by Stephen Frey
“I don’t think it’s funny money at all. I remember very well what I predicted for GEA when I pitched this idea to you two and a half years ago, and I know it hasn’t happened yet,” David said, standing up. “And I’m telling you, there’s no one more upset about it at this firm than me.” He leaned over the desk. “But I don’t need you coming in here once a month reminding me that the stock keeps going down. I’d like to be out of the position too, but we’d slit our own throats getting out at this point. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to take a hundred-and-twenty-million-dollar loss.”
“Well, you’d better do something!” Mohler’s eyes bulged.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen.” Elizabeth Gilman’s cotton-soft voice floated into the office.
Instinctively both men stepped back. Elizabeth was the firm’s senior, managing, and founding partner. Among the three individuals on the executive committee, her vote on matters of importance counted much more than that of either Mohler or its third member, Martin Broadbent. She did not approve of heated conversations, as she called them, on the premises. It wasn’t how privileged people ought to act, she would say.
“Hello, Elizabeth.” Mohler was suddenly reserved.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Gilman,” David said politely.
Elizabeth smiled. “David, you’ve been here four years. I appreciate the respect, but you need to start calling me by my first name. Otherwise you’re going to give me a complex and make me start feeling my age. And that wouldn’t be a good thing.”
“All right . . . Elizabeth.”
She smiled again. “Wonderful. Now let’s all try to get along. It’s a big sandbox and there’s plenty of room to play in it without getting in each other’s way. If we do happen to have a little disagreement, let’s settle it in a more civilized fashion.”
Both men nodded.
Elizabeth turned to leave, then leaned back into the office. “How is your mother, David?”
“Fine, thank you, Elizabeth.”
“Please tell her I said hello.”
“I will.”
“Very good.” She walked from the office.
David watched her go. She was a lovely lady. The only senior executive at Sagamore who didn’t get caught up in the pressure and take out frustrations on others.
Mohler made certain Elizabeth was out of earshot, then pointed at the younger man. “Remember what I told you, David. Get us out of the GEA position. Hawk it on the street corner if you have to, but get us out,” he said, then stalked from the office.
David put his hands on the desk and let his chin drop slowly. Tomorrow had to go well.
“Head up, kid. Just play the game.”
David glanced up. Nash Sollers, one of the older portfolio managers, stood in the doorway. “What?”
“It’s all part of the game, son. Just do what they want. You’ll be okay.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Nothing specific, everything in general. Be smart and all will be fine.” Sollers walked away.
David was tempted to follow and press Sollers for answers. But there wouldn’t be any. There never were.
Chapter 4
The house, a quaint brick abode surrounded by tall oak trees, was set atop a gentle rise overlooking the Severn River. Fifteen miles to the south, the Severn met the Chesapeake Bay at Annapolis, site of the United States Naval Academy. In the summer, even at this late hour, the river would still be a buzz of activity there, clogged with pleasure crafts, fishing boats, and Navy vessels. But here the river was quiet.
Moonlight played across the Severn’s glassy surface. Ospreys peered silently down from the treetops searching for prey. And the only sounds were the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze made its way upriver and the occasional crash of talons through salt water as one of the ospreys found its mark, then shrieked hauntingly as it lifted away from the surface with the fish snared in its viselike grip.
Jesse stood on the darkened porch, shivering despite the heat of the summer night. It was all exactly as the E-mail had explained. Neil Robinson was dead. The combination to locker 73 at the Greyhound bus station in downtown Baltimore had been 22-31-7. Inside the locker had been a small key. And the key had opened the front door to the house at 6 Gull Road.
Neil had been a wonderful manager, and a good friend. A man who had given her confidence that she was as capable as anyone. Now he was gone and she would miss him terribly.
He had sent the message to her through the local network, Jesse assumed, via the option in the branch’s central computer that allowed supervisors to transmit electronic mail on a delayed basis. A message from the grave requesting her aid. He had helped her many times. Now, as frightened as she was to be here, she would help him.
Jesse stepped toward the door, then hesitated. She glanced around. The lights of the closest house, a quarter of a mile away, glowed eerily through the trees. Another shiver raced up her spine.
Get hold of yourself, she thought. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and moved into the house, clicking on the flashlight she had brought with her from the car. She felt dampness between her fingers as she pushed the plastic switch. The fur-lined leather gloves encasing her fingers were causing her hands to perspire heavily.
Jesse was wearing gloves so as not to leave fingerprints, she was using a flashlight so no one would know she was in the house, and she had parked in a small grove of pine trees in a secluded area a half mile down Gull Road from Neil’s house so no one would see the car—and its license plate. All of this she had done just in case there was something to the ominous tone of Robinson’s message.
A heavy scent of cedar reached her as she moved into the house. She pointed the flashlight straight ahead. Cedar walls. She played the light about the place quickly. The room was cozy, and tastefully furnished. Sadness overwhelmed her again at the thought of Neil’s body lying cold in the morgue. Stop it, she told herself. Grieve later. Get in and get out of here as fast as you can.
There was a desk in the den just as Robinson’s E-mail had described. She moved to it quickly. She had to get out of here. She had a strange feeling that something was wrong. That danger lurked.
