Chapter 8 - The Ambush At The Harvard Club
The Harvard Club on West 44th Street was quiet and stately, its classic brick facade bathed in the soft glow of historic gas lamps.
Inside the private second-floor dining room, Arthur Vance sat alone in a burgundy leather armchair, sipping twenty-year-old scotch.
He was a tall, imposing man of sixty-five, wearing a custom double-breasted navy suit, radiating the untouchable confidence of old money.
The heavy mahogany doors to the private room opened quietly, and Arthur Vance looked up, expecting his political associates.
Instead, Sarah walked in, her emerald green silk blouse clean and pressed, her head held high despite the white bandage on her temple.
Arthur Vance set his glass down on the table, his bushy eyebrows rising in slight amusement.
“Sarah, my dear,” Arthur Vance said smoothly, smoothing his silk tie. “What a surprising entrance. Where is Mark? Isn't he supposed to be packing for Switzerland?”
“Mark had a change of travel plans, Arthur,” Sarah said, walking across the oriental rug to stand directly across from him.
Two armed operatives entered behind her, flanking the door, followed immediately by General Arthur Sterling.
When Arthur Vance’s eyes landed on the General, the color drained instantly from the old billionaire's face, his hand freezing on the crystal glass.
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“Sterling?” Arthur Vance whispered, his voice shaking. “You’re dead. You died in the Mediterranean ten years ago.”
“Reports of my death were exaggerated to keep snakes like you comfortable, Vance,” Arthur Sterling said, stepping into the room.
