Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  36

  Saturday

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK THAT afternoon, Wynn was seated in his office dealing with the attack’s aftermath. An agent manning his front room stepped inside to say, “Senator Trilling is on line two.” Addressing not Wynn but the two senior agents across from him.

  It was the pretext Wynn had been looking for. “You gentlemen will have to excuse me.”

  “Just a few more questions, sir.”

  “You’ve been repeating yourselves for almost an hour.”

  “We need to have a word with the senator.”

  “Fine. Call her.” Then he just sat there holding the phone, watching them finally get the message and leave. As soon as his door closed, he punched the button. “Kay?”

  “Was that a Fibbie who answered your phone?”

  “Them and Secret Service both. They’ve been crawling all over me for hours.”

  “Guess it’s to be expected. My turn next, now that I’m back. Nabil was on my flight, laid out on a stretcher across three seats. He’s resting at Georgetown Hospital. Happy to be out of that one, let me tell you.” The voice honeyed. “I won’t ask how you are because I think I already know.”

  “They got Jackie, Kay.”

  “Yeah, Esther told me. At least she managed to land a punch. First one so far. Looks like I was wrong about her.” A pause. “As well.”

  “The Fibbies want to put a security detail on me.”

  “It’s your call, Wynn. They can’t force you.”

  “Are you taking one?”

  “I can’t afford the risk. Just more loose ends, people I don’t know talking into mikes and phones to people I can’t see.”

  “I don’t want one either.”

  “I’ll take care of it, then.”

  “Kay, I need something to do.” When the senator did not respond, he went on, “Please. This is vital.”

  “You know St. John’s Church?”

  “I can find it.”

  “Episcopal church on Lafayette Square, across from the White House. The parish house was the British Minister’s residence back in the bad old days. We’re meeting there tomorrow.”

  “When?”

  “Nine o’clock. Right after the evening Easter service.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  37

  Sunday

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON, Hayek came out of his back door and walked down the length of his paddock. He carried his cellphone with him, in case his secretary finally located the Brazilian banker. Obviously the man knew of the catastrophes in Rome and Egypt and had gone into hiding. But Hayek’s secretary would track him down. It was only a matter of time.

  His staff knew not to show themselves when he was home at weekends. His gray stood saddled and stomping in impatient readiness. Hayek had never bothered to name the horse. To do so would imply an attachment. Hayek swung into the saddle and took the sawdust trail along the paddock and into the forest. Through the trees he caught brief glimpses of the manor’s peach-colored stone. Anywhere else on earth the estate would have been wildly garish, but in central Florida, where even Disney’s castle looked appealing, it simply belonged. The house was far too large for him, especially now that he was between wives. But the lie of permanence needed to be convincing and stated very visibly.

  Hayek employed eleven staff to keep the place and his ninety-seven acres in perfect order. And it meant nothing. He was merely passing through. The transfer to Orlando was a feint, nothing more.

  His true residence was to be in Liechtenstein. He was already in negotiations to buy a breeding and racing estate currently owned by the Shah of Oman. Liechtenstein was a place that understood the power of money. It had thirty thousand inhabitants and six hundred and twenty banks. The country’s ruler was a distant cousin who had personally designed the country’s new motto: “A Clean Tax Haven.” The country was too small and too dependent on its neighbors to publicly defy Europe’s dictates for financial disclosure. So the legal system had been designed to bury any case in years of bureaucratic muddling. When European prosecutors had found half a billion dollars belonging to the former Nigerian dictator stashed in a Liechtenstein bank, it had taken the court system three years just to set a trial date. The judge who was finally assigned the case was also a banker. Hayek knew he was going to be very happy calling such a place home.

  The trail wound up a gentle slope, the wind and the whispering pines his only company. Which was as it should be. Triumph was not found in the right mate but rather in needing none. Hayek pushed through the forest and emerged on a hillside’s verdant slope. Ocala possessed a few rolling hills, a genuine luxury on the Florida peninsula and one of the reasons why Hayek had selected this particular estate. Another reason was the grass. The region around Ocala was the only area outside Kentucky where bluegrass grew without fertilizers or other contaminants. Bluegrass was known to be the finest natural diet for young horses. An estate with pastures of natural bluegrass could cost five times more than one not holding the proper nutrient level. Some of the world’s finest yearlings were now gamboling about the paddocks Hayek rented to his less fortunate neighbors. For now, the gray would do him just fine.

  As he set a leisurely pace along the hillside, his phone chirruped. He pulled it out, took a long moment to review his strategy, then answered with a clipped, “Yes.”

  “Your call to Brazil is now ready, sir.”

  “Put him through.”

  The phone clicked, the line hissed, and the São Paolo banker cried, “Pavel, where on earth have you been, I’ve been looking everywhere—”

  “Your so-called security have done it again.” Not raising his voice. “They leave today.”

  “Pavel, Pavel, I thought we had reached an understanding on this matter.”

  “We did. They were tested. They failed. They leave. What part of this do you not understand?”

  The Brazilian’s tone hardened perceptibly. “You sent them into an impossible situation.”