The desk’s lower left-hand drawer slid back easily on its rollers. She pointed the soft light down into the drawer. As the message had indicated, there was a file inside. She picked up the manila folder quickly, opened it, and glanced at the first two words. “Dear Jesse.” She read no further. This was clearly the right file, and she would finish it later in a safer place.
Gordon Roth moved through the open front door of 6 Gull Road, the .44 caliber Magnum drawn before him. His night vision goggles made navigation easy, and he headed immediately toward the back of the small house. It was there that he had detected the faint glow of a flashlight through the window during his reconnaissance of the property. Somehow, someone had beaten him to this place. Someone who was trying to hide his or her presence, and therefore must be searching for the same thing he was after. But it didn’t matter. The person wouldn’t be alive much longer.
Adrenaline coursed through Roth’s body, but not at a fever pitch. He had learned over the years to control the flow. He could regulate it, like fuel to an engine, as needed. He had the element of surprise on his side, so he did not need to be in attack mode. He did not require the high-octane pulse—not yet, anyway. With a moderate flow he was better able to assess the situation and calculate the attack. Only at the last instant would he unleash his full fury.
He licked his lips as he pressed his back against the wall just outside the den’s doorway. Death. It fascinated him. He had made a practice of staring into the victims’ dying eyes. To try to comprehend what they were enduring as the last breath rushed from their lungs and their eyes rolled back. Roth killed because that was what they required of him—and because he liked it.
He closed his eyes and allowed the adrenaline to flow more freely. The target was close now. Like a predator, he sensed the prey in the night wit
hout actually seeing it.
Calmly Roth held the gun up before his face, both hands clasped around the handle so the barrel pointed vertically, toward the ceiling. Adrenaline began to pour into his system now. It was over. The victim was helpless.
In one motion he pushed off the wall, brought the Magnum down, turned the corner, and moved smoothly through the doorway of the den.
Chapter 5
Carter Webb—Georgia Republican, senior member of the powerful Senate Appropriations Committee and chairman of its Armed Services Subcommittee—rose stiffly from the uncomfortable wooden chair. A new welfare bill sponsored by the Democrats had become entangled in a Republican-led tax-cut proposal, and the wrangling and backroom negotiating had just begun. It was going to be a long night.
Webb walked across the thick carpet toward the door to the right of the podium. He didn’t have far to go to reach the exit, because after twenty-nine years in the Senate he sat in the front row. That was the tradition in this hallowed room. The longer your tenure, the closer you sat to the Vice President and Senate Majority Leader. There had been only one major exception to that rule in the past three decades. Ted Kennedy had remained in the back row despite his decades as a member of the Senate. As a tribute to his brother, he had taken the same seat Jack had occupied as a freshman senator from Massachusetts in 1953, and he had remained in it ever since.
Webb turned right after exiting the Senate floor and moved slowly down the short hallway to the large double doors. With a shove of his shoulder, he opened the right-hand door and moved into a large waiting room, then took an immediate right into a smaller room. There he relaxed against the polished wood wall and rubbed his aching neck, enjoying the solitude.
It was quiet here, away from the melee. Away from the fighting between the damned bleeding hearts, who wanted to make it easier for the inner-city poor to receive food stamps, and his money-grubbing brethren, who wanted to make poor people pay more taxes. Ten years ago, even five, he would have been in the middle of the fray, waging war on the tax-and-spend do-gooders. But now, in the twilight of his career, he was more conscious of conserving energy and picking his battles carefully.
“Good evening, Senator.”
Webb glanced to his left through the dim light. The speaker was Phil Rhodes, a small man who struck Webb as too boorish to handle his high-profile job. But there was no arguing Rhodes’s success. Over the years he had become one of the most recognized defense-industry lobbyists in Washington. General Dynamics, Lockheed Martin, and McDonnell Douglas constantly called on his services to help them land big Defense Department contracts.
“How the hell did you get in here?” Webb asked. “I thought the Capitol Police had closed this area off for the night.”
Rhodes shook the senator’s hand as an underboss would the hand of a Mafia don—gently, with his head bowed slightly forward. The senator—a member of the Armed Services Appropriations Subcommittee for twenty-six years and its chairman for the last fifteen—could make or break the fortunes of a defense contractor. Those defense contractors kept Rhodes in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, so he would kiss Webb’s ring if it would help win business.
“I think they did close it off, but I’m on a first-name basis with most members of the Capitol Police. I’m going to be putting a lot of their kids through college, so they cut me a little slack.” Rhodes spoke in a high-pitched Brooklyn accent.
Webb smiled for a moment. The sad thing was that the crack about paying for college probably held some truth—not that Rhodes would personally foot the bill. That tab would be picked up by the defense firms for which he lobbied.
“How’s it going in there tonight, Senator?”
“A pain in the ass, as usual.”
“I see. It’s too bad you can’t head back to Georgia to do some campaigning as a means of getting away from all of that.” Rhodes motioned toward the doorway and the Senate floor beyond. “But I guess campaigning isn’t really necessary.” Webb’s reelection was a foregone conclusion. He was an institution in the Senate.
