PRESIDENT EMBROILED IN WALL STREET SCANDAL
LANE MEMO TO BE RELEASED TODAY BY FBI
“A week ago everything was fine. We were ahead of Whitman by ten points. Now the markets are in a meltdown, I’ve been accused of some bogus insider-trading charge, and suddenly I’m in a dead heat with him. If it keeps going at this rate, I’ll be ten points behind Whitman by tomorrow. You’re my chief of staff, Dick! Do something!” The President slammed a fist against the wall.
Walsh stood and motioned for the three aides to leave. They melted from the room.
“And look at this!” The President pointed at another headline.
PRESIDENT OF NEW YORK FED CALMS GLOBAL MARKETS
“Wendell Smith and the Republicans are coming out of this smelling like roses. They say this Morgan deal that he and another couple of WASP bastards cooked up is going to save the day. And that the American people ought to be damn glad that there are people like Wendell and Granville Winthrop around to save the day when things get really tough. Are they joking? Wendell Smith is the one who is responsible for the NASO mess. And he’s going to come out of it looking like a hero. I had nothing to do with it, and I’m going to come out of it looking like day-old shit.”
Walsh wanted to tell him that that was Washington, but he didn’t. Now was not the time. Walsh stared at his President. Warren was not holding up well in the face of adversity. His face was drawn. Under his bloodshot eyes were great bags, unnatural and grotesque. And he seemed suddenly thinner. “It’s tragic.” Walsh could find no other words.
“Of course it’s tragic. It’s me. If it were anyone else, it would be a shame. Since it’s me, it’s tragic. But do something about it, Dick. Don’t just sit there and say, ‘It’s tragic.’ Do something!”
Walsh shrugged. He did not know what he could do. He had tried to find a friendly ear in the press corps, but suddenly people who had been so willing to publish a well-timed op-ed column to help the President in the past were nowhere to be found. The train was already out of control, and it looked as if there would be no way to put it back on track before the election. Maybe the best thing for Walsh’s own political career was to jump off the train now, while he still had a chance to survive.
The President ranted on. “And the press. I can’t believe those rat bastards. They’ve jumped on this insider-trading thing as though it’s not obvious that I’ve been set up. Isn’t it obvious to you?”
Walsh nodded halfheartedly.
The President stared at Walsh for a moment, and then his shoulders slumped. He could see what Walsh was thinking. “My God, Dick. You don’t really believe I influenced Farinholt or anyone else at Lodestar to trade for me on inside information?” His voice shook. “You don’t really believe any of that Peter Lane memo crap. Do you?”
“Of course not,” Walsh replied slowly.
“You know it’s not true. How would I know anything about the Penn-Mar takeover before it happened?”
“You couldn’t.” Walsh’s voice was hollow. “You couldn’t.” But Walsh could not forget the fact that one of the President’s best friends in the world was the current chairman of DuPont. Walsh stared out the window, past the President. It was a gorgeous, cloudless summer morning in central Virginia. And it was definitely time to jump off the Buford Warren train. He had no doubt. Timing was everything in the political game.
* * *
—
“Cassandra?”
“Hello, Andrew.”
“Can you talk?”
“Yes.”
“Were you able to find out anything else?”
“A few more things. Did you read this morning that Peter Lane’s body, or what was left of it, showed up in St. Croix?”
“Yeah, the sharks had a nice time with him. Doesn’t surprise me either.”
“I’ll have to admit, Andrew, you were right on target.”
“Now the only person who can refute the memo is the President, and people aren’t paying much attention to what he’s got to say these days. What else did you find out?”
“The insurance company that paid the death benefit to Jeremy Case’s widow is a Swiss company. Guess who owns it?”
“Humor me.”
“Winthrop, Hawkins. Guess how much the death benefit was.”
“Seven hundred thousand dollars…”
“…And seven cents.” Cassandra finished his sentence.
Falcon was quiet for a few moments. It was all coming together. “Cassandra, I need you to send me all of the information you’ve put together—the information on the insurance company owned by Winthrop, Hawkins, the information about Rutherford, and particularly the telephone records of the Sevens.”
“Where do I send it?”
“To Boston. To the Federal Express office in Faneuil Hall. Send it for early delivery. By ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”
“Why Boston?”
“I’ve had to run a little errand here.”
Cassandra sighed. She knew why he was there. “Be careful.”
“I will.” Falcon hesitated. “I need to ask you a huge favor.”
“You’re running out of favors, Andrew. This is it.” But she laughed as she finished the sentence.
“This is very important.”
“Okay.”
“I’m going to put all of the information I’ve compiled into a safe-deposit box here in Boston. The information will include the four files I took from Penn-Mar, information regarding wire transfers that implicate the Sevens, what you’ve gotten for me, and a synopsis I’ve put together of everything that’s happened. The safe-deposit box will be at the Bank of Boston on State Street. There will be only two people with access to that box. You and me.”
“What?”
“I can’t trust anyone but you, Cassandra. Please.”