  “You were the one who told me their previous tasks were too insignificant, and that I should use their vast range of connections. Frighten them off, I said. Not create international incidents.”

  “Do not make me retract our funds, Pavel.”

  “We are nine days from doubling your investment. Your ham-fisted oafs threaten everything. Not just your money but everyone else’s is at stake here. They have to go.”

  A big sigh. “I am sorry, Pavel. You will do this without us.”

  “So be it.” Pleased with the cool bluff, the calm lie. “I have enough to carry on. It would have been easier with you, but if not, it can’t be helped.”

  Even the wind held its breath at the enormity of his gamble. Hayek raised one finger and wiped a trail of sweat from his temple.

  Then the gray flicked one ear, its first sign of life since the conversation had begun. Instantly the spell was broken. The banker announced, “I will speak with my associates.”

  “Do whatever you wish,” Pavel said coolly, wanting to shout, to exult to the brilliant sky. “But your men are no longer welcome.”

  The banker replied by cutting their connection. Hayek cradled the phone to his hammering chest and forced himself to breathe easy. Then he nudged his gray back down the slope. Burke would have an open field now to identify and eliminate the trading floor spy. Then the pieces of his strategy would fit seamlessly together.

  Afterward they would not see the scheming and the worry. Only the success. That was how it was in his world. Years of detail, seconds of action. But he would win. And his name would live forever.

  38

  Sunday

  LISTENING TO EASTER bells chiming in the sunny distance only added to Jackie’s bitterly boring day. She sat in a 7-Eleven parking lot, her Camaro shaded by a very smelly dumpster. Across the street stood the gated entrance to an enclave of expensive town houses. It was the sort of place she and Preston had joked about one day moving into, with the floodlit tennis courts and the Olympic-size pool and
the beautiful people offering one another comfortable little hellos.

  The previous night Jackie had used her coded access from the detective agency to pull a data search on Eric Driscoll. She was relieved to discover through his credit rating that Eric still listed himself as employed by the Hayek Group. His address was two blocks beyond the gatehouse, a prime condo that backed onto the golf course. Eric carried a big mortgage and another hefty credit line for his Porsche Cabriolet. Not to mention a swath of overdrafts. It was the financial picture of just another trader living on the edge. The search had taken her all of thirty minutes.

  Afterward she had checked the Trastevere site before signing off. There was a message waiting for her, one requesting direct access. She had agreed, then watched the unsteady gondolier appear and vanish before the communication drifted into focus, Heard about the attack. You all right?

  Fine. No, not fine. But functioning.

  Have you learned anything about Tsunami?

  Not yet.

  Then you’re asking the wrong questions.

  What can you tell me?

  If I knew anything, do you think I’d be bothering you? Be careful. Hurry.

  Jackie pushed herself from the car, walked away from the shade and the odors, and did a few stretching exercises. Her wounds were feeling much better, despite a restless night filled with bitter memories. In the distance the bells rang and rang. Not like Rome, but appealing just the same. She watched the cars driving by, families with somewhere to go, places where they belonged, and people they could trust to be there when their world was threatened. She knew it was just a fable of her own making, but that did not mean it shouldn’t be true.

  The ringing cellphone was a welcome interruption. As was hearing Wynn’s voice on the other end. “Where are you?”

  “My office. Reading through Graham’s files. Wishing I knew more. What about you?”

  “Parked beside a garbage dumpster, wishing I had someplace better to go.”

  “You do. Here.”

  The invitation warmed her. “I’d like to come up. Really. But I can’t. I’ve got to track down this lead.”

  “Jackie—”

  “Don’t press me, Wynn. Please. Not now. After yesterday, I might give in.”

  “What happened yesterday?”

  “I want to tell you,” she said, then had to stop. She was that surprised. The desire as strong and easy as yesterday’s unexplained tears.

  “But?”

  “But I want to do it when we’re together. Does that make sense?”

  “More than that. It gives me something to look forward to.”

  The warmth spread, melting barriers she had carried so long she wasn’t even aware of them any more. Not until they began to open. “I never thanked you for Rome.”

  “I wasn’t the one who sent you.”

  “In a way, you were. But I meant the flight and the hotel and the dinner. And the company.”

  Wynn seemed to take forever to draw in the next breath. “I woke up this morning feeling like if I didn’t find a place and a time to be weak, to set down all the things I’m carrying, I was going to shatter into dust. Does that sound crazy?”

  “No.” In the distance, the bells continued their gentle ringing. “It sounds like you’re pulling words from my own mind.”

  WYNN WENT TO the evening service. According to the brochure he picked up on his way inside, St. John’s Church dated from the era of rebuilding that followed the War of 1812, as did the White House and the Capitol. Despite its impressive size, it was a homey place of comforting closeness, the balcony a curved operatic design of brass-railed waves. The central dome was unadorned, the ancient pews flanked by waist-high gates. As the capacity crowd launched into the first song, Kay Trilling slipped into the pew alongside him. She gave Wynn a tight little smile, neither welcoming nor hostile. The bandage on her forehead gleamed white against her skin. “You okay?”

