by Meryl Sawyer
When she’d been on the fast track at PowerTec, she had been just as ambitious. Maybe more so. She should give him a break, but she couldn’t. The head of WITSEC had assured her that her handler would be with her until the trial was over. Derek had sworn he would stay until the end.
Well, what did she expect? Close enough for government work, her father used to say. They did whatever they damn well pleased—regardless of their promises.
He waited for the server to put down their salads before saying, “My replacement will be here next week.”
“When are you leaving?”
“On the five o’clock flight this evening.”
Now all she had was Romero, and the way he’d been acting, she might have to distance herself from him. What a hoot! Tyler had once accused her of being “too social.” Now she was alone in the world with just a dog.
“Don’t worry. You’ll be fine. You’re the most self-sufficient witness I’ve ever protected. We just want you to be cautious. At about a year witnesses become careless. They think the danger has passed.”
“That’s why Rutherford and Ames have waited until now to find me by trying to access my file. They think WITSEC has become careless, too.”
He poked at his salad with his fork. “Masterson thinks someone was testing the waters. You know, making sure the electronic security works. Yours wasn’t the only file they tried to access. Could have been the FBI or CIA. Nothing to worry about.”
Curt Masterson directed the WITSEC program. He was an impressive bull of a man who probably knew what he was talking about. If he were wrong, she was dead.
“Your jacket is buried so deep that no one’s going to find it. Trust me, the Feds saw to it and Masterson double-checked them.”
Federal Prosecutors were usually the ones who recommended witnesses for the program. It was in their interest to protect the confidential file—the jacket—on a witness.
Reese Barnaby III—three-fer to his buddies—was among the most ambitious of the federal prosecutors. His successful prosecution of the top executives of PowerTec would make him a household word in Texas without him having to spend the millions it usually took politicians to buy name recognition.
Lindsey took a bite of her salad. It was hard to swallow; life was hard to swallow. “I hope Masterson is right. I want to live to testify.”
“I’m sure Masterson has taken precautions he hasn’t told me about. You’re a top priority. You know the 800 number you have memorized?”
“Yes.” Before she left the safe house in D.C., she had to memorize the special number. Each time she met Derek, he had asked her to repeat the number she was to call in case she couldn’t reach him in an emergency.
“Not every witness is given that number.”
“Why not?”
“Because a lot of them are lowlifes from drug gangs. It’s not safe for them to go home, but hit teams aren’t looking for them.”
She managed a nod, her anger barely under control.
“The number is for high risk, high priority witnesses. You call and a special task force will be mobilized to help you.”
“What a joke! They’re supposed to rush from D.C. in time to save me?”
“WITSEC will notify the FBI’s field office here. They’ll help you.”
Lindsey found this somewhat reassuring. She had contacted the FBI when she’d discovered the discrepancies in PowerTec’s accounting records. The FBI had immediately responded, analyzed the situation and sent in an undercover agent to gather more information. Annette Sperling had been a top-notch accountant who easily joined PowerTec without anyone suspecting who she really was.
Annette had worked at PowerTec six months, covertly analyzing their financial transactions, before someone killed her execution style. An hour after Lindsey found her body, the FBI yanked Lindsey out of Houston and put her in protective custody.
“Any word on when those creeps will be brought to trial?” she asked.
“No. These things take a while.”
“It’s been almost a year.”
“Don’t raise your voice,” he warned. “I know you’re frustrated. Remember Enron. It was over a year before indictments came down. It takes time to build the kind of case they need to get convictions. Rutherford and Ames can afford counsel who’ll provide the most amazing legal gymnastics imaginable.”
Ted Rutherford, CEO and her boss, CFO, Jackson Ames. Thinking of them made something in her gut coil inside itself. Once she’d looked up to them, especially Jack. She’d worked with him every day—and never suspected the truth.
“Has there been any progress in the investigation of Annette’s murder?” she asked, although she was certain she knew the answer. She monitored the case on SmokingGun.com. No leads. Nothing. All the signs of a professional hit.
“No, but everyone knows who’s responsible.”
“Rutherford and Ames.”
“Annette didn’t deserve to die.”
She didn’t say she might have bought it that night, as well. Tyler’s unexpected meeting with out-of-town clients had given her some free time. She’d returned to PowerTec just after the undercover agent had been murdered. If she’d arrived a few minutes earlier, the killer would have shot her, too.
“From what I hear the Feebies thought highly of Annette. They miss her.”
“Why did you come all the way here to take me to lunch and tell me you’re leaving? You could have called.”
Two beats of silence. “There are things I wanted to discuss with you—off the record.”
An ominous premonition snaked through her. What next?
“If Masterson or anyone finds out—I’m finished.”
“I won’t say a word. I swear.”
“Most of the witnesses I’ve worked with have been drug dealers or LCN. Scumbags who flipped—turned on their bosses—but they’re still criminals.”
She’d learned the FBI and U.S. Marshals called the Mafia by the abbreviated term for La Cosa Nostra—LCN.
“I thought less than ten percent of WITSEC people return to lives of crime.”
