Silent Partner

by Stephen Frey

  “We need to be careful approaching this place,” Tucker replied. “Even at this time of night.”

  A half a mile past the business park entrance the road snaked through a heavily wooded area. Tucker slowed the Jeep down, found a dirt road, and turned off onto it. A hundred feet into the woods, he pulled to a stop.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Wait a minute.” Angela pulled out her cell phone and dialed Liv’s apartment number.

  “Hello,” Liv answered softly.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Yes. He hasn’t made a sound.”

  “Good. I’ll call again in a little while.”

  “All right. Bye.”

  Angela slipped the phone back into her pocket. “Okay, let’s go,” she said, coming around to the driver’s side. Tucker had his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Who are you talking to?” she asked suspiciously. There it was. That urge not to trust. But she hadn’t paid attention to it in Wyoming and had almost been pushed from a five-hundred-foot cliff.

  “Just checking messages. Bill Colby wants to know where I am every second these days.” He glanced around the dark woods. “You ready?”

  She nodded slowly, wondering if this was really a good idea—or maybe the worst mistake of her life. “Yes.”

  “Then let’s do it. Whatever ‘it’ is.”

  “We have to get inside this Sumter location. We have to see what’s there. Hopefully there’ll be a file or a communication that confirms Harmon’s story.”

  “Okay.”

  They moved through the woods to the edge of the business park, then kept to the shadows as much as possible as they tried to read street signs and building numbers. The commercial park was comprised of four long, two-story buildings containing everything from graphic design firms and computer repair shops to warehouses and light-manufacturing companies. Finally, they reached their target, identifiable only by its number on the building. There was nothing on the door or the front of this section of the building to indicate that it was a Sumter location.

  “Okay, now we know which one it is,” Tucker said, looking around. The long building stretched a hundred yards in both directions. “We need to mark it so we’ll know which one it is.”

  “I’ve got an idea.” Angela reached down, picked up a stone from a rock garden in front of the building, and trotted out into the empty parking lot. She placed the stone down beneath an overhead streetlight that was directly in front of the Sumter door fifty feet out into the lot.

  “Good thinking,” Tucker said when she returned. “Let’s get to the back of the building.”

  They jogged to one end of the building, then around to the back and the delivery area, and located the first fire escape leading up the side of the building to the roof.

  “What are you waiting for?” Angela asked, moving past Tucker as he gazed upward. She grabbed the first rung—four feet off the ground—pulled herself up to the third rung, managed to get her toe onto the first rung, then began climbing. She was glad it was dark so it wasn’t as obvious to her that she was getting higher off the ground with each step. She could feel the ladder shaking. Tucker was climbing too. When she reached the top rung, she hauled herself up onto the roof and waited for him.

  “Come on, cowboy. What’s wrong? You look a little winded.”

  He winked at her. “I’m pacing myself, Angela.”

  They jogged across the long, flat roof toward the front of the building, carefully avoiding condensers, pipes, and other obstacles. When they reached the front, they turned right and kept going, staying within a few feet of the roof’s edge, checking each parking lot streetlight until they reached the one with the stone lying beneath it.

  “There it is,” Angela said quietly.

  “I see it.”

  “I hope your friend made it out here this afternoon.”

  “He did. He confirmed.” Tucker moved carefully over the roof toward the center of the building. “Here we go.” He dropped to his knees, grabbed a trapdoor handle, and pulled. “We’re in,” he said as the door came up.

  Angela knelt down beside him. “How did he get in here?”

  “Claimed he was a fire inspector and that he needed to look around,” Tucker replied, pulling out a small flashlight and shining it down into the darkness. “The people in charge here bought his act without a question. He left this open for us when he came down off the roof.” Tucker leaned forward and pushed down a set of folding wooden stairs. They extended to the floor. “Let’s go,” he said, placing his foot on the top step and disappearing.

  Angela followed, heart pounding. Now they were guilty of breaking and entering. But it was the only way.

  The three men who had trailed Angela and Tucker to the back of the building each holstered a Glock 9 mm. They were hunters, skilled in the art of stealth—and killing.

  “What now?” Tucker asked when they had both descended the wooden stairs and reached the floor.

  Angela grabbed the flashlight from him. “Follow me.” She led him out of a small hallway and on to an open floor furnished with several metal desks piled with papers. She moved quickly to the first desk and inspected the top folder. “Look at this,” she whispered.

  Tucker moved beside her. “What is it?”

  She flashed the light over the pages inside the folder. “A mortgage application.” She turned quickly to the third page. The Race/National Origin box entitled “black, not of Hispanic origin” had been checked. “Hold this,” she said, handing him the flashlight. “Keep it on the file so I can see.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Angela snatched a handwritten note paper-clipped to the front of the legal-sized manila folder and scanned it. “My God.”

  “What?”

  “This note states that the application can be approved because the subject can service the debt and is moving to an ‘acceptable zone.’ ”

  “ ‘An acceptable zone’?”

