tell her it was hands off where he is concerned because I know that if she baits him too much, he’ll up and leave.