Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  Finally Hayek turned from the window and his future. “Well?”

  “Our man has just confirmed that Bank of America is going ahead as rumored.”

  Hayek slid into his seat. “He is certain?”

  Burke remained standing because he had not been invited to sit. “He’s already received his notice. His plane should be arriving in three hours. Apparently B. of A. is canning their entire San Francisco trading staff and consolidating operations in Chicago and New York.”

  “Will the market absorb them without our intervention?”

  “No way. I’ve checked. Wall Street is already shedding its own dead wood. Chicago is stagnant.”

  “So their traders should be panicking about now.”

  Burke showed momentary unease. He was paid to arrive with all the answers already in place. “I didn’t ask anything specific. But it sounded that way to me.”

  “The twenty-five traders and support staff have been selected?”

  “Ready to roll.”

  “Bring them in. Today. Remind them of their primary restriction.”

  “Total secrecy,” Burke confirmed.

  “More than that. They are a covert cadre. They must remain a tight-knit clan, isolated and apart. Any association whatsoever with the other traders and they will be instantly dismissed. All of them. Make sure they understand that.” He pointed Burke into a chair opposite his desk, reached for his phone, and instructed his secretary, “Have Mr. Ready come up.”

  Burke watched him replace the receiver. “I don’t trust Colin Ready. Not an inch.”

  “I am well aware of your feelings toward Mr. Ready.”

  “He’s got access almost everywhere in our system. Not to mention the warped areas in his background. He’s a hacker in corporate sheep’s clothing.”

  Hayek inspected his number two. The man was really quite repulsive. Hair cut so short his scalp was visible, eyes as tight and manic as fiery pellets, clothes of unerringly bad taste. But highly intelligent. And extremely loyal. “You realize, of course, that our guests in gray are spies.”

  Burke showed surprise at Hayek’s sudden change of direction. “Yes.”

  “Someone with the paranoid tendencies of our Brazilian investors,” Hayek went on, “would not be content with mere muscle.”

  Burke’s eyes widened. “You think Colin Ready is a mole?”

  “You may look into that, but discreetly,” Hayek replied. “And in the meantime, I am meeting with our Brazilians to complain about their gorillas. We can’t have infiltrators rambling about, sticking their noses into everything. They must be identified and controlled. Otherwise they could destroy us.”

  COLIN SET DOWN HIS PHONE, took a deep breath, and muttered to the empty cubicle, “This could grow very bad very quickly.”

  He slipped into the jacket he kept on hand for visits to the royal chambers. He then checked his reflection in the feng shui mirror hanging from the back wall, the one Lisa had hated so much he had removed from his apartment and claimed he had thrown away. Overhead hung Lisa’s final gift, a plaque reading “Destiny is reprogrammable, if seen from a higher perspective.” The words mocked him as he headed upstairs.

  Only Lisa had assuaged the soul-eating loneliness that wrenched him whenever he turned off his machines and entered loathesome reality. So long as she had remained alongside, the lonelies had never managed to strike. Now that she was forever gone, they never departed. Even the myth of her presence, and the one-sided futility of arguing with someone who had abandoned him for good, was better than staring the void straight in the face.

  The number of gray-jacketed goons in the front reception area had multiplied like malignant spoor. The one who had slammed Colin into the upstairs window burned him with a look as he stepped into the elevator.

  Once more Colin was shown directly into Hayek’s inner sanctum. The Unabomber was there, today clothed from neck to ankles in shades of brown—shirt, tie, pants, belt—anchored at both ends by equally bizarre black, his eyeglasses almost as heavy as his shoes. Burke was definitely the group’s most deviant relic from the twentieth century.

  Hayek directed him to the chair beside Burke. “Curiosity is not always an excusable offense, Mr. Ready.”

  “Pardon me?”

  Burke rapped out, “Stay away from the upstairs balcony.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.”

  Hayek continued, “Now update us on this hunter.”

  “I’m sorry, who—”

  Burke snapped at him again. “The Havilland female.”

