The Last Protector(Clayton White #1)(11)

“You’ve tasted them?” Oxley asked.

“I did.”

“And?”

“I’d prefer if you’d form your own opinion, sir,” Pierre replied, his French accent coming through. “I wouldn’t want to influence—”

Oxley shut him up with a wave. “You’re new here, Pierre,” he said, “so let’s make something crystal clear, shall we?”

Pierre remained silent but nodded.

“Good.” Oxley swung his feet off the desk and stood. He straightened his sport coat and walked over to Pierre, entering his personal space. “There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, you can say that will influence how I think. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” he asked.

Pierre blinked several times and took a small step back. “I—I’m not sure I do,” he said tentatively.

Oxley eyed him for a long time. He didn’t like what he saw. There was a je ne sais quoi about Pierre he wasn’t fond of. The Frenchman was in his midforties, small, blond, and impeccably dressed, but he exuded an arrogance and superiority he shouldn’t have. Not yet, at least. In Oxley’s humble opinion, Pierre hadn’t done or accomplished anything since he joined the winery a few months ago that warranted such pride. He didn’t care about Pierre’s embellished résumé, or his past achievements.

“You came highly recommended by your previous employers,” Oxley continued. “Do you believe yourself to be good at what you do?”

“I was once the best sommelier in Europe,” Pierre said, straightening his shoulders, a trace of a smile adorning his lips. “And I must mention that the winery I managed in California, after working at two Michelin-star restaurants, just won second place at this year’s World’s Best Vineyards. So yes, I believe I’m good at my job. Sir.”

“Why did you apply to work for me if everything was so dandy in California?” Oxley asked, relieving Pierre of the bottle of sauvignon blanc he was still holding.

“Money, of course,” Pierre said, as if the answer should have been obvious. “Nobody was able or willing to match the compensation you offered.”

Oxley turned around and walked to one of the large windows facing the Atlantic Ocean. Even though it was impossible to see the water at night, powerful spotlights mounted on the rooftop and aimed toward the sea illuminated the surrounding vineyards. The house, which sat on a four-hectare lot fifteen miles south of Cape Town, had cost him a hair above US$2 million, a fraction of what it was worth. He would have paid twenty times that in Southern California for a place similar to this one.

The compound included a simply designed but elegant 6,500-square-foot two-story home for him, his wife, and his five children; two much smaller guest houses for his staff and security detail; and another midsize structure that housed a shooting range, a training facility, and a helipad. The two actual winery buildings, plus the newly renovated tasting room, were a bit farther away on each side of a small lane that crossed the vineyard to the ocean.

If all went according to plan, Oxley Vineyards’ wine would be available for the public to purchase in twelve months. Not that he expected to make much profit from the sales. Breaking even within the next couple of years would be a great start. Of course, making a profit had never been the ultimate objective.

Oxley Vineyards was simply his method of worming his way into South African high society in order to make the necessary contacts he would need to run for office. It was the only way he could really change things.

Roy Oxley had accomplished much in his life. Born in Los Angeles, he was the result of a one-night stand between a British Airways pilot and a cute American waitress. It wasn’t until his mother was killed in a botched robbery attempt at the small corner restaurant where she worked that Oxley had contacted his father for the first time. Surprisingly enough, his father had accepted him with open arms and hadn’t even asked for a paternity test, which told Oxley that the man must have known he had a child in the United States. For years Oxley wondered if his old man had fathered more kids around the world. If he had, he’d never told Oxley about them.

Oxley became a British citizen and joined the military when he turned eighteen. He eked out three years in the Parachute Regiment followed by five years with the elite tier-one unit of the British Army, the SAS—Special Air Service. That was where he met Abelard Krantz, one of the most driven people he’d ever encountered.

After eight years of military life, Oxley had decided he’d had enough. There was only so much one could do to win the war, and he was tired of being a pawn. He wanted to be a knight instead. The United Kingdom’s Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as MI6, was ecstatic when he submitted his application. It wasn’t every day—or even every year—that a decorated, combat-hardened SAS trooper was interested in joining the spy business. The fact was, most SAS operators didn’t hold MI6 in high esteem. SAS troopers were door kickers, while MI6 officers were . . . well, nobody really knew what they were. And that was exactly the way MI6 wanted to keep it.

Oxley had been with MI6 for almost ten years, recruiting and running agents and helping in the execution of over half a dozen assassinations and paramilitary operations in Afghanistan and Iraq, when he was unexpectedly called back to London. It was true that things had gotten a bit out of control in Afghanistan. A few complaints had been filed against him for prisoner abuse by members of his staff, but they had all been investigated and dismissed. Roy Oxley’s work was too important, and his effectiveness couldn’t be denied. It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that his efforts in the Middle East, as controversial and scandalous as they might have been, had helped save the lives of hundreds of British troops.