“True, but I still have to deal with a bunch of lowlifes.”
“With Worldcom and Enron and now PowerTec, it looks like white collar crime is a growth industry.”
He chuckled at her lame attempt at a joke. “Be serious.”
“I’m serious. Deadly serious.”
He waited for the server to remove their salad plates and serve their entrées. Lindsey mustered a smile for the waiter. She sampled the veal in tequila chili sauce after Derek was served his Adobo steak.
“Like I told you earlier, you’re entering the period when most witnesses let down their guard. They call people they’re not authorized to call. You wouldn’t believe how many of them return home to attend a funeral or a wedding.”
“I know I’m in danger. I was the one to find Annette Sperling’s body, remember?”
She would never forget walking into the office where the agent was working undercover. Annette had been slumped forward over her computer keyboard. A single bullet had parted the blond hair at the back of her head, leaving a neat hole and a trail of blood running down her back and pooling on the carpet.
“I remember,” he said between bites of steak. “We’re still worried.”
We? Obviously he’d been discussing her with the boys at headquarters in DC.
“Why are you worried about me?”
“You haven’t adjusted. Living here, owning a gallery isn’t enough. You should have friends—”
“I have a good friend. We’re having dinner tonight.”
“One friend isn’t enough. If all you have is one friend, you eventually confide in him. Then they tell someone, who tells someone…” His tone said he’d seen if before—too many times. “Next thing. You’re compromised.”
“Trust no one.”
“It’s not that simple. Become the new you. Build another life. You need to get out there. Date. Make a circle of friends the way you di
d in Houston so you’re not emotionally relying on one friend. That’ll help you become normal again.”
“Normal? After the trial, my life can return to normal.”
Derek swiped at his lips with the napkin. “Don’t count on being able to go home. We’re convinced the PowerTec jerks will arrange to kill you even if both of them are in jail.”
How could she go on like this? Always watching her back? Listening to strange sounds in the night and wondering if they’d found her. Never seeing her sister. Her niece. The man she loved?
What choice did she have?
This was her life—part two—the sad and lonely part.
Whoever said the truth will set you free—obviously hadn’t tried it. The truth had wiped out a promising career, a wonderful life.
And the truth might be the death of her.
Derek continued, “We just can’t trust Rutherford or Ames not to hire someone to kill you from their prison cells.”
She didn’t doubt it. From what she’d been able to tell, they had a fortune socked away in offshore and Swiss accounts. Carrion eaters of the corporate world, Rutherford and Ames had taken voodoo accounting to a new level. They each had a ruthless, vengeful streak.
“Don’t forget all I’ve taught you. Keep your eye on people around you, even those at a distance.”
“Believe me, I’m getting good at it.”
“You’ve got two cell phones, batteries charged?”
“Of course. They’re in my purse. Same with the gun.”
“About the gun.” There was a tick of something that bordered on worry in his voice. “Witnesses aren’t supposed to have guns.”
“But if someone is after them—”
“Too many are former criminals. Giving them a gun is against the rules.”
The light dawned. He’d broken a rule for her, and he didn’t want anyone to know. This was the real reason he’d come to see her. Derek had expected to be with her through the trial. He never thought he would have to hand her over to someone who might jeopardize his career by revealing what he’d done.
“I won’t say a word to the new guy.”
Obviously relieved, he grinned. “Might be a woman.”
They ate in silence for a few minutes, before she asked, “Why did you give me a gun?”
“Right from the first, you were different. All I’d dealt with were LCN lowlifes or drug pushers. You were a class act. Intelligent. Quick to learn.” He put down his fork, his dark eyes troubled. “But I worried about you. I didn’t—still don’t—think you know what you’re up against. I wanted to give you as much protection as I possibly could.”
Lindsey was touched. Derek had been professional the entire time. She’d never suspected he’d cared one whit about her. Not only had he cared, but he’d jeopardized his career to help her.
“I’m good at self-defense. I go to the firing range once a week.” She leaned over and patted his hand. “You’ve done the best you could. The rest is up to me. Enjoy your promotion.”
She was unable to conceal the note of appreciation that had crept into her voice. Once men had fallen all over themselves to help her. Then came the murder. Suddenly the men in her life gave her orders, not caring in the least what she thought or wanted.
“Start dating. You’re too pretty, too intelligent to become a hermit.”
“I’m not all that interested in—”
“Even if you did return to Houston…” He let the words drift away.
She remembered her final day there, a sunny Saturday in April. The last time she’d been with Tyler. The weather had been nice enough to have the top down on his Porsche. They’d laughed and talked as they slogged through traffic to have lunch on the patio at Zov’s Bistro.
Even though the FBI investigation loomed over her, something she couldn’t discuss with Tyler, she’d been happy. He knew there were problems at PowerTec and that some sort of investigation was underway. She’d naively assumed the FBI would fix the trouble. This problem was nothing more than a blip on the radar screen of life.
“Why does it take a million sperm to fertilize one egg?” she’d asked Tyler.
