by Gayle Lynds
Creighton said, "Good morning, David. Nothing like hearing your cheery voice. I understand you want something."
David laughed. "No, Creighton. You want something. I believe it has to do with privileged financial information relating to one Samuel Keeline. Don't tell me why. My gut says it's a bad idea to know. However, I expect payment and complete anonymity."
Creighton pursed his lips. David could still surprise him. He'd figured, he'd have to tell him about his plan, as he'd had to do with Brice. "Your identity is sacrosanct. Count on it. But I suspect you've already set a price for your services?"
"Indeed." The banker's voice radiated pleasure. "I want you to appoint me to the board of governors of the Federal Reserve."
Creighton was stunned. The Federal Reserve was like a powerful fourth branch of the U. S. government—a group of independent national policy makers free of the usual restrictions of checks and balances. The Fed issued money, set interbank interest rates, acted on its own when inflation was getting out of hand, and was banker to both the banking community and the federal government. When he'd given Brice Commerce, Creighton had believed he could get away with it because, as Brice had pointed out there was precedent: John Kennedy had appointed his brother Robert to be attorney general. And Vince would be promoted internally. Plus both Brice and Vince were exceptionally well qualified.
But for Creighton to give a second brother another critical position might make the press and the public explode in charges of nepotism. Even during the so-called honeymoon period that most new presidents experienced with Congress, there could be an uproar great enough to weaken his ability to get votes he needed for bills.
With genuine regret, Creighton said, "David, I don't see how I can do that—"
"I know, I know." David interrupted. "You're worried about accusations of nepotism. So I have a solution. Wait a year. Brice tells me you've given him Commerce. So that gives you, Brice, and Vince time to prove your value. If you three are as good as I think, by then your appointing another Redmond to a high-profile post should barely raise eyebrows. If it makes you nervous, just remember the Dulles brothers." In the 1950s, Allen Dulles had headed the CIA while John Foster Dulles was on the hot seat as Secretary of State.
Creighton agreed slowly, "Both were enormously popular."
"That's right. If there'd been a third or fourth Dulles and he'd been put up for a high government office, the public would've swooned with gratitude." He paused, letting his compromise sink in. Then he asked for what he really wanted: "Of course, in return for the delay, I expect the next year you'll appoint me chairman. Alan Greenspan's had it long enough. It's time for fresh blood and fresh ideas. Without showing an unseemly lack of modesty, I think I can claim that's me."
Creighton Redmond sighed. He walked away from the tall windows of the Sacramento hotel room and slumped down onto the damask sofa. First Brice at Commerce, and now David leading the Fed. He smiled again. But if he could push the appointments through, having them officially on board would make his work easier. And why should he be surprised at David's ambition? There was plenty of precedent, and it was also true David was exceptionally well qualified for the job.
He thought all this, but what he said was, "But are you ready to give up Global?"
"Drake's moving up quickly." Drake was David's eldest son. "In a year he'll be in position to take over. I'm ready to leave. After all, it's just one business, although admittedly influential." That was an understatement. "But at the Fed, my playground would be far larger. I'd be directing the policy of the world's economic superpower. We both know I'd be damn good at it, and there's no reason, considering what I'd be giving up, that I take anything less."
Creighton nodded to himself. "Very well. What you say makes sense." More important, David knew how to make the terms palatable.
"Then we're agreed," David said with satisfaction. "I'll phone downstairs to whatever computer guru is on duty tonight to see whether we have anything on Keeline. It may take several hours because some of our data banks in the various companies don't interface. Then I'll give Vince a call with the information."
Creighton was at last beginning to relax. He stretched out on the sofa. "How did the police interview go this evening?"
"Not a problem. I expressed our regret for Julia's actions, then I contacted Dorothy and the kids and told them what it appeared Julia had done. I issued a press release from all of us. Still, the phone rang constantly until two AM with pushy reporters. What in hell's wrong with Julia? Did she really kill that psychologist?"
"Looks like it," Creighton said carefully. "In any case, it's obviously necessary to distance ourselves as best we can."
