“How big?”
“Large enough for us to consider establishing a second fund.” He stifled further comment with one upraised hand. “That we shall leave for later. Thank you all.”
Hayek waited for the minions to depart. Only Jim Burke, Hayek’s second in command remained behind. Hayek did not invite Colin to sit. “Yes?”
“Someone is hunting again. I thought you would want to know.”
“Hunting?”
“Using Congressman Hutchings’ data, apparently. Asking the same kind of questions.”
King and courtier exchanged a silent communication before Hayek demanded, “You are certain of this?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me how.”
“I inserted a target, a source any new hunter would go after. They’d have no choice but to reveal themselves in the process.”
“You are referring to the internet?”
“The web. Yes.”
“Go on.”
“The site automatically inserts a rogue program into the hunter’s computer system. I can then go in and search for data.”
The chairman asked his senior man, “Do you understand what he just said?”
Jim Burke was both a trader and a nerd, a serious combination. He was also, in the eyes of those who worked for Hayek, a walking fruitloop. There was a lot of personal weirdness within the hedge fund world. The business routinely attracted those with meager people skills. But Jim Burke took this infirmity far beyond any logical boundaries. Among the Hayek force, Jim Burke was known as the Unabomber.
Burke replied, “I think so, yes.”
Colin held out a sheet, despising the revealed tremors. “This is from my initial scan.”
Burke reached forward. “I’ll take that.”
The chairman waited as his squire surveyed the paper. Burke looked up and said, “This could be a red flag.”
“Then check it out thoroughly.” Hayek turned back to Colin. “You too. Can you get back into his system?”
“Her,” Burke corrected, still scanning the data. “Apparently it’s a woman. A local. Jackie Havilland.”
Colin replied, “Every time she logs on, my insert will instruct her computer to download all new files.”
“I want to know everything.”
Colin was utterly grateful to find both the words and Hayek’s iron glare directed at his number two. Burke offered, “I’ll put the new men on this.”
“Immediately,” Hayek commanded. “This very afternoon. There is not a moment to lose.”
6
Wednesday
BY THE TIME Jackie returned home, clouds and the setting sun cast a pastel gauze across the sky. The windswept day was so replete and the evening so gentle, she was almost prepared to dismiss the Boatman. His bizarre tales of foreboding and mystery were just too far removed from the same old, same old.
The borderlands of Winter Park contained some of Orlando’s oldest homes. Three blocks off U.S. 50, there existed a time warp of Florida oaks and two-story wraparound verandas and squeaky sash windows. Her particular treetop haven was a former servant’s apartment set above a derelict shed. The main house was a renovator’s dream—three floors of Victorian peaks, rotting porches, and peeling paint. The owner was Millicent Kirby, a widow who probably belonged in a padded cell. But the old woman was as attached to the house and the neighborhood as Jackie, and had a terror of being sent off somewhere to rot away alone. Jackie pretended the only reason she did Millicent’s shopping and arranged for gardeners and an occasional maid was because she didn’t want new owners to cast her adrift as well.
The muscles of her upper body quivered with a satiated hunger as she unstrapped her board from the roof of her car. Her legs scarcely held her aloft as she carried her gear into the shed. The surrounding trees bade a rustling farewell both to the departing day and storm. The nightly chorus of owls and cicadas sang an invitation to stick with the tried and true, the safe, the easy.
Then she noticed the figure standing by the big house’s back window.
Jackie had never seen Millicent remain in view so long. Even the monthly housekeeper claimed to see only a flitting wild-haired figure who danced from room to room, always just out of sight. Jackie studied the motionless figure holding up the curtain so that her hyperthin frame was visible. Jackie pointed a silent question up the stairs and was granted a single nod in response.
She hefted a serrated repair knife from her tackle box, then took the outside stairs as quietly as she could. The first sight of her door hanging drunkenly on one hinge pushed a soft groan from her gut. Jackie turned back to Millicent and shouted, “Call the police!”