Webb laughed cynically. “Yes, I doubt too many of my colleagues would believe I really needed to take any time off to gather votes.”
Rhodes nodded, then fell silent for a moment as he watched the senator stretch. Webb was tall, broad, and silver-haired, with a jutting jaw; an imposing man who was often described by the press as presidential-looking. But Webb would never be President, Rhodes knew. He had made too many enemies in both parties.
“The grapevine is talking,” Rhodes finally said.
Webb exhibited no outward reaction to the news. So Rhodes was here tonight to give information. Which was, of course, why the little man was so successful. Rhodes viewed his job as a two-way street. His primary objective was to help his defense industry clients obtain business, but if he had information he knew was important to the other side, to those who could dole out the money from the Defense Department budget, he would relay it as quickly as possible. Most of the other lobbyists didn’t understand the goodwill this approach generated.
“And what exactly is the grapevine saying?” Webb asked calmly.
“It’s saying that a very important top-secret project is under way in Nevada, out at Area 51. And that if the project passes prototype stage, it could be the most significant program to come out of the black budget in years.” Rhodes was certain Webb would be interested. “I know that officially there isn’t a black budget, but I thought you’d want to hear the talk anyway.”
Webb said nothing for a moment. It was the first time the information had come back to him from a source outside the circle. It could be just someone’s lucky guess, or a shot in the dark by one of Rhodes’s clients. But Rhodes didn’t work that way. He took a much longer, relationship-oriented view. So the only conclusion was that Rhodes was telling the truth. And unfortunately, the little man with the Brooklyn accent was almost always accurate when he cited the “grapevine” as his source.
“Where did you hear this?” he asked.
It was a tacit acknowledgment that the lobbyist’s information was at least partially accurate, and Rhodes was elated. He had probably just earned a favor, perhaps a contract for one of his clients. “This is off the record, sir.”
“Of course.”
“I have a mole in Senator Malcolm Walker’s office.”
“You son of a bitch.” Webb slapped the smaller man on the back and smiled approvingly. “Good for you.” Then his smile faded. Here was an opportunity, one he wasn’t going to let slip away.
“I think it’s always a good idea to be as close to your enemies as possible,” Rhodes remarked, proud of himself for eliciting such a strong reaction from the normally reserved Senator Webb.
“I couldn’t agree more, Phil. That prick Malcolm Walker is trying to put the entire defense industry out of business.”
“That’s absolutely right.” Rhodes checked the waiting area for anyone who might have wandered in through one of the dark entrances. “Anyway, my mole says that Senator Walker has infiltrated Area 51. Apparently he has an informant out there feeding him information on this big black-budget program. Walker is going to blow the cover on the project once he’s gotten enough data from his informant. Supposedly this informant has the access to figure out what’s going on.”
“Really?” Webb was suddenly animated.
“Yes, sir. If my mole’s information is accurate. And she’s been very accurate so far.” His eyes darted to Webb’s. He suddenly wished he hadn’t slipped and revealed the sex of his mole. But the senator didn’t seem to have noticed, and Rhodes breathed a small sigh of relief. He didn’t want Webb pushing too hard. “It’s not exactly good news, I know,” he continued. “But I thought you’d want to hear about all this as soon as possible.”
Webb slammed the polished wood wall with his large hand. “Some of the idiots in this city just don’t understand how difficult it is to protect a nation.” He was seething. “That bastard Walker is going to screw up everything.”
<
br /> “I agree, sir.”
Webb turned to face Rhodes. “Do you have a name, Phil? The name of Walker’s informant at Area 51?”
Rhodes shook his head. “My mole in Walker’s office will give me general information, but that’s all. No names.”
“What is your mole’s incentive?”
“I provided money. There was a need. I’m sure my mole has rationalized that money can be accepted because there isn’t anything specific being given in return. Such as the name of Walker’s informant at Area 51.” Rhodes didn’t like where the conversation was headed. “Senator, it’s been nice talking with you, but I really should get going.”
“Phil.” The senator blocked the lobbyist’s departure.
“Yes?” Rhodes asked hesitantly.
“I’d like to meet that contact of yours sometime. Your mole in Senator Walker’s office, I mean.” Webb tightened the screws.
“Um, well . . .” Rhodes coughed uncomfortably. He had not anticipated this. “I’d like to accommodate you, Senator, I’m just not certain the person will agree to meet.”
“Make her agree,” Webb countered forcefully. Rhodes could become an extremely valuable asset, if cultivated correctly. “You have more power than you realize, Phil. You are in the intelligence industry. Use your access to people who can lay bare a person’s entire life. Use your access to people who can find a smoking gun, or that one skeleton in the closet that will allow you to manipulate the person in question any way you want.” Webb smiled wickedly. “I could find the skeleton in your closet,” he said casually, as if he were relaying the score of a ball game or greeting someone for the first time.
The image of his girlfriend’s heavenly body drifted through his mind. A girlfriend his pudgy wife knew nothing about.“I’ll arrange the meeting,” Rhodes said softly. Suddenly he was in deep with the good senator from Georgia.