  He looked back down to the hymnal in his hands and shook his head. No. Kay reached over and supported the hymnal with him, skin touching skin, and began to sing in a deep mellow alto. Saying nothing more directly, but the message there just the same.

  Before the Eucharist, when the pastor invited them to offer one another the sign of peace, Kay was there waiting for him. She gripped his shoulders and said, “Sybel is not here, Wynn. And if you’ve come looking for her, you’re just trading one wrong path for another.”

  “All these years she dragged me along, kicking and screaming,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know who to ask for answers now. Or even what to ask.”

  “You want to understand?” Kay remained so tightly focused the surrounding tumult might as well not have been there. “Start with this. It’s something my grandmother told me when I was six years old. ’There ain’t no inheritance plan in heaven. God don’t accept no joint savings program.’ My grandmomma was an uneducated woman who took in laundry to pay my daddy’s way through school. But she was smart in the ways of the Lord.”

  Kay hugged him then. Hard. Then she drew back far enough to let him see the tiny flecks of lighter color in those strong, hard eyes. “You know the best place to do your searching and your asking? Down on your knees. That’s what my grandmomma would tell you. I can hear her saying those very words.”

  AFTER THE SERVICE, Kay allowed the crowds to envelope her. She spoke with warmth to all, responded swiftly to concerns about her health, then with the gentle diplomacy of vast experience she removed herself and returned to Wynn. “Ready?”

  He fell into step beside her. “I don’t want just to observe, Kay. I want to help. Give me something concrete to do.”

  She led him around the corner and down H Street, the illuminated White House rising beyond the fences and the lawns. She was quiet long enough for Wynn to become convinced she was preparing to shut him out again. But when she spoke, it was to say, “What we’re missing here is the critical edge, something that will press the issue home to the U.S. voters. My constituents don’t care unless the problem is related to one thing and one thing only, their jobs. If New York slipped into the Atlantic and every Wall Street banker drowned, outside of a few financiers nobody in my district would blink an eye. The success of the Jubilee Amendment comes down to connecting the dots, from the globalized world’s financial future to a mechanic in Hometown USA. We must make the average voter want deep down in his gut for Wall Street to suck air.”

  At the gated entrance to the church parish house, Wynn drew her to a halt. “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “Sure I did. And I just answered you, but I guess you weren’t listening.” The warm churchwoman was lost now beneath rock-hard resolve. “Wynn, this isn’t about you. Or me. It’s about linking into a new global watchdog strategy with maybe two dozen other nations. You want to help? Fine. I’m glad. But don’t whine about it, man. You’re a United States Congressman, remember? Start acting like one. Get in there and dig for yourself.”

  THE REASON BEHIND Kay’s show of bad temper was revealed as soon as the meeting came to order. This was a Washington sort of conference, tense people in a hurry even on their days off. Perhaps three dozen people in all were present. Esther was seated across the room from Wynn. Carter sat next to her. Both gave him the flat gaze of the undecided.

  There was a whispered confab at the front of the room before Kay ended it by rising and saying, “We all know one another, or should by now. So let’s cut to the quick. The first thing I have to say is how sorry I am about Wynn’s loss. One that is shared by many of us who called Sybel their friend.” The weight of all those sympathetic yet measuring gazes left Wynn burning with shame. Not over his presence now, but rather his absence before.

  Kay went on, “The only thing I have to report from Cairo is that the majority of nations represented are ready to go ahead. Which means that we’ve got to push the Jubilee Amendment through on schedule.”

  Even with his lack of political experience, Wynn could sense the worry in the room. “Since Graham
isn’t around to carry us through the House,” Kay continued, “I propose to introduce the amendment in the Senate.”

  “They’ll hammer you like a bent nail,” someone predicted.

  “Maybe so. But somebody has got to pick up the torch and run with it.”

  “Do you have the votes in the Senate?”

  “Not yet. But I’ve got a lot of favors I can call—”

  Wynn was standing before the thought rose to full consciousness. “I’ll introduce it on the House side.”

  Kay turned, as surprised as the others. “Wynn, you don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “Whoever introduces the amendment is going to be recognized as the point man on this, right? Which means their career in politics is toast.” He shrugged, pretending to an offhand manner he hoped would mask his suddenly thundering heart. “I’m just playing caretaker here. Which means I’ve got the least to lose.”

  Everyone in the room tensely gauged him. To Wynn’s utter astonishment, it was Carter who spoke up. Eyes on his new boss, he said, “We’re sitting on a clearer number of votes in the House. Especially if we move ahead as scheduled.”

  Kay’s frown formed an arrowhead of creases across her forehead. “Thank you for your very kind proposal, Wynn. Would you excuse us while we discuss this?”

  39

  Monday

  WYNN WAITED UNTIL midmorning to call Jackie again. She answered with a terse, “What.”

  “Maybe I should call back.”

  “Wynn?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “I’ve been sitting out here for almost two hours. My shoulder hurts. It’s hot. It’s muggy. I didn’t sleep well and now I’m trapped inside a car that’s twelve years old and smells like a dirty sock.”