The woman did not move. Jackie grimaced with understanding. There was nothing the police could do if the robbers were gone, which they had to be if Millicent was still there and letting her proceed. And the old lady wanted no truck with anyone who might threaten her isolation. Police meant social services, and they would only lead to windowless confines and nurses with needles. Jackie gripped her knife tighter and entered the maelstrom.
Her place was thoroughly trashed. All the cupboards were emptied, all the remnants of her life stirred into a bitter caldron. She stepped carefully, moaning from the pain of recognizing small items, things prized by her alone. It was only when she realized much of the plastic crunching underfoot formerly belonged to her brother’s computer that she came close to breaking down. All her files were gone.
She walked downstairs, crossed the lawn, and was met by Millicent opening the back door. The gray head remained pointed determinedly downward. In all the time Jackie had lived there, Millicent had never once met her eyes. Through rage bordering on anguish, Jackie asked as gently as she could, “Did you see them?”
“Heard them first. Shouting. First inside, then when they left. Big men. Angry.”
“How many?”
“Angry men.” Millicent’s eyes tracked up and to the side, then down and away, searching for safety in a world far more insane than she would ever be. “Two first. Then another. When the third man went inside the shouting started. Bad words.”
“Would you recognize them again if you saw them?”
“Too many words for three men. But just three. First two gray men. Then one blue. I counted because I knew you’d ask.”
Jackie sighed and patted the woman’s bony shoulder. Up close Millicent smelled like her house, mildewed and ancient. “Thank you. You did just fine.”
Jackie crossed the unkempt lawn, climbed the stairs, and reentered her former haven. She spent hours searching for what had not been trashed. Nothing seemed to have been taken—no surprise there, as there was little of any real value. The intruders seemed to have been intent not upon robbery so much as mayhem. Jackie wept tears made fiery because they remained internal, as she mourned mementos of a life that had become almost a myth.
She sorted through the shredded papers until she came up with a pair of Washington names and numbers. The phone had been ripped from her wall and the tiny cellphone was missing altogether, so she walked to the corner booth to call Esther Hutchings. At least she was likely to offer a sane note, if not sympathy. The robot-voiced answering machine fitted the anonymous night. Jackie left a terse message, then dialed the second number. If this did not qualify as an emergency, nothing did.
The phone was answered before the second ring. “Yes?”
“Is this Nabil . . . I’m sorry, I can’t read your last name.”
“Who is speaking?”
“My name is Jackie Havilland.”
“This name I do not know.” The voice was male, deep, and resonated with an accent she did not recognize. Perhaps Arabic. The man also sounded very suspicious. “How did you receive this number?”
“Esther Hutchings gave it to me.”
“Ah. Then you must be the mystery woman.”
“My apartment has been broken into and everything destroyed.”
“Which proves we were right in telling Esther not to take thi
s course. She has only increased the danger to us all.”
Whatever Jackie had been expecting, it was not this overt hostility. “Can you get a message to her, please? They stole my cellphone and tore my other from the wall.”
When she stopped, the man said impatiently, “Yes? That is your message? Then I suggest you call the phone service and not Esther.”
“Look.” She took a deep breath. It would be too easy to unload her anger on this voice. “Give me a break here, all right? I’ve just come back to a house that looks like a demolition site. I’m not thinking straight.”
A pause, then, “This I can understand. Very well. I will call Esther for you and say they came. And when you were not home they left you a warning.”
The matter-of-fact tone both unsettled and attracted her. “I need to ask you something.”
“Yes?”
Jackie searched for some question that would help uncover all the man was not saying. “Esther supplied me with typed notes annotated by hand, I assume from her husband.”
“Another grave error.”
“I need to know who made those handwritten notes. Some of them refer to people I can’t identify, and—”
“Anyone with half a brain would know the honorable gentleman would himself be writing notes on his personal documents.”