  “It must mean that this person isn’t trying to move into a neighborhood that someone at Sumter has determined he shouldn’t be moving to. He’s staying put, not trying to break the neighborhood color barrier.” She glanced up into Tucker’s eyes. “It’s incredible. There’s probably enough evidence in this office to bring down the entire Sumter senior executive team.” She caught her breath, thinking about the effect this information would have on the bank’s share price. No doubt it would tumble if the press got hold of this information. If Liv Jefferson got hold of it. Then the value of Jake Lawrence’s six hundred million investment would undoubtedly plummet.

  “What do we do now?” Tucker asked.

  “Keep looking.”

  “This isn’t enough?” he asked, nodding at the file.

  “I want more.”

  She had to talk to Jake and tell him what she’d found before she contacted federal bank examiners. She had to tell Jake to dump his shares, even if he had to take a discount for liquidating so large a position so fast. If she saved him from a huge loss, he would owe her and he’d come through on his promise to get Hunter back. Maybe. Of course, technically, she’d be guilty of insider trading for giving Jake the information, because insider trading worked both ways. Whether you gave someone a tip ahead of positive news, or saved them from taking a bath ahead of bad news. But she hadn’t taken all these mammoth risks to fall short this close to her ultimate goal. And she wasn’t going to cover up what she knew. She owed Sally that—and much more.

  “Come on, John,” she urged, grabbing the flashlight and heading for the stairs leading down to the first floor.

  When the rays of the flashlight disappeared, the leader motioned silently over his shoulder for the other two to follow. The man and woman hadn’t bothered pushing the folding wooden steps back up against the ceiling, so there would be no creaking sounds to worry about. He pulled out his pistol, then carefully began descending the stairs.

  There were more desks on the first floor—as well as a closed door. Angela twisted the knob several t
imes when she got to it, but the door didn’t give.

  “You want to get in there?” Tucker asked.

  “If the door is locked, there must be something important behind it.”

  “Get back,” he ordered. He grabbed the knob with both hands, then slammed his hip into it. It swung open, crashing against the wall behind it.

  Angela moved into the room, which was filled with file cabinets arranged alphabetically. She moved quickly to the cabinet markedJ , pulled open the drawer, and found Liv Jefferson’s mortgage application. She caught her breath as she noticed that the Race/National Origin box had been altered from the “white, not of Hispanic origin” box Liv had checked to the “black, not of Hispanic origin” box. “Jesus,” she said to herself quietly.

  “What is it?” Tucker asked.

  Angela shook her head. There was a memo attached to the file denying the mortgage request because the “applicant is black and is moving into a restricted zone.” “More evidence,” she said grimly, moving further into the room. Jake was going to have to move fast to dump his Sumter shares.

  At the back of the long room was a cabinet marked “ZIP file.” Angela opened it and inspected the contents. A cover memo at the front described the long list of five digit numbers as “restricted” ZIP codes.

  “What do you think of this?” she asked, holding the cover memo out for Tucker to see.

  He read the instructions and shook his head. “This is incredible.”

  “Let’s see what else is here.” Angela moved to the next row of cabinets. She pulled open the top drawer of one labeled “General Information,” and whistled to herself as she rifled through the contents.

  “What now?” asked Tucker.

  “Memos back and forth between ExecCom and Carter Hill,” she answered, her hands trembling as she held up the pages. This was the mother lode. “Memos describing a systematic plan by Sumter to deny mortgages to minorities based upon where they intend to move. It’s all here,” she said triumphantly. “How they review and update the list of restricted-zone ZIP codes once a month. How they use ESP Technologies to screen on-line applicants to determine race if the applicant chooses not to fill in the Race/National Origin box. How people who work at this location must be white and carefully screened to make certain they ‘sympathize.’ ” Angela stared into Tucker’s eyes. “The incredible thing is that Bob Dudley isn’t mentioned anywhere in this information. At least, not that I can find. He’s had Carter Hill do all his dirty work.” She shook her head. “So, they’re both involved.”

  “Don’t move!”

  Angela and Tucker froze as two men, dressed in black, pistols drawn and leveled at their chests, burst inside and the room was suddenly bathed in light.

  “Get down on the floor!” one of the men yelled. “Right now or you’re dead.”

  As she knelt, Angela glanced up at Tucker. He was smiling at the men, making no move toward the floor.

  “Hey, boys,” he said calmly. “Doesn’t sound like you’re here selling Girl Scout cookies.”

  “Get down!” the man closest to Tucker roared. “Now.”

  “It’s just that I’ve got this trick knee. An old high school football injury.”

  “John, get down,” Angela pleaded.

  “Nah.”

  The man moved directly in front of Tucker and pointed the barrel of his pistol at Tucker’s forehead. “Down, asshole. Or I shoot.”

  Tucker shook his head and smiled. “You really don’t want to do that.”

  The man brandishing the weapon smiled back smugly. “And why not?”

  “Because if you do,” Tucker answered, “those three men standing at the door will killyou .”

  Angela’s eyes flashed to the doorway. Three more men were there, aiming Glocks at the two men holding Tucker and her. As she watched, they moved silently into the room, snatched the pistols from the two stunned men, then slammed their pistol handles into the back of each man’s neck. Both collapsed to the floor. The entire series of events had taken only a few seconds.