“Andrew, I—”
“Please. You know I never say please twice in a row.”
There was a long silence. “What do you want me to do?”
“From now on, you will check every night with an answering service that I have contracted with. I’ve prepaid for a year’s worth of service. That should be enough.” Falcon gave her the number of the service. “I’ll leave a message for you by eleven o’clock every night. Every night!” He emphasized the words. “The message will always contain a color. If there is no message by eleven or the message doesn’t contain a color, you are to come to Boston immediately, take the information from the safe-deposit box, and turn it over to the federal authorities. No questions asked. Just do it! I’ll send you a key and the number of the box by overnight mail. I’ll send it to the post office in downtown Manhattan near where you work. That’s probably safer than for me to send it to your home. And more convenient.”
Falcon endured another long pause.
“So, if I don’t get a message, then I can assume something’s happened to you.”
“Yes. And at that point you must go to the authorities. You can do it anonymously. I don’t care. But you have to promise me you will go to them with all of the information from the box.”
“I will.” She hesitated. “But why don’t I just keep a second copy of all the stuff here with me?”
“No! More than one set of this stuff, and we run the risk that somebody else gets his hands on it. I can’t have that. Besides, it wouldn’t be safe for you.”
“Okay, okay.”
Falcon relaxed his grip on the phone. Things were coming together.
“Andrew, did you see that the chairman and vice chairman of NASO both committed suicide?”
“What?”
“Yes. Barksdale was the vice chairman, right?”
“Yes.”
“He jumped off of his apartment balcony in New York City last night.”
“Holy—”
“And Boreman blew himsel
f up in his car Friday out in Westchester County. There was a note back at his house. Said he couldn’t live with what had happened at NASO. They haven’t been able to positively identify the body yet. Apparently, it was pretty badly burned. But the license tag matched Boreman’s car.”
Falcon stared at the wall in front of him. “You said it was Friday that Boreman killed himself?”
“Yes.”
Falcon nodded to himself. There was something he needed to check out.
* * *
—
“Why haven’t you been able to get Falcon yet? My God, it’s been five days.”
“We know where he is.” Rutherford used a bored tone. He yawned into the telephone’s mouthpiece. He was tired of these constant calls from Prescott.
“How do we know that?” Prescott emphasized “we” sarcastically.
“Our female friend.”
“Of course.” Prescott snorted through the phone. “Well, if we know where he is, then why in the hell don’t we kill him?”
“We know he is here in Boston. We just don’t know his exact location in the city yet. But we expect to learn that in short order.” Rutherford had told no one of Falcon’s escape from Phoenix Grey in Harlem.
“Boston?” Prescott was surprised. “Boston?” Then alarmed. “Christ, he’s come right into your backyard.”
Immediately Rutherford regretted relaying Falcon’s whereabouts to Prescott. “So what?”
“Why do you think he went to Boston? Do you think he’s going to try to contact you?”
“He could have done that by phone from New York.”
“Then why did he go to Boston?”
“I don’t know. And I’m not going to worry about it.”
“Sure, it’s easy for you not to worry. It’s not your career. Hell, if this thing really blows up, if Falcon does go to the authorities, you’ll melt into the cracks and the rest of us will face the music alone. With your background, you could disappear and no one would ever find you.”
Rutherford hesitated a moment for effect, then exhaled heavily into the phone. His voice was quiet but steady. “Do you really think I would do that? Leave you men after all we’ve been through?”
Prescott swallowed hard. The pressure was destroying him. “I…I’m sorry, Bill. It’s just that…”
“I am the most loyal person you will ever know.” Rutherford’s voice rose in intensity at the end of the sentence.
Rutherford knew that Prescott regretted the insult. He knew that it was simply the strain of the situation. He had seen it many times at the CIA. It was a natural reaction to supreme stress. But it could not be excused. It was a reaction that had to be silenced—immediately. Dissension from within was more powerful a force to reckon with than any enemy one could face. It would be dangerous to allow Prescott to continue thinking this way. He might convince the others to abandon the conspiracy. Or worse, cut a deal with the authorities. He had to come down hard on Prescott and teach this sniveling little civilian a lesson. “Apologize to me!”
“I apologize.” Prescott’s voice was barely audible.
“You’re weaker than I ever imagined, Turner. Now is when you must be stronger than you ever thought you could be.”
“Right.” Prescott cleared his throat. “Yes.”
Rutherford softened his voice slightly. “If Falcon were going to go to the authorities, he would have done so by now. I think he wants to cut a deal. You see, he has that little problem in Ohio.”
“You mean the dead guard?”
“Yes. He probably knows that we’re aware of his involvement in that shooting. He knows that we could contact the authorities, and they would find him. You see, we both have information that could seriously damage the other. It’s an interesting dilemma. It’s a case of who will blink first.”
“But the authorities will figure it out sooner or later. They must be checking the visitor logbook for that day. They’ll find Falcon’s name, and when they call him at NASO just to ask a few questions and find that he hasn’t been at work in a week, they’ll track him down.”