Accustomed to her jokes, he’d shaken his head. “I give. Why?”
“They refuse to stop and ask for directions.”
His rich, husky laugh still echoed in her ears. He always laughed no matter how lame her joke. Just thinking about him made her long to go back in time. To go home.
Home. Unless you can never return home again, never see your family again, you’ll never really appreciate what the word means. You have to lose everything to comprehend its significance.
“Lindsey, I gotta tell you,” Derek said, intruding on her thoughts. “I don’t know how to say this…”
“Tell me what?” Something in his tone warned that he’d saved the worst for last. “Just say it.”
He hesitated, fiddling with the grilled zucchini he hadn’t touch. “Tyler Prescott is getting married on Saturday.”
The words went through her like a serrated blade. Tyler getting married? How could that be?
Of course, Tyler had gone on with his life. She’d vanished with hardly a word. She’d left a message for him at the office—in the middle of the night when he wouldn’t be there—to tell him that she was being sent on an emergency overseas assignment and would contact him later.
It was a lame story, but the FBI had insisted she tell him this. She’d hoped Tyler would see through the lie. He knew a little about PowerTec’s problems, but not about the FBI’s involvement. She hadn’t had the opportunity to discuss the murder with him, but she thought he would put two and two together. Obviously he hadn’t.
What did she expect him to do? Wait forever?
He’d fallen in love with someone else. How could that happen in just a year? They’d been together almost three years. They’d spoken of marriage, but he hadn’t actually proposed.
“Is he marrying anyone I know?”
Again Derek hesitated. “Skyler Holmes.”
Her stomach rose, then plummeted in a sickening lurch. He’d always called Skyler the blond bimbo. It was true. Her bra size was bigger than her IQ.
Holding back tears, she quelled her emotions. Nothing was ever gained by crying, her father used to say. She deliberately directed her thoughts to the months ahead. Like a mirage, her future shimmered in the distance. Out of focus—out of reach.
CHAPTER THREE
BROCK WALKED INTO HIS OFFICE. He’d spent the morning attending a seminar conducted by the FBI. Combating Computer Assisted Crimes. What a joke! They’d shown him a few new tricks, but most of it he knew.
Booooring.
He shivered as he shrugged into the microfiber jacket in the room, hyper cooled to protect the sensitive equipment. He pulled on tight-fitting microfiber gloves with the fingers cut out.
What Brock wore didn’t matter to him. Most days, no one saw him. He worked alone by choice. The company would fund all the staff he needed. He had fifty-three people working for him, but he kept them in the field. That way no one at Obelisk but him knew how to use the sophisticated equipment.
Some of the arrogant pricks he worked with, like CEO Kilmer Cassidy, thought they did, but should they try to use his equipment, they would destroy everything. Without an authorized laser fingerprint and the top secret password, on the fourth try his computers would assume unauthorized entry mode, self-format, and devour the hard drive.
He had a backup no one knew about—his personal laptop that he kept with him at all times. He’d downloaded all of Obelisk’s top secret data onto it and had several of his own special programs installed, as well. It was against company rules for any of the secured info to be removed from the premises. But who was to know? He was head of security.
Brock smiled and glanced around his office to see what was happening in his domain—the world. He had six state-of-the-art computers with twenty-seven inch flat-screen monitors evenly spaced around the U-shaped room, but he didn’t rely on the
m the way he did his personal laptop.
Wall mounted televisions—currently on mute—were tuned to CNN, MSNBC, and FOX News. A fourth television was on Al Jazeera, the Arab news channel. The other wall was dominated by a map of the world on a liquid-plasma television screen. It was raining in California, he noticed. So who cared? Let the nuts and fruits on the West Coast drown. All the satellites were still orbiting normally, he observed, but one of Russia’s wasn’t functioning.
“Par for the course.”
The end of the Cold War had been the death knell for Russian science. The state no longer funded research the way it once had. The Russian Mafia now ran the country, and they had no use for scientists.
The satellites and news channels helped Brock keep track of Obelisk’s myriad interests overseas. They required intensive monitoring. A conflict—no matter how small—anywhere on earth was a potential for Obelisk to profit.
Normally staff would have been needed, but Brock had shown the higher-ups how security could be mastered by a single—talented—person and modern technology. Naturally they’d gone along. It was in their best interests for as few men as possible to know the truth about Obelisk’s dealings.
He heard line seven ring. It was the number only his operatives in the field used. Attached to all his private lines was a special mechanism that chopped words into minute sound bites, then jumbled them so that even a state-of-the-art computer would have to spend months unscrambling the garbled noise.
He had no reason to think there was a tap on a line no one—not even the telephone company—knew existed. But various incidents at Obelisk had taught him to be extraordinarily careful. That’s why he had insisted his office be in an underground bunker beneath Obelisk—away from prying eyes.
“Numero Uno,” he answered.
“We’re in place. Everything’s set,” said Operative 111.
His agents had numbers, not names. That way only Brock knew who they were. Their names weren’t written down anywhere except in his mind. They were paid in cash, not by the payroll department.
