by Stephen Frey
Once out from under the bridge, she waded the stream and climbed the embankment. It was gently sloped on this side of Gull Road, and in seconds she had reached the top. She sprinted across a field of clover and slipped into the pine grove, then quickly located her Camaro. Frantically she pulled the keys from her pocket, inserted them into the lock, opened the door, and slipped behind the wheel. She patted the car’s dashboard once gently, like an old friend, before thrusting the keys into the ignition.
The Camaro roared to life. She slammed the stick shift into first gear, let out the clutch, and punched the accelerator. The car leaped forward as she flicked on the lights. A sense of satisfaction gripped her as she yanked the stick back into second and hurtled down the rutted dirt path toward Gull Road. She could handle a performance vehicle as well as anyone. Her older brothers had seen to that.
As she guided the car between the pine rows, she reached for the leather gloves she had stuffed into her back pocket. She dug deeply and pulled one out, throwing it onto the seat beside her. Then she dug her hand in again searching for the other, but the pocket was empty. “Dammit!”
Gull Road rushed up to meet the dirt path. With both hands she jerked the steering wheel right, aiming the car away from Robinson’s home—and the predator. The Camaro fishtailed slightly as dusty tires met asphalt, but she easily controlled the spin.
She flicked on the high beams and suddenly came face to face with her pursuer. He stood in the middle of the road, cap brim pulled down to his eyes, pointing a gun directly at her. Without hesitation Jesse thrust the stick forward into third gear and jammed the accelerator to the floor. But the figure didn’t move, and she screamed as the Camaro hurtled toward him.
Sixty feet, fifty feet, forty. Roth waited until the last moment before pumping the clip’s six remaining shells into the Camaro. The bullets ripped through the windshield, spraying shattered glass throughout the car’s interior, then exploded out the back window.
As he fired the last bullet, Roth dove for the reeds at the side of the road, but he was an instant late and the Camaro’s front left fender grazed his lower leg. The impact spun him through the air, separating the shoe from his foot. He landed heavily on his face and knee on the loose gravel at the edge of the asphalt. Despite the pain shooting through his cheek and up his leg, he lifted his head to check the license plate. But as the Camaro raced past, the lights suddenly dimmed.
Jesse rose up quickly from the passenger seat onto which she had ducked only an instant before the figure standing in the road had begun firing. She was covered with glass but ignored the sharp slivers and the tiny cuts on her forearms. She gripped the steering wheel hard with her left hand as the wind whipped through her hair and reached down with her right to turn the lights back on. As her head sank back she suddenly realized the headrest was gone. One of the bullets had blown it out through the shattered back window.
Roth spat out the dust and dirt in his mouth, then sat up and rubbed his throbbing leg. Blood from a cut over his left eye trickled down the side of his face, but for some moments he remained oblivious to it. He stared through the darkness at the sound of the fleeing car, then nodded his head as the lights came on too far away for him to discern the numbers and letters of the license plate. Whoever was driving that car was a formidable enemy, someone he had to seek out and destroy if the mission was going to remain on track. But the trail was quickly growing cold as the car raced away.
Roth reached inside his windbreaker and pulled out the leather glove he had found on the leaves. This would be all he needed to pick up the trail again.
“What do you have?” The man’s voice was calm.
“A leather glove. Judging by the small size and design, I’d say the glove was worn by a female.” Roth’s leg was still killing him, but his expression gave away no hint of pain. He had endured much worse. “Inside the glove was a hair. A long hair. Again, I’d say female. Maybe the person ran her fingers through her hair before putting on the glove.”
“So at least we have something.”
“Yes.”
“What is your plan?” the man asked.
“We were lucky. The hair had a follicle, and we can pull a DNA sample from the cells in the follicle. We know the person I chased tonight is one of twenty-two people in the department. If I can collect hair samples from those people, say from their brushes or coat collars, we might be able to get a match using DNA analysis.”
“It will take time to collect the samples,” the man pointed out.
“I’m fast,” Roth assured the man.
“But even if you could get the samples quickly, it’s still a long process in the laboratory using a hair follicle. Two to three weeks, probably. Using blood would be different, but that’s out of the question. And we don’t have two or three weeks.” The man was becoming anxious.
“So we come at it another way.”
“What do you mean?”
“In this case we have a limited pool of twenty-two people. We’re almost certain our target is one of them.”
“Yes.”
“The lab can eliminate people from suspicion by examining the samples I collect and comparing them to the hair in the glove in terms of color and texture. Plus, if the lab finds certain chemicals on the hair from the glove, say chemicals found in specific dyes or shampoos, and the same chemicals on just one of the samples I collect, we can be reasonably sure we’ve got the right person. I think ‘reasonably sure’ isn’t a bad thing in this case.”
“I couldn’t agree more.”
“There’s still another way to come at this thing,” Roth offered.
“What’s that?”
