The Last Supper

Dining on the 102nd floor of One World Trade Center might have been excuse enough for Rachel Katrachian. Or it might have been the fact that the event afforded the opportunity to eat food prepared by world-famous chef Montrose, who up to this point had never come to the United States. Or it maybe it was the opportunity to rub shoulders with the elite of industry and government, with her being the only reporter present.

But the reality was that Rachel had accepted the cryptic invitation to attend this impromptu gathering of the hoi polloi because the invitation came from Hanson Greer, the richest man in the world. Greer never gave dinner parties, at least that she knew. He didn’t because he didn’t have any friends. You didn’t start from next to nothing and end up with a net worth that many small and a few medium sized countries would envy by making friends.

Rachel looked around her and the more she looked, the more questions came into her head. She had gasped when she first arrived and saw the once-in-a-lifetime view of the New York skyline—she swore she could see the curvature of the earth!—but now she was gasping at the people who sat at the table around her.

Directly across from her sat Mirian Hall, chairwoman of First Love, the largest humanitarian organization in the world. Right now the rotund, middle-aged woman was talking to the elderly man next to her, Robert L. Steenway, CEO of Kagame Industries, the new world leader in electronics. Across from those two and next to Rachel sat Dr. Martin Freedbaum, the Surgeon General of the United States, and on the other side of him was Howard K. Pauls, the director of the FBI. On and on she went down the table, a veritable Who’s Who of movers and shakers. Rachel counted 12 of them—was there any significance in the number?—minus the empty chair at the front where Hanson Greer should be sitting.

The person sitting directly across from Greer’s empty chair was the greatest mystery for Rachel. In her 12 years at The New York Times, she had never heard one kind word passed between Greer and Baldwin Black, the middle-aged CEO and founder of Agate Lion, Inc., Greer’s biggest competitor. In fact, the two of them had almost come to blows six years ago following an antitrust suit filed by Black, one that had finally been settled out of court.

Her iPhone buzzed a text. Despite her surroundings, she chanced a glance at it: Washington Post claims Watson is dead. She flinched, knowing the text from her city editor was there to rub in the fact that she wasn’t ready to run her story on the disappearance of Hamilton Watson, the environmentalist who had disappeared six months ago. He had been scheduled to speak on national TV, supposedly to make some major announcement, and then had disappeared. Everyone suspected foul play, and the Post was ready to shout murder, but Rachel wasn’t convinced.

“I’m sorry, madam,” a voice said over her shoulder. She turned and a white-gloved hand reached down and took her iPhone. “Mr. Greer’s instructions were quite explicit. No electronic devices of any kind.”

That drew a look from more than one of the people around her, and Rachel nodded meekly and handed him her iPhone. She looked up as she heard applause and a few laugh and say, At last. A handsome young man who looked vaguely familiar was wheeling Hanson Greer’s wheelchair in through large double doors in the rear of the room. Greer took his place at the center of the table, where Rachel noticed the empty chair had been removed.

“I’m so sorry I am late,” Rachel heard Greer say in his shaky voice. Rachel knew that Greer was 79 years old, but to her Greer looked like he had aged a great deal since the antitrust trial six years before. She glanced back at Black, who applauded modestly with the rest of those at the table, but she noticed that he wasn’t smiling.

“I hope you have been enjoying the meal here,” Greer continued. “Isn’t Montrose wonderful? I wish I could have enjoyed the meal, but unfortunately I am on a very strict diet, as you can see.” He gestured to a bag of liquid that was mounted on a pole next to him, and smiled faintly. Then he turned to the young man standing behind his wheelchair.