"It helps that her last name isn't Redmond."
And then Creighton heard his wife call from the bedroom doorway behind him. "Creighton? You fool! Are you still up? This was your night to sleep. We've got that six o'clock breakfast with the party tomorrow!"
He sat up on the sofa and said good-bye to David. "We have a deal?"
Each knew there was no need to discuss it further. Nothing would shake either from their verbal contract. The Redmonds were united.
"Deal."
The brothers hung up. Creighton ambled to his bedroom, while across the suite's posh living room his wife turned back into hers.
7:57 AM, SUNDAY
LONDON, ENGLAND
The new brick-and-stucco building that housed the Belgravia Division police had three brick-clad towers that Chief Superintendent Geoffrey Staffeld could see rising above the wet wintry trees as he approached through the morning mist. Furious and afraid, he drove past the courtyard entrance and boundary wall along Buckingham Palace Road and then plunged his car down beneath the station house to park.
His rage was leaking away like air from a balloon, leaving him with a sense of cold resolve. From his office he called down to his favorite computer wizard, Victoria Allen, in the communications complex. He'd arranged for her to be on duty this morning.
"Are you going to place the call now?" she asked.
"Immediately. Ready?"
When she said she was, he hung up, counted to ten, and dialed. If anyone could track the actual origination point of his blackmailer's number, it was Allen. She had an almost mystical relationship with computers and telecommunications lines. It was all gibberish to him, but the younger generation had been raised on gigabytes and hard wiring and machine language. . . terms he often couldn't even find in a dictionary.
With luck, she'd give him an address. Then he'd find his blackmailer, cut off the sod's balls, shove them into his bloody mouth, and slit his throat from ear to ear.
There was only one ring. "You've read the story?" It was the voice again—cultured, educated, and in charge.
Staffeld said icily, "I've read it."
"Of course, you have an intimate familiarity with this duty business—"
Staffeld felt his temperature rise. "I don't know what you're talking about."
The voice gave a low chuckle. "You have a reservation on the Concorde for this morning. You'll have to rush to make it. You also have a hotel reservation in New York City. The key that was in the newspaper opens a locker at Heathrow. Inside is a briefcase, and inside that are your hotel confirmation, additional documents that you'll need, plus the names of friendly journalists. Telephone them from the jet and set up a press conference. The details are all spelled out for you. What you're to say to the journalists is written out, too. Memorize it on the jet, then destroy it. After that, it's up to you how you handle the press. If you're convincing enough, you'll walk away from this a rich man."
Staffeld jammed a cigarette into his mouth and lighted it. He needed to keep the bastard on the phone as long as he could.
He said, "And if I don't?"
The voice had the chilly ring of disinterest: It was immaterial whether Staffeld lived or died. "If you're trying to bait me, Chief Superintendent, it won't work. You have your instructions. You know the cost if you fail." And the ph
one went dead.
The exit was so swift Staffeld was taken by surprise. He checked his watch. Bloody Jesus!
Sweat beaded on his forehead. He ran downstairs to the communications complex. The new Belgravia Division had been completed just a few years ago—in 1993—and everyone took great pride in its cutting-edge computing, communications, and information technology.
As he rushed to Victoria Allen's cubicle, she looked up from her computer screen and pulled off her earphones. The curls of her ash-brown hair sprang back into place. She had dark green eyes and a happy disposition.
But now she gave a frustrated grimace. "Sorry, sir."
"Nothing?" He'd counted on her giving him some kind of a lead. Any lead.
"Their electronic rerouting was simply too complicated and extended. He wasn't on the line long enough. I didn't even try to unscramble the conversation."
Staffeld didn't care about the conversation. "What can you tell me?"
"I couldn't get the specific address, but the call's origination point appears to be in the Washington, DC, area. Does that help?"
"I hope so." With a quick thanks, he turned on his heel and rushed for the door. He had to get home to pack and then to Heathrow International Airport.
