“Tell me about Graham.”
“Apparently a subdural is a slow venous bleed in the membranes between the brain and the skull. A few weeks back, Esther found him laid out in the bathroom with a bump on his head. Everybody, including the doctors, assumed it was a second stroke. The scan showed nothing but the damage apparently from the first stroke, which can happen with these things.”
Nothing could be done about the thrust of Trilling’s jaw, the aggressive set of her shoulders, the way her hands wrestled the wheel, the force of her foot on the pedal. She drove with masculine impatience, holding to the inside lane, paying no attention to the speed limit. With the world hurtling past, Trilling went on, “The doctors say these subdurals keep drawing in other fluid once the actual bleeding stops. This forms a hematoma, and the thing just keeps getting bigger. What alerted them to a possible misdiagnosis was how Graham kept going downhill. This isn’t common with strokes, but is with subdurals. So they drilled a hole in his skull, drained the fluid, and now we’re waiting to see just how much he recovers.”
Trilling waited until they were across the Potomac and heading onto the freeway to ask, “How did it go yesterday in College Park?”
Jackie gave her a slow look. No question from a woman this intense could be called casual. Nor had Jackie forgotten the hostility enveloping their last contact. “If you don’t mind, I think I should wait and report to Esther.”
“Loyalty. I like that in a person. So what did they do when Esther didn’t show up?”
“They played a video of one of the congressman’s earlier talks.”
“Which one?”
“The perils of hedge funds and modern banking.”
“I remember that. Landed him in a world of hot water. Graham never did learn how to mince words.” A swift glance. “What did you think of it?”
Wrenching. No other word would do. Not just because of the passion in Hutchings’ voice, or the fact that the topic was intimately close to her own studies. The assembly’s response, their fervor and depth of passion, had made her ashamed of her own limited horizons.
The senator was still waiting for her response. Jackie asked, “Are you married?”
If the senator found the change of subject startling, she gave no sign. “Twenty-eight years next month. He’s an insurance broker. And the reason I stay sane. One daughter, she’s been a sophomore at Stanford for four years. Majors in lost causes. Last year it was strip mining, this year it’s ending the reign of some South American dictator, I forget which. What about you?”
“No.”
Another glance, this one timed to a switch across lanes, a marginal lowering of their breakneck speed. The senator aimed for the off-ramp and asked, “A man?”
“Not for over a year.”
“That bad?”
Worse than bad. A prince charming who grew into a nightmare demon. Shane was locked away now, caged like the beast he was. And still he terrified her. “That bad.”
Trilling had the ability to be as spare with her expressions as her words. A single tight grimace, there and gone. “A lot of them out there. It horrifies me, all the risks my daughter doesn’t see.”
The journey took them through an endless suburban sprawl. From the freeway they took a stoplight-riddled asphalt ribbon to nowhere. Clusters of stores and condos reluctantly gave way to housing developments and a few trees fortunate enough to have missed the bulldozer’s scouring. There was no order or center upon which the mind could rest easy, just haphazard bands of habitation through which they drove and drove and drove. A light mist began to fall, robbing the place of season as well as style.
The Fairfax County Hospital was just another building off just another road. Jackie waited while Kay Trilling made her way to the information desk, then followed her up to the third floor. The hallway outside Graham Hutchings’ room was jammed with people of every race, walk, and status. Jackie searched the group but did not see Esther. She watched as Kay Trilling approached and was enveloped by arms and greetings. Jackie selected an empty wooden bench back from the fray, resuming the same spot she had occupied most of her life—on the outside looking in.
She sat and listened to the throng’s attempt to be quiet. Watched the intensity of their expressions when Esther Hutchings exited the hospital room. Saw how they gathered tightly together, barely giving Esther room to reach over and hug the senator. Best buddies now. The argument of two nights ago apparently forgotten. Esther spoke in whispers, which were passed along. Jackie watched the crowd’s tension ease a notch farther. One thing was definitely coming clear. These people were not an easy-living crowd. Many of their confessions would no doubt be as wrenching as her own. Yet they managed to confront the calamity of living with compassion and determination; Jackie wanted that for herself.
Esther had separated herself from most of the group and was deep in conversation with the senator. The women measured Jackie with grave gazes, then walked over together.
Esther seated herself and demanded, “How are you, dear?”
“I should be asking you that.”
Esther bore the features of the emotionally drained. “Graham is better. We won’t know how much better for another couple of days. But the surgery seems to have improved the circulation in his brain.”
“I’m glad.” The words were not enough. “I heard him speak yesterday.”
“The evil banking empire address,” the senator offered.
“I hated it whenever he gave that speech. He always looked ready to explode by the end of it. He used it quite a lot. Too often for his own good. How was the assembly?”
“You mean, how was Congressman Bryant?” Jackie watched Senator Trilling seat herself on Esther’s other side, and addressed her directly. “You didn’t just happen by my hotel and offer me a ride.”
“I needed to know,” Trilling replied, “what you wouldn’t tell me.”
“Congressman Bryant wasn’t at all what I expected. He didn’t seem to have any idea what he was doing there.”