“How interesting.” Acid rose to etch her words. “Seeing as how Graham Hutchings was apparently writing with both hands, and the left-handed notes show definite feminine traits.”
The deep voice showed its first trace of hesitancy. “Feminine. Yes. A researcher and dear friend helping Graham with his work.”
“Friend, foe, or morph, I don’t care. I just want to talk with her.”
“So would I,” the voice replied mournfully. “Oh, so very much. Alas, my dear friend was there when they came with her warning. You understand what I am saying to you?”
“Not exactly.”
“My friend was caused to fall from a building in Washington. That was their warning to her. So now all our questions must be directed toward the grave.”
7
Wednesday
THE BRITISH EMBASSY was a brick-and-glass wart rising from the leafy expanse of Massachusetts Avenue. Everything wrong with sixties architecture had been gathered together and planted amid the massive oaks and sycamores. Wynn passed through the metal detector and gave his name to the receptionist. An older woman standing alongside the table responded instantly, moving forward, offering her hand. “An honor that you would join us, Congressman. I am Audrey Portman, the ambassador’s personal aide. I know he is anxious to meet you.”
She did not lead so much as direct him from alongside. Midway across the floor, she murmured for his ear alone, “Perhaps I should mention, Congressman, the two ladies and the gentleman in the far corner, the ones watching us.”
As far as Wynn could tell, every eye in the room stalked their progress. “Yes.”
“British journalists. The two ladies represent the Guardian and the Independent respectively. The gentleman, however, represents the Sunday World.”
He caught the warning tone. “I should avoid him.”
“We refer to such tabloids as the rags, Congressman. And with good reason.”
She managed to insert herself into the group surrounding the ambassador, drawing Wynn along with her. “Excuse me, Lord Vinson, might I have the pleasure of introducing Congressman Wynn Bryant.”
The gentleman was as polished as his aide, and as well briefed. “Of course, Congressman. What an honor to have this opportunity to add my own personal welcome. You are recently arrived to this fair city, I believe.”
“Just yesterday.”
“Then you are even more the newcomer than myself. Perhaps you have not had the pleasure of meeting our esteemed companions.” Lord Vinson made swift progress around the circle. Wynn shook a dozen hands, met as many measuring gazes, felt himself invariably coming up short.
“I see you have not yet found yourself refreshment.” The ambassador steered him away from the others, a single step taking them beyond earshot. He signaled a passing waiter and said, “I have long been an admirer of your predecessor. Had the occasion to meet him, twice in fact, when Graham was over attending symposiums in the City.”
Wynn accepted a glass, sipped at a liquid he did not taste, and guessed, “The Jubilee Amendment.”
The ambassador’s eyes gleamed. “So nice to know you share our interest, Congressman. So very nice. Perhaps you would be so kind as to join us at the residence for dinner. I assure you, the chancellery is a far more pleasant environ than here. And more private.” A hint of a smile, a nod, and the man was lost in the swirling throng.
Before the crowd could sweep Wynn up again, however, another man was standing in front of him. He appeared so smoothly he revealed a lifetime’s practice at slipping into tight spots. “Congressman Bryant, I am Father Libretto. We spoke this afternoon by phone. What a pleasure it is to meet you, sir. A pleasure indeed. Sybel speaks so fondly of you.”
Though Wynn was surprised to face the slight man in the dark suit and Roman dog collar, this time he was also ready. “Before we get started on whatever you came to say, first tell me about the Jubilee Amendment.”
Father Libretto smiled, revealing teeth as neat and compressed as the rest of him. “Sybel warned me not to make the world’s mistake of dismissing you as inconsequential. She said you had been a fighter all your life. Once you locked down on a goal, she told me, you were satisfied with nothing less than the ultimate prize.”
“The Jubilee Amendment,” Wynn pressed.