31
9:46 AM, SUNDAY
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Sam was up before ten o'clock. Worry had made his sleep restless and unsatisfying. Awake was much better. In the light of day he had a shot at making sense of what was happening. It wasn't just the Amber Room; a lot more still eluded him.
He went down to the Durango in the garage and got his suitcase and the Russian book that contained color photos of the treasures once housed in Königsberg Castle. From the hall, he listened at the door to Austrian's bedroom. Silence. Quietly he cracked open the door. She was asleep in the bed, her face pink and lovely, those luminous eyes closed and the sexy lips relaxed in a half smile. He repressed the hot excitement that flowed through him. He wasn't going to get involved. Not again.
He shook his head and padded into the living room. Since she wasn't stirring, he might as well get on with things. There was no way he was going to awaken her. This was the first real sleep she'd had in more than forty-eight hours.
Once again he dialed Pink's sister's number on Long Island. Port Washington wasn't far from Oyster Bay.
"What, again?" Pink grumbled. "At least Stern hasn't tidied you up yet." Pink could hear his sister making breakfast while the girls giggled. The inviting aroma of buckwheat pancakes tickled his nose.
"Pink, listen. Is anyone following you? Anyone watching your sister's house?"
"Not that I can say. Why?"
Good, Sam thought. If the Janitors were prowling around, Pink would've spotted them. "I know you've been bored, so I thought I'd give you a little field action. Can you drive over to Oyster Bay and look into something for me?" He told Pink the name of the village employment service. "I want anything you can get about a woman named Norma Kinsley. She's a companion the service hires out occasionally—"
"Isn't she the witness the police talked to?" Pink interrupted. "I read in the Times this morning what that Julia Austrian you were interested in did. Killed her shrink."
Sam was taken aback. But then he realized he shouldn't have been. Pink had known Sam was going to check out Austrian. "She didn't do it. And 'Norma Kinsley' is the name Maya Stern used to get close to Julia. I need all the information you can get."
"So it's Julia now? Sam, don't do this. She's Vince Redmond's cous—"
"I know who she is, and I know who Maya Stern is. I've had a run-in with a couple of other Janitors, too. Give you any ideas?"
"Yeah. You've got no business being mixed up in it. This Julia Austrian—"
"Can you get me the information on Norma Kinsley, Pink? Yes or no?"
He was silent. "The people you think might be watching me, they're Janitors?"
"Probably."
"Watching my sister's house? Her and the girls?"
"Pink, if you don't want—"
"I hope it's important, Sam. Anyway, it's Sunday. In case you haven't noticed."
"Since when did a minor roadblock like that stop you from a job? Besides, the rich don't know from Sunday when they want something. The agency will be open."
Pink walked to the window and stared out as an ordinary-looking Ford Escort pulled away from the curb. His chest tightened. He watched the Escort until it was out of sight. "I don't know, Sam. From what I read about Austrian, I've got to think you could be in over your head. Could be you're taking this Amber Room business too far."
Sam frowned. What was wrong with Pink? Sam decided it had to be his ongoing preoccupation with getting back into the field. "Look, Pink, you owe me. Remember Odessa?" Odessa was a Ukrainian port city on the Black Sea, and the Communists had almost trapped Pink there in the days when the Iron Curtain was firmly in place. But Sam had gotten him out, thereby saving his life. "You owe me big. I'm asking for one lousy favor, and I need you to do it right away."
Pink closed his eyes. He did owe Sam. But the question was how much. He shrugged. "Okay, asshole. What's the phone number where you are? If I decide to do it, I'll let you know what I find. But first we're going to have breakfast here."
Sam smiled. "You're a pal, Pink. I'll remember you in my prayers."
Julia awoke with a start, her eyes on fire. Fear hammered her. Why were her eyes burning? In her sleepy haze, for a panicked instant she thought she must be blind again.