“The glove has a tag sewn on the inside. The name of the store from which it was purchased, I assume. It’s an exclusive leather goods shop in the Galleria in downtown Baltimore. Maybe people at the store could give me information. With the scanners and automatic reorder entry systems retail stores employ these days, they should be able to give me a list of names of those who purchased this exact type of glove from the store in the past year or so. At least those who purchased by credit card. If that list contains a name from the department, I think we should move on that person immediately.”
“Absolutely.” Suddenly the man was feeling much better.
“Is it all right if I use the Justice Department badge for that? I’d probably get results faster.”
“Use anything you have to. Just find the person who took that file from Robinson’s house.”
Chapter 8
Jesse moved quickly down the long corridor, a thick envelope from the records room under her arm. She had decided against contacting the police about being chased at Neil Robinson’s house last night. Police complaints were a matter of public record, and they would probably be the first thing the person who had chased her would check.
Turning the corner into her office doorway, she almost ran into a man coming out. She didn’t recognize him and was instantly suspicious, still on edge from the experience last night.
“Excuse me,” he said softly.
The man had long blond hair and a beard and mustache. She noticed him pushing a cellophane bag into his pants pocket. “Can I help you?”
“Yeah, I’m looking for Sara Adams.”
Jesse eyed the visitor badge clipped to his shirt pocket. Sara must be expecting him. The people at the front desk wouldn’t have given him the badge without calling her first. “Go left at the next hallway.” She motioned down the corridor. “Her office is the fourth door on the right.”
“Thanks.” The man moved past her without another word.
Jesse watched him walk away, limping slightly. Perhaps she should call Sara just to make sure. Then she shook her head and brushed off the odd feeling. She was just imagining things.
Jesse felt the tap on her shoulder and jumped, emitting a muffled shriek as she whirled about, hands over her mouth. She had been far away, replaying last night’s chase through the woods and this morning’s run-in wi
th the bearded man coming out of her office. Wondering if she should have contacted the police. Wondering if the man was looking for her. Knowing he was.
“Sorry to startle you, Jesse, but I have someone I’d like you to meet.” The professor nodded toward the woman standing next to him.
“Yes, of course.” Jesse took several short breaths to calm herself.
“Elizabeth Gilman, meet Jesse Hayes,” the professor said quietly. He didn’t want anyone at the cocktail party to hear this, lest he be accused of favoritism. “Jesse is my best student.”
“I think that was rather obvious, given the class discussion.” Elizabeth smiled warmly at Jesse. “Honestly, I thought your comments were excellent. Best of the bunch.”
“That’s very nice of you to say, Ms. Gilman.” Jesse’s voice shook slightly, and with good reason, she thought to herself. Elizabeth Gilman was a legend in the financial world. She had organized Sagamore as a small life insurance company in the late seventies and expanded it into one of the best-performing, most highly respected investment funds in the country.
“Please call me Elizabeth.” The older woman laughed. “Do I really look that old?” She pointed at the professor. “Don’t answer that. Not if you want me to come back again.”
Jesse saw Elizabeth’s eyes sparkle as the professor laughed. Despite her age she was dynamic and beautiful. Stark gray hair swept back away from her classic, thin face—a face practically devoid of wrinkles or age spots, a face still full of energy and enthusiasm. Jesse glanced down at the floor. Her throat was suddenly dry, and she could think of nothing to say that might interest such an important person.
The professor sensed Jesse’s unease and pushed the conversation forward. “Elizabeth, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to come down here and teach a class,” he said. “It’s terribly important for the students to see and hear from people in the real world, not just the academicians. And for us to have someone of your stature come here, well, it’s—”
“Thank you.” Elizabeth didn’t take her eyes from the young woman as she politely interrupted the professor. “Jesse, I was impressed with your observations about the stock market.” Elizabeth’s diamond earrings shimmered in the chandelier light.
“Thank you.”
Elizabeth leaned forward so the professor couldn’t hear. “There’s no reason to be nervous, Jesse. I eat and sleep just like you. I’ve just been a little lucky with a few investments.” The older woman leaned back again.
“It isn’t luck,” Jesse replied. “Your success is a function of putting yourself in the best position more often than anyone else does. It’s a function of playing the odds.”
“True.” Elizabeth nodded approvingly. “Say, why don’t you come out to Sagamore and visit us? I’m always looking for young talent.”
“That would be wonderful!” Wall Street suddenly seemed much less important.
“In fact, there’s someone I want you to meet right away,” Elizabeth continued. She motioned to a young man who was talking with several of Jesse’s classmates.
David acknowledged the wave subtly, excused himself from the group at an appropriate point in the conversation, and moved toward Elizabeth.
“Jesse, this is David Mitchell.” Elizabeth patted David’s broad back as he took Jesse’s hand and smiled. “David is one of our portfolio managers at Sagamore. I asked him to come down from Baltimore tonight with me for exactly this reason—in case I identified someone in class who might fit in at Sagamore.”
“Hi, Jesse.” David let go of her hand gently. Blond, blue-eyed, and sweet. Unlike the others he had been forced to converse with for the last hour, this one was worth writing home about.