  The leader hurried to where Tucker stood as his two subordinates quickly cuffed the unconscious men on the floor. “The area is secure, sir,” he announced, saluting Tucker.

  “Good job, son.”

  “We followed you in, as requested. Over the roof and down.” He nodded at the two men on the floor. “We observed these men entering the building through the front door a few moments ago, then moved. I apologize that they were able to threaten you.”

  “It’s all right. You did well.”

  “Thank you, sir, but we need to get you out of here immediately. There could be more on the way.”

  Tucker looked over at Angela. “Give me a moment alone with Ms. Day. We’ll be right out.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The three men were gone a moment later, dragging the prisoners out by their feet.

  Angela stood up slowly, mouth open. “That man just called you ‘sir,’ ” she said, her voice hushed. “And he saluted you.”

  “So?”

  Her mind reeled as the lightning bolt struck. The man standing before her was not who he claimed to be. He was not a ranch hand. The man standing before her was one of the most powerful men in the world. “It’s you,” she whispered. “It’s been you all along.”

  Tucker grinned. “What are you talking about?”

  Angela swallowed, barely able to speak. “You’re Jake Lawrence.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?” She pointed at him. “The man who attacked me in the cave in Wyoming said that I was supposed to be with Jake Lawrence.”

  “And you had been.”

  Angela shook her head. “No. He made it clear that it was his understanding that I was supposed to be with Jake Lawrence at that moment.” And then it hit her. “Oh, Lord.”

  “What?” Tucker asked, still grinning.

  “The handwriting on that ESP file. The one with the comment in the margin about Sumter and cloak accounts.”

  “Yeah? What about it?”

  “It was your handwriting.”

  “No, no.”

  “Oh, yes. It matched the handwriting of the note you gave me in the parking garage that day you surprised me. When I was on my way to Rosemary to pick up Hunter. The note with your cell phone number on it. I knew there was something I was missing all along. You led me to the connection between Sumter and ESP. You wrote that note in the margin of the file while we were sitting at the conference room table.”

  Tucker stared back, saying nothing.

  “No wonder I didn’t find a record of anyone named Tucker at any U.S. military base in Alaska. That was a lie, designed to keep the illusion intact.”

  “Angela, I—”

  “That’s why the guy in the woods was asking you about the network after the helicopter was destroyed. That’s why the Jake Lawrence I met with didn’t know whether the Lawrence family was originally from Atlanta or Birmingham, why you ran down Ted Harmon in that parking lot, and,” she hesitated, “how you know about my tattoo. You watched me that first night I was at the lodge. You were behind the bathroom mirror. I know you were.”

  Tucker continued staring back at Angela intensely for several moments, his expression grim. Then his smile returned, broader than before. “I had to make certain it was you,” he admitted quietly.

  “What?”

  “As my decoy told you in the cabin that day, I have to be very careful at all times. I had to make certain you were the real Angela Day. Not some imposter sent by a group trying to kill me.” He chuckled. “My information was that you had a small tattoo of a butterfly on your hip. When I saw that, I was confident I wasn’t dealing with an imposter. I was confident that you were the real Angela Day.” He laughed again. “That was my only motivation in doing that. I assure you.”

  She shook her head, the enormity of it all beginning to sink in. “Why? Why all of this?”

  “I’ll explain everything,” he assured her. “But let’s get out of
here. There’s someone you need to meet with.”

  Carter Hill had called another emergency ExecCom meeting. This time they were in the basement of the West End church.

  “There’s been a development,” he informed the other three. “The location on the South Side has been penetrated.”

  “Holy Christ!” Booker shouted, slamming the bridge table with his fist. “Are you serious?”

  Hill nodded nervously. “Yes, I received word an hour ago. We sent people out there, but we think they were neutralized.”

  “What does that mean?” Abbott demanded. “ ‘Neutralized’?”

  “We sent a second crew out to the location, but the initial team was gone. We think they were—”

  “We need to destroy everything at that location,” Booker broke in. “Immediately.”

  “That’s already in progress,” Hill agreed. “The operation has been terminated. But there’s still a problem.”

  “What?”

  “Certain very damaging files are missing. Files that could break everything wide open.”

  “What in God’s name are we going to do?” Thompson demanded.

  Hill closed his eyes tightly. “We have only one option.”

  “What?”

  “I am certain I know who was responsible. Or was at least involved in the break-in.”

  “Who?”

  “Angela Day.”

  Booker leaned back in his chair. “Jesus Christ. How do you know?”

  “I had people following her tonight. Unfortunately, they lost her, but her actions were very suspicious.”

  “So what’s the damn option?” Abbott asked nervously, understanding that all of their lives hung in the balance. “What are we going to do?”

  Hill gazed at Abbott, fighting desperately to stem the awful panic that was building inside him. How could he not have seen this coming?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Where are we going and why won’t you explain what’s going on?” Angela dialed Liv’s cell number for the third time since she and the man she now believed was the real Jake Lawrence had hurried back to the Jeep through the woods and raced away from the business park.