  “She is hardly that. A huntress, I mean.” His chair’s angle was terrible. Colin could feel Burke’s death rays drilling into the side of his skull. “This weekend she has done nothing more than cash a check, fly to Washington, and attend a conference in Maryland. To be frank, I regret bringing her to your attention at all. I thought she would be a stronger quarry.”

  “And yet she attended this conference in College Park.”

  “Well, yes. But I hardly see—”

  “Perhaps you are not aware that Congressman Bryant was also in attendance?”

  “I’ve not been instructed to follow the movements of, sorry, who did you say?”

  “Bryant. Wynn Bryant.” This from the Unabomber.

  “What if I told you there was information,” Hayek added, “that ties her closely to the congressman?”

  Colin forced a laugh. “I would suggest it was a new hit for conspiracy theorists and paranoids everywhere.”

  “Then why is it,” Hayek demanded, his accent etching the words with soft menace. “That Havilland is currently preparing to fly to Rome?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “With Bryant,” Burke added.

  Hayek said, “It seems your data is not as complete as you suggest.”

  Colin stared across the desk, at an utter loss for words. At this proximity it was easy to see why in earlier ages men worshipped their kings as gods. Hayek’s power was that strong. “I don’t understand.”

  “That much is perfectly clear.”

  “No, I mean, when she first appeared on-screen, and afterward when it became evident Esther Hutchings had hired her, I thought she might prove a genuine peril. A card-carrying menace, given your warning about any connection to Congressman Hutchings.” He realized he was babbling, yet could not help himself. “But her findings have been paltry. I’ve uncovered nothing to indicate any sign of progress. I was certain Hutchings had brought her to Washington to criticize her lack of progress.”

  “And you were wrong,” Hayek said. “Dangerously incorrect.”

  “Apparently so.” Colin risked a single glance toward Burke. The man continued his unblinkingly hostile glare. “I am at an utter loss.”

  “That is unacceptable. I must know whether this woman is a growing tempest or merely a passing storm. There is nothing I despise more than the unknown risk.” Hayek pointed him toward the door. “Go out there and determine precisely what is going on.”

  Colin bolted to his feet. “Right. Certainly. Of course.”

  “Answers.” Hayek’s bark chased him to the door. “All of them. Now.”

  19

  Monday

  JACKIE ENTERED DULLES AIRPORT as tormented as the day itself. A stiff wind had raised with the afternoon, gaining strength until the trees bowed submissive heads and shivered with the dread of knowing worse was still to come. Clouds gathered and powers wrestled along heaven’s underbelly, the outcome revealed only to those who could read the script of lightning and lashing rain. She had spent her day fighting both highs and lows, and finding meager comfort in mall therapy.

  First she had purchased some clothes and makeup, things she had not brought for a weekend in the big city. Then she spent two and a half hours luxuriating over what replacement computer to buy, before selecting a real prize—a superthin Sony with a 30 gig hard drive, optional CD burner, and 15 inch TFT screen. Not that she needed so much transportable power. She did it because she could, claiming Esthe
r’s paycheck as real and hers. Forcing herself to accept that she really was doing this. Living the life. Traveling to Rome.

  Jackie had always recognized a good deal of her mother in herself. The bitter stink of undeserved woes constantly tempted her to view life with the lofty vision of one that disavows all connection. Perhaps that was why she had always fought Evelyn so hard, through the quiet stealth avoiding direct combat. She knew how easy it would be to assume life would never treat her any better, no matter how she tried, so not bother at all. It wasn’t just life she quarreled with. It was herself.

  Which was why, even as she walked through Dulles airport, part of her wanted to dismiss the entire journey as a lie.

  “Ms. Havilland?”

  She recognized the man who approached as Carter Styles, the overweight reader of newspapers. His piggy eyes were red with fatigue. His words grated like gravel tossed by a rusty shovel. “We’ve had a very bad night. Esther can’t afford to give the press a moving target.”

  “Graham’s worse?”