“He made no move for the limelight?” This from Trilling.
“He specifically refused to address the group. He didn’t even want to be introduced. He chose a seat midway back.”
Esther asked, “Did he say anything?”
“He asked me what the Jubilee movement was all about. When I told him, he said it didn’t make sense.”
“What didn’t?”
“He wouldn’t say.”
The two older women exchanged worried glances. It was the senator who reluctantly said, “Maybe Sybel is right.”
“I still don’t trust him,” Esther replied, too weary for rage. “The man is a menace to everything we stand for.”
“Sybel doesn’t think so.” The admission brought Kay Trilling no comfort. “And we both trust her judgment above almost anyone’s.”
“I’m sorry,” Jackie said. “Who is Sybel?”
“Wynn’s sister,” Esther said, her mind elsewhere. “Sybel Bryant Wells.”
The name rang all sorts of bells. “The wife of Governor Wells?”
But the pair were already moving on to other concerns. “I hate how she’s maneuvered us.”
Trilling gave another of her swift smiles. “Like you maneuvered us over Ms. Havilland?”
“That was different.”
“It always is.”
“I suppose we’ll need to send someone. Passing Sybel’s message to her brother isn’t something we can handle over the phone.”
“Don’t look at me,” Trilling said. “It’s one thing for Sybel to make these pronouncements, and another to get me publicly involved.”
“How about Carter?”
“Not a chance. He’s as busy as a one-armed paper hanger with a seven-year itch. He’s personally reviewing all the material I’m taking to Cairo. Not to mention the fact that he loathes Wynn more than you do.”
“I suppose,” Esther said reluctantly, “I could ask Nabil to go for us.”
“He’ll do it,”
Trilling agreed. “But he’s only met Wynn once, and that was in my office. We argued. Nabil is a formal sort of guy. You’ll need to arrange an introduction.”
Two pairs of eyes refocused upon Jackie.
Jackie raised a hand to halt Esther before she could begin. “First there’s something I need cleared up.”
Esther grew even more uncomfortable. “We could be here for days, trying to answer your questions.”
“Just one point now. The rest can wait.” She sought to remove the sting with a soft tone. “Why did you hire me?”
Even spoken as it was, the query drew a wince from the exhausted woman. Jackie resisted the urge to reach out, tell her to forget it, this didn’t matter any more. She wasn’t angry, not even now that she already knew the answer. She just needed to hear it said, have a level of honesty established on all sides.
“I had no idea,” Esther said, “we would ever get to this point.”
“I was a lure.” Jackie spoke the words so Esther would not have to. “Just to see if they were still tracking you and the movement.”
“Not anymore,” Esther replied. “This is important work, and you are an important part of our team.”
“But in the beginning,” Jackie pressed as softly as she could. “I was tied like bait to the end of a pole.”
“Done in utmost secrecy,” Esther said, regret in her face, her tone, her stricken gaze. “Hoping you would never be noticed.”
“But I was.” Thinking aloud now. Fitting the fragments together. “They came after me and ransacked my apartment, which means they still consider you a threat.”
“Us,” Esther corrected. “Consider us a threat.”
“So it wasn’t just your husband they were worried about. Isn’t that it? You needed to know whether they were worried about more than your Graham.”
“They would never have come after someone so far removed from the Washington scene,” Esther quietly agreed. “Not if this were just a battle over legislation we have less chance of enacting with every passing day.”
“They’re worried about us finding something out,” Jackie said. “Which means time is important here. Important enough for them to show their hand when they learned I was sniffing around.”
“She’s good,” Trilling murmured, not liking the taste of those words, but saying them just the same. “Very good indeed.”
“There’s something you need to know,” Jackie said. She told them about the contact made upon stormy Intracoastal waters by a young man who had no idea how to handle this craft.
When she finished, the two women pondered briefly. Trilling said, “Boatman doesn’t mean a thing to me. Or the description. Maybe it was one of Sybel’s people.”
“We can’t worry about that now.” Esther drew herself up and addressed Jackie directly. “We need to invite Wynn Bryant to Rome over the congressional spring recess. And we want you to go with him.”
Jackie found the last segment impossible to grasp. So she focused on, “I don’t have any problem with helping out. But it seems to me a U.S. congressman will have his own agenda. Which I imagine doesn’t include a last-minute jaunt to Rome.”
“Oh, Wynn is going,” Trilling said. “Sybel has already arranged that. We just want to make it official.”
16
Sunday
SUNDAY EVENING Wynn took a taxi from the Willard to Georgetown. The earlier misty rain had departed, so he had the driver drop him a few blocks from the restaurant where he was meeting Valerie. He walked the garish length of M Street, taking in the good-time crowds and the stores and the music that hammered out of every open door. The young and affluent swept by, all wearing the masks of people determined to believe almost anything, so long as it brought them what they wanted.