But no . . . light glowed radiant pink through her closed lids. Obviously if light bothered her, she must be able to see. She tried to open her lids, but a blast of daylight shot an ache straight to her brain. She glimpsed the small bedroom, bathed in rays streaming through the window. The illumination was intense. Each time she'd regained her sight, it'd been at night. This was the first time she could see in sunshine, and the difference between sunlight and artificial light was breathtaking. And painful.
She cupped her bandaged hands over her eyes, and cool dusk put out the fire. But then pain stabbed her jaw when she rested the heels of her palms on it. She raised them so her jaw would quit its throb. But each time she moved her hands, the palms hurt, too. She sighed. The battered flesh must've stiffened while she slept
Abruptly she remembered when the killer had hit her jaw. It was just before shooting her mother. Was that only Friday night? Not even two days ago? A sense of appalling loss seared through Julia, familiar now, clawing at her soul.
Julia bit her lip to push back the tears. She steeled herself and removed her hands from her eyes. Through the lids, daylight shone again, but the eyes hurt less. She must be adjusting. Now she had to open them and keep them—
"Breakfast?" It was Sam's cheerful voice.
Instantly the memory of his spicy scent, the pressure of his hard body against hers on the ground back in Alexandria, and the electric appeal of his standing over her in the doorway to this room last night flew into her mind.
He said, "Time for your feeding." There was a knock, and the door inched open. He peered in. "What? Not up yet? Come on, Austrian. Get up so we can make plans. There's a robe in the closet."
She stared at him. His face was shiny clean, which somehow accented his square jaw and the clarity of his gray eyes. His straw-blond hair was brushed neatly back, emphasizing his high-planed face. But his expression was neutral. Whatever had passed between them last night was over, his cool features announced. It was almost as if a light had gone out. Or a furnace.
Her sense of disappointment was only for a brief second. It was just as well, she told herself. She could afford no distractions. She had one goal only—Maya Stern.
Her hands, jaw, and eyes felt better as she and Sam ate at an enamel-topped table in the theater apartment's breakfast nook. She found herself constantly aware, her senses heightened for danger, although everything in this quiet apartment in Baltimore seemed tranquil and safe. But for her, tranquility and safety were no longer reality.
> Above them hung glass-encased U. S. and Russian movie posters from the 1920s with Joan Crawford, Rudolph Valentino, Clara Bow, plus a host of actors she didn't recognize illustrating Russian-language movies. Sam had gone out and brought back milk, bananas, and fresh orange juice. Oatmeal simmered on the stove. He'd bought two copies of the Sunday New York Times, but he insisted she eat before they opened them.
To humor him, she cut up bananas on top of her bowl of hot oatmeal, in awe of being able to eat without having to ask someone to cut, identify, and dish up. Her bandaged hands seemed to work fine, and the pain was minimal. She poured her own juice and ate the good oatmeal as she gazed around the old-fashioned kitchen. She soaked up the colors—yellow linoleum, white-enamel stove, white-and-yellow tiles up half the wall, green kitchen stool, white cabinets. The colors were simple and sounded identical when she said them in her mind, but in truth they were a rainbow of hues.
"Did you know the human eye can detect two hundred thousand colors?" she asked Sam.
He looked up from his oatmeal, amused. He appeared utterly relaxed, his shoulders easy against the tall back of the kitchen chair. The furrow between his eyebrows had smoothed. Everything physical about him announced utter confidence about their safety. But it was an illusion: In his eyes was an intense, feral alertness.
"Nope," he admitted. "I didn't know that. How do you know that?"
"I have all sorts of weird pieces of information. When I went blind, it seemed important to bone up on what was happening to me—and what I'd lost."
"You're an autodidact, then."
"What?"
"An autodidact. It means self-taught. It's a good way to go. Skip a lot of boring lectures that way."
"Aren't you ever serious?"
"Not if I can avoid it." He smiled broadly.
She returned the smile. "You still haven't told me what you do at the Company."
Sam described his work in the Intelligence Directorate carefully, without revealing any of the national secrets he'd catalogued in his orderly brain. "So it's mostly analysis. Then I draw conclusions, write up reports, make suggestions, and shoot them upstairs."