“Chambers removed both Falcon’s and Barksdale’s names from the visitor book. And he has kept Landon away from the authorities.”
“But Falcon wouldn’t know that.”
“You’re right. Which is why I think he will make contact with us soon.” Rutherford glanced out the window of the suburban home. “What’s going on with the lawsuit?”
“Penn-Mar’s attorneys are trying to settle, but we’re having none of that. Meanwhile, I don’t know how many different federal and state agencies are crawling all over Penn-Mar. The President is all but dead with the insider-trading charge and what’s going on in the markets. Bailey Henderson is killing him at the Chronicle. And the other major newspapers are following the Chronicle’s lead, just as we knew they would. The whole thing is going perfectly—except for this problem with Falcon.”
“Don’t worry, Turner. We’ll get Falcon.”
“I—I know you will. I have faith in you.”
“Good. Listen, I’ve got to make a call. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Okay.”
Rutherford hung up. Prescott was right. If this thing did blow up, he would disappear forever. The others could fend for themselves. Rutherford gazed out the window. What the hell was Falcon up to?
* * *
—
Cassandra stared at Bailey Henderson’s file cabinet. She had already procured all of the phone bills from her contact at the telephone company. She had sent the bills and the other information to Falcon in Boston. She had done her job. She didn’t have to do any more. But there might be more information. That one more shred of evidence that would tie the whole thing up in a nice, neat package. And it might be right here in Henderson’s office.
She had been here five minutes now, in the secretarial space of Henderson’s sprawling first-floor office. Five minutes was a long time given the situation, but it was very late and Henderson was away in California. She had checked and rechecked his schedule.
Cassandra moved through the dimly lit room to the other file cabinet and knelt down. She pushed the thick screwdriver into the lock and began to twist.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Suddenly, the overhead lights illuminated the room brilliantly.
Cassandra dropped the screwdriver and rose to her feet slowly. She did not panic but was very calm. She had no reason to panic. Falcon had anticipated this possibility, and he had told her what to say if there ever was a problem.
Bailey Henderson stood between Cassandra and the door. “What are you doing here?” He was becoming agitated. He was breathing hard. He squinted at her. “You’re Cassandra Stone, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Why are you rooting through my personal files?” His voice wavered.
They stood twenty feet apart, staring at each other.
“Answer me!”
Cassandra stared at him coldly. “I work for William Rutherford.” Then, without another word, she walked calmly past him toward the elevator.
Henderson stared at her as she passed him, and swallowed hard.
33
Falcon walked slowly along Albany Street, the main thoroughfare of Boston’s South End warehouse district. Huge eighteen-wheelers crawled down the potholed roadway, searching for the correct loading bay in which to park. The late morning was consumed by revving engines, blasting horns, and diesel exhaust fumes.
The information was securely stored in a safe-deposit box at the Bank of Boston’s main branch on State Street: the files from Chambers’ office at Penn-Mar; the wire-transfer records Martinez had compiled; the information Cassandra had sent to the Federal Express office; his own “to whom it may concern” memo; and everything else. All of it was safely compacted into the metal box. And the extra key and the
number of the box written on a piece of loose-leaf paper had reached Cassandra yesterday morning. Falcon breathed deeply as he moved through the shadows of the huge buildings. There was one more thing in that safe-deposit box, just in case.
Falcon turned off Albany Street and made his way down a side alley toward the Days Inn where he was staying. He walked slowly now. Cautiously. Before leaving his room this morning, he had called to tell her of his exact location, assuring the fact that he would be found. He wanted this confrontation. It had to occur. There was no choice. But the confrontation had to be on his terms. Otherwise, he might not survive it.
The semi’s horn blew so loudly that Falcon almost fell over. The truck was nearly on top of him before it had signalled its approach into the open door of the warehouse. Somehow he managed to stumble to the brick wall, out of harm’s way, as the huge tractor trailer bounced noisily by. The driver pulled on the horn twice more as he passed Falcon.
Falcon watched the truck as it rolled into the building. His heart pounded in his chest and perspiration poured from his body. He had not slept in forty-eight hours, and he was losing the edge. As Falcon leaned against the bricks, he allowed his eyelids to shut. It felt so good to rest. The information was safe and the key was with Cassandra. He had done all he could do. There was nothing left now but to wait.
He opened his eyes. The man was running toward him, a look of desperation on his face. The same man who had chased him in Harlem and boarded the New Jersey Transit train at Linden was running straight toward Falcon from the direction of the Days Inn. The waiting was over.
Falcon’s vision blurred momentarily. He squinted at the sprinting figure and his eyesight refocused. The man was just fifty yards away and closing quickly. There could be no doubt of his identity. Falcon turned and began to run. Give me strength.
Phoenix Grey pumped his legs as hard as he ever had. He could not fail this time. There would be no third chance. Rutherford had made that clear.
The Takeover Page 35