Midway down the restaurant’s side street, Wynn slowed and called his sister for the fifth time that day. The switchboard operator not only recognized his voice but had grown to share a little of his concern. No, she did not know where the governor’s wife was. No, the governor was still not available. No, she had not passed on his messages because the governor had neither called nor come in. Then, realizing she should not have admitted such a thing, the operator cut him off. Wynn continued down the lane, digesting just how much he had taken Sybel’s open line of communication for granted.
The Ristorante Piccolo occupied a tiny Federal house lit with gas lanterns. Through lead-paned windows Wynn saw an intimate interior whose tables displayed sparkling crystal and napkins with stiff linen wings. The place offered all the charm that Georgetown claimed but seldom delivered.
Valerie was waiting for him at a table by the front window. She stood to greet him, revealing a thigh-length sheath of softly clinging beige. She kissed his cheek and said, “You like?”
“Very much.”
“It doesn’t rank high on the political power list. But the food is excellent and the rooms are small and intimate.”
“Oh. You’re talking about the restaurant.”
She wrinkled her nose, her expression somewhere between a smile and an invitation. Once again, more softly this time, she asked, “You like?”
He still had his hand on the curve of her waist. “It’s like holding a cloud.”
“The material is called pashmina. A mixture of silk and cashmere.” She took a pair of steps and a half-turn. Wynn thought she looked like a dancing fawn. “What would you like?”
Only then did he realize the waiter was watching and grinning hugely. “A minute to catch my breath.”
When they were alone, she said across the table, “You looked so worried when you came in.”
“I can’t raise my sister. She’s always available. Always.”
“Sybel Bryant Wells. Quite a lady, by all accounts.”
“I can’t get over how much you know about me.”
“You’re a person of power, Congressman. Knowing who you are also includes knowing who can reach out and touch you. Friends, family close associates, allies, enemies. Ever since your nomination we’ve had our gophers at work, building your file.” Valerie studied his face. “When you arrived, I thought you still might be bothered by the other night at the Hutchings’ apartment.”
“I am.”
Valerie reached up and stroked a wayward hair from his forehead. “Poor little fellow. Still feeling a little singed?”
“More than a little.”
“Then I’d say Esther Hutchings has received the fate she deserves.” She changed the subject by opening her menu. “Shall I order for us?”
Wynn knew she was playing the mood, controlling the flow. Not minding in the least. “You are one impressive lady.”
She matched the candle’s glow with her own, a look broken off only by the waiter’s reappearance. Wynn listened to her discuss the evening’s choices and instruct the waiter as if he were one of her personal staff. When she turned back and saw his expression, she said merely, “What?”
“I was thinking,” he replied, “I could do worse than put myself in your care.”
That was enough to have her reaching across the table, taking one of his hands with both of hers. “A dream come true for every lobbyist the length and breadth of K Street.”
The constant intermingling of business and intimacy was very jarring, very Washington. “Where would you take me if this was business?”
“It depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether I wanted the world to know we were together.” Her look was a subtle invitation, overlaying the words with a second unspoken message. “For the public meeting, I’d probably select La Citronelle. Ultradull outside, ultrasuede inside. A hundred and fifty a head plus wine. Top French chef. Waiters who love to play the unnamed source to the Post. Great place to leak secrets, let the chief whip know you’ve defected to the opposing team.”
“And if it were a secret?”
“A private room at the Hay Adams. Or the Mayflower. A butler to usher you in, take your coat, guard the door. We’d sweep for bugs, the
n talk in whispers. And always assume that somehow the secret won’t stay secret for very long.”
“So what’s a nice girl like you—”
She slid her hands away. “Stop. Please. Sarcasm doesn’t become you.”
“All right. Why Washington?”
“That’s better. Honesty always, Wynn. There’s almost none of it in our game. So let’s have it between us.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“I love D.C. Always have. My father was chargé at the British embassy back in the early eighties. Leaving was temporary. I knew I’d come back and make it my home.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s so fresh. Vibrant and new and utterly alive. You don’t know how rare that is in a capital. European capitals are so buried in history and tradition, any hint of freedom is utterly crushed. And Africa, what a dismal place. Asia is almost as bad, all those would-be potentates utterly terrified of change. Believe me, Washington is unique. This place reinvents itself every four years. Democracy in the electronic age. Give yourself a few months, you’ll understand.”
Over dessert Valerie asked him about the previous day’s conference, and heard him out in the intent silence of a professional listener. Then she dismissed everything he said with, “They’re typical of the well-intentioned losers who populate the wastelands out beyond the Beltway. Forget them, Wynn. They don’t matter.”
“Graham thought they did.”
“I can see you were affected by his speech. I’ve heard it too. Passion is infectious, especially when it’s genuine. And Graham Hutchings was certainly genuine in his opposition to the banking industry.” She signaled the waiter for the bill. “Misguided but passionate.”
He started to ask about the source of her knowledge, but she leaned over once more, this time to press a finger to his lips. “A request. Spoken with the wisdom of one who’s been at this game a lot longer than you. Let’s leave it there, all right? It was a mistake for me to bring it up at all.”
“No it wasn’t.”
“I’ll come by your office one day next week, lay it out for you in black and white.”
Drummer In the Dark Page 13