  “No, actually the old man is better.” He handed her a plastic envelope. “Flight, hotel, instructions.” He turned to leave. “Have a good trip. Don’t let Bryant out of your sight.”

  “Just a minute—”

  “Lady, a minute is the one thing I don’t have. Read the clippings and you’ll understand.” He scuttled away, soon lost in the bustling throngs.

  Jackie opened the packet. On top was a newspaper article cut from the front page of that morning’s Orlando Sentinel. The headline read “Former U.S. Congressman Linked To Illegal Arms Trade.” Across the top was the curt handwritten note, “Will Call. Good Trip. E.”

  She threaded her way to the international check-in counter, reading as she stood in line. The article claimed to have uncovered documents linking Graham Hutchings to arms dealing with African despots—apparently the true source of what he had always claimed was his wife’s wealth. The article went on to cite bank records revealing how Hutchings had acted as secret head of companies that transshipped weapons and skimmed profits. No mention was made of his stroke, only that he had recently resigned from Congress under a cloud.

  “It is terrible, no?”

  Jackie whirled about to confront a somber Nabil Saad. Today the Egyptian was attired in Ungaro mourner’s garb, a midnight blue double-breasted suit with an indented pinstripe of identical thread. He cast a faint scent of Oriental spice, yet his features held the same haggard tension as Carter Styles’.

  Jackie shook the paper at him. “Resigned under a cloud?”

  “Esther warned you about this.” The check-in line moved forward a notch. Nobody paid them any mind. Just two more hypertense Washington bureaucrats carrying their work into the friendly skies. Nabil shifted his carryall in order to reach for Jackie’s case. “Allow me.”

  “I’m not interested in charm right now. I want answers.”

  “We have none.” Lightning crackled and seared the Egyptian’s features. Wind slammed rain upon the windows. “I am off to Egypt. Perhaps there we shall find answers. But not now. I have nothing now.” He leaned closer, eyes so intent they lit recesses darkened by the tempest. “Here is a proper question for your journey. Why would the hedge funds manufacture such filth to bury a man already gone?”

  Before she could respond, Nabil turned and departed. Which meant she asked the empty air, “How do you know it’s a fund?”

  WIND PUMMELED THE BUS as they left the main terminal for the departure concourse. People clung to the railings and peered anxiously out storm-buffeted windows. Thunder echoed louder than the departing planes.

  The last person to enter before the doors closed was Wynn Bryant. The man looked like he had not slept for days. When he took the seat across from her, she waited until their eyes met, then asked, “You believe this weather?”

  He was the only person on board who did not seem the least bit concerned. “We have almost two hours before takeoff. It should blow itself out by then.”

  Jackie moved to the seat beside him. “You know storms?”

  “I live on the water. Weather-watching has become a part of my days.”

  She studied this man, the cleft chin, the deep-set eyes, the strong features. One step and ten years off movie-star looks. Which meant absolutely nothing except he had tools to hide his meanness down deep. If he wanted. If he had any to hide. “You have a boat?”

  “Just a fourteen-foot Jon. Little freshwater swamp boat, nothing fancy.”

  “I sort of figured you for the chrome-plated yacht crowd.”

  “Can’t take a yacht up a low-water canal after bass.”

  “The only thing I know about fishermen are the jackrabbit starts to tournaments. They’re murder for windsurfers. We warn each other on a local website of every regional fishing competition. You get these wannabe tourney jerks buying flat-bottomed bass boats with twin two-hundred horsepower outboards. They dig trenches six feet deep and throw out killer bow waves. That is, if they don’t hit a ripple and flip.”

  “You won’t find me in that crowd. Twenty horse kicker, nothing more.” He showed a little real interest. “You windsurf?”

  “Intracoastal Waterway, mostly. Some wave jumping off the coast. I live for storms like this.”

  “My home is on Merritt Island.”

  “Then I’ve probably passed your place a hundred times.” Wondering which of the waterside mansions was his.