“Jesse, I think you might enjoy talking to David for a few minutes about Sagamore.” Elizabeth had barely finished speaking when she began to cough deeply.
“Are you all right?” the professor asked, startled at the intensity of the attack.
“Yes,” she gasped. “I’ll be fine. I just need a drink of water.”
“Of course, Elizabeth. Come with me and we’ll get whatever you need.” The professor took her by the arm.
Elizabeth coughed again several times, then turned to Jesse. “It was wonderful meeting you. I look forward to seeing you at Sagamore when you visit.”
“Thank you. I hope you feel better.”
“I’ll be fine.” She stepped over and patted Jesse’s hand. “Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
David hesitated for a moment as Elizabeth and the professor moved away. “So what can I tell you about Sagamore?” He looked past Jesse as he took a sip from his glass, trying to seem distant, not wanting her to detect his immediate interest.
Jesse gave David a quick once-over. He was handsome—jet-black hair, effortless smile, a dimple in his left cheek, and a healthy glow indicating that he took care of his body. But everything about him screamed establishment. From the dark three-button suit with inch-and-a-half cuffs on the pants to his expensive tie and short haircut, he seemed a model conservative. She laughed to herself. Given her meager upbringing, she ought to be drawn to this man like a bee to nectar. Men with money promised financial security, something she had never known. But she usually found these types so boring. They loved sports, their possessions, and themselves, and she needed much more than that. She needed excitement, a man who would share life with her and show her the world.
But maybe she should listen to Sara’s advice about dating men who offered financial stability and not worry so much about intangibles. She glanced at David again. He certainly emitted that conservative air. But there was a hint of mischief in the glint of his eye. And now that she looked at his haircut carefully, she noticed that it bordered on punk. The sides and back were cut a bit too short and the top a bit too long. She liked that. “How much money does Sagamore have under management?” she asked innocently, knowing how closely guarded a secret that was.
David shook his head. “I can’t tell you,” he said pretentiously, then broke into a wide grin. “Because I don’t know. They don’t tell the rank and file like me important things like that. They just tell us to make money.”
Jesse covered her mouth and laughed. So he didn’t take himself too seriously. She liked that too.
Two hours later, as they moved through the double doors of the reception room toward the waiting limousine, Elizabeth put a hand on David’s forearm. “I noticed you and Jesse Hayes had quite a discussion after I left.”
“That’s what you wanted, right?”
“Yes. My first impression is that she would fit in well at Sagamore when she graduates. What do you think, David?”
“I think she’s bright and aggressive.”
“Exactly.” Elizabeth waved good-bye to the professor one more time as the driver opened the limousine door. “David, I want you to get to know her. Take her out for dinner a few times, on the firm of course. Find out if she’s really for us.” She winked at him. “There aren’t enough female portfolio managers at Sagamore.”
David smiled and tilted his head to one side. This wasn’t going to be a bad assignment.
Chapter 9
The room, utilitarian and plain, was buried deep within the building. And for good reason. The people who met in this inner sanctum required absolute secrecy and isolation in order to plan their strategies. Enemy listening devices could be anywhere, even hidden in vulnerable areas close to the chamber. And if those devices picked up anything, it could prove disastrous.
Members accessed the massive building through public entrances under the veil of ethical designs, but typically their intentions were far less noble. On the occasion of a meeting, each individual was quickly led from unrestricted areas into obscure corridors and secluded stairways by escorts who themselves were not fully aware of the true purpose of the individual’s presence.
The room was fortified by subtle but effective defenses. There were no windows because high-technology audio-d
etection equipment could sense the minute vibrations of glass panes produced by even muted conversations and translate the vibrations into words. Tiny speakers placed at uniform intervals within the walls of the room produced white noise to negate bugs that adversaries might have managed to plant in the hallways and rooms just outside the chamber. Before each assembly, an intelligence expert swept the room’s interior for listening devices. Those in attendance were electronically frisked before they were allowed entrance. And during meetings, members sat close together at a small table, spoke in low voices, and listened to an opera or symphony as they strategized. The preventive measures seemed extreme, but, as yet, there had never been a security leak.
The chairman acknowledged each of the other members, then turned toward the individual who sought membership and said in a low voice, “Please give us an update.”
Elbridge Coleman, Republican candidate for the United States Senate, nodded. “The latest CNN/Time magazine poll will be released tomorrow morning. Our campaign people have already obtained the results through our friend at CNN. The results show that I’m now two points ahead of Malcolm Walker. Specifically, if the election were held today, I would receive forty-six percent of the vote while Walker would take forty-four.”
“That leaves ten percent undecided,” the chairman noted.
“Yes, that’s right.” As Coleman responded, he heard someone else in the room make a comment but could not discern specific words. The room’s acoustics were terrible. It was another built-in defense mechanism. “Excuse me?” Through the low light he made eye contact with the individual he believed had spoken.
“What is the poll’s statistical margin of error?” The voice was only slightly louder this time.
“Plus or minus four points,” Coleman replied calmly.
“So we can’t yet be certain of a lock on the seat.”