“Read your files, Congressman. They have far more information than what I can give you before someone else walks over and sweeps you away. Read the pages neatly typed by your staff. Resist the temptation to dismiss this as nothing more than the ramblings of a passionate and tragic brother in Christ.”
“You mean Hutchings?”
“I mean, Congressman, that this is more than a question you have presented here. This is a choice.” The priest noticed someone coming up to join them, and adroitly moved up alongside Wynn, turning them together so that the newcomer met a wall of two joined backs. “We are a group wanting to do more than just survive, Congressman. We are joined by the call of God. We seek to hear the voice of those who have been robbed of speech. We seek to give life to ourselves by giving hope to others.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“Of course not. And so long as you continue to ask the wrong questions, Congressman, so long as you seek to remain safe and observe everything from the comfortable distance of power’s mountaintop, you will not understand anything. You have ears, but will not hear; eyes, but will remain safely blind.” The gentle voice had not risen in tone, yet there was a new passion at work, as forceful as it was gentle. “I am not here tonight to answer your questions, Congressman. I am here to beg you to wake up.”
“I don’t understand a word you’ve just told me.”
“Do not permit yourself to lose this opportunity to find true wealth. Do not.” A small hand gripped his arm, a hasp locking out all but the gentle words. “When you wake up at night, Congressman, alone and desperate despite the world’s assurance that you have everything anyone could ever dream of, I urge you to heed the unheard voice. Sybel assures me that you can be the one we need. We seek another fighter, Congressman. We need another friend. And in return, all we can offer you is work and strife and possibly a lifetime’s worth of frustration.”
The priest made to turn away, then added quietly, “Oh, and passion. I neglected to mention that, did I not. The passion of a quest worth the day and the night and the day, until the moment when the day is no more.”
WYNN WANDERED AIMLESSLY through the room, shaking innumerable hands, mulling over the priest’s mystery, until he spotted her. This particular woman could not have approached unseen. Not a beauty like this. If he had been comatose and she had advanced from behind, he would still have noticed. She was that st
riking.
Serious hair. That was his first thought. A rich cinnamon, and long enough to tease her shoulders like caressing fingers as she walked. A designer suit whose skirt was cut high to show off million dollar legs. Body undulating smoothly, almost hidden by the cutaway jacket. Eyes huge and a mere shade browner than her hair. She stopped before him and announced, “I believe I’ve waited long enough, don’t you?”
“Excuse me?”
“I couldn’t possibly race up the first moment you arrived and fling myself at your feet.”
He smiled. Not at her words, but her accent. It was English and Oxbridge and rich, as perfect a match as her jewelry, understated and utterly appealing. “Why not?”
“Oh, come now, Congressman. Even a newcomer like yourself is aware of the dire situation facing a single unattached woman in Washington. Nine to one is the current ratio. Appalling situation, really, they should pass a law. I was considering some awful act, like flying to New York for a wanton weekend. And then here you come, sauntering in all by your lonesome.” She had a way of framing the words as if she were tasting them. “That sounds utterly brazen, doesn’t it. I’m so ashamed I really should turn and flee. But I dare not. I might never have another such occasion.”
Wynn waved his glass at the room. “It doesn’t bother you that the entire hall is watching us?”
“Well, of course they are. The latest addition to the Washington power set is a handsome widower and as unattached as a prince from my childhood fairy tales. His first night in Washington, and already he’s snagged by a K Street lobbyist.” She offered a long-fingered hand. “I’m sorry, I’ve not even introduced myself. Valerie Lawry.”
“A pleasure.” And a relief. The priest had already been relegated to the realm of unwelcome night visitors. “What did you say you were?”
She gave a delighted laugh. “Oh, Congressman, this is just too rich.”
“Call me Wynn.”
“Wynn. I had heard the name, but it was too perfect to be real. It sounds positively drawn from the days of President Hoover. I can see the caption now, Win With Wynn, all draped with bunting and patriotic balloons.”
Drummer In the Dark Page 6