  The bus bounced and sighed and connected with the concourse. People surged forward. Wynn asked, “Buy you a coffee?”

  Jackie reminded herself and him both, “You’re supposed to be the enemy.”

  He hefted his leather satchel. “That’s Esther talking. Isn’t it time you made up your own mind?”

  WYNN TOOK HER DOWN to the first-class lounge. These days, business-class lounges were merely leather-trimmed corrals. For a taste of the old style, the way air travel had been back before deregulation, there were only two choices—private jet or a first-class lounge. He found the day’s first meager pleasure watching her take in the suede walls and inlaid furniture, the quietly hustling waiters, the soft hush of money at work. He waited until she had finished a slow sweep of the room to observe, “You’re not a regular traveler.”

  “I’ve hardly been anywhere.”

  On an impulse so strange he did not bother to justify it even to himself, he said, “Let me have your ticket.”

  “What for?”

  “I just want to check on your seat assignment.”

  “Oh. All right.” But as she was about to hand it over, she said, “Could you lend me your credit card?”

  The flat way she spoke matched the look in her eyes, leaving him certain this woman had crashed and burned her way out of life with the wrong man. He knew she was expecting either an argument or a lot of questions, so he simply reached for his wallet and slid out the plastic.

  The simple gesture unnerved her. “I’ve just bought a new laptop computer. I need to set up an on-line account that’s not under my own name. Someone suggested it as a way to check things without being watched.”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll pay you back.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  He went to the front desk, handed over Jackie’s ticket as well as his own, and swiftly explained what he wanted. Then he moved to one corner and used his cellphone to call Valerie’s office.

  Valerie came instantly on the line. Her voice revealed a tougher lady than the one he had dined with the previous evening. “Are you somewhere I can reach you in an hour?”

  “I’m getting ready to board a flight for Rome.”

  “Just a minute.” The silence was only momentary. “Sorry, I was in a conference. Did you say Rome?”

  “That call I got last night. My sister has left her husband.”

  “Oh, Wynn.”

  “I found out she’s taken off for Rome. I’m going over to see if I can help out. Probably futile, but she’s all the family I have.”

  �
�I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks.”

  “And I had such plans for the upcoming recess. Friends have offered me the use of their yacht, it’s berthed in the Annapolis harbor.” She spoke with the crisp gaiety of someone wanting to be intimate in a public place. “I was hoping you’d come along and crew.”

  “Maybe another time.”

  “Of course. I haven’t been to Rome in ages.”

  He shook his head to the wall opposite. “This isn’t a pleasure trip.”

  “Certainly not. Where will you be staying?”

  He pulled out his own documents. “The Willard’s concierge booked me into someplace called the Hassler.”

  “You’ve never been before?”

  “First time.”

  “Some of the Hassler’s guests have more money than sense, but the view is the best in Rome.” Softening further. “Have as good a journey as you can, Wynn. I shall miss what we can’t share.”

  JUST AS WYNN HAD PREDICTED, within the hour the storm had passed. The departing wind rumbled soft as a muffled bass drum against the concourse window, raising nervous glances from less experienced travelers. Jackie was not the least bit bothered. The wind was her very dearest friend. Perhaps that was why it had come now, in an hour that occasionally threatened to lift her from her seat and send her zinging around the first-class chamber. She needed something familiar and comforting just now.

  Jackie was in the process of signing herself in as Wynn Bryant, new account holder with AOL, when he returned and dropped her ticket onto the keyboard. “I’ve had them upgrade you to first class.”

  “I can’t possibly—”

  “If we’re going to be played like other people’s puppets, we might as well do it with champagne.” When she did not respond, he quietly added, “Please.”

  “All right.” This was a come-on, no question. But one glance at Wynn’s face was enough to know this guy would never press his case overhard. “Thank you.”

  Jackie watched him move to the next set of seats, plop down, pick up a magazine, and blindly leaf through the pages. As her computer continued the signing-in procedure, she found herself wondering about this strange lonely man who fed on other people’s joy while feeling so little of his own.