Drummer In the Dark

by T. Davis Bunn

  “You’re not interrupting, and the name is Wynn.”

  “Wynn.” The priest spoke his name like a gift he had himself received. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am about Sybel. How are you?”

  “Struggling.”

  The priest scarcely moved, yet gave the impression of bowing with his entire body. Up and down, a slow rocking that took him a distance of scarcely an inch in either direction. A movement of spirit and mind, not of flesh. “Sometimes God can only capture our attention when we have been stripped down to our very bones. People spend so much time asking, how did this happen, and why to me? I have no answer for them, except to ask another question. It is the role of priests sometimes, not to give answers but to show how to seek through tears. How to search out what is there, yet remains hidden. Even when it is painful, yes, even when the emptiness eats at you like an abyss.”

  Wynn licked his lips. Knew the others were watching, measuring him. “What question should I be asking, then.”

  “Oh, I think you already know. You are a very intelligent man, very perceptive. You know the words. Having me say them will not make finding the answer any easier.” Father Libretto patted Wynn’s shoulder, the benediction of a caring friend. He lowered his arm and dropped a card into Wynn’s coat pocket. “My role is that of servant and messenger to all drawn into service. You may call on me at any time.”

  Kay stepped forward but continued to watch the priest’s departing back. “I’ve always been comforted by the extreme promises of faith. The healing of wounds seen and unseen. Eternal salvation. Love and peace even here, in a town run by blind ambition.” She looked at him then, her gaze guarded. “It all boils down to one thing. Are you still searching for the chance to tell your sister what a fool you’ve been? Or are you finally at the point where you want to speak the words to someone else?”

  Wynn swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. It cost him, but he kept a lock on her gaze.

  Even so, Kay took his silence as defeat and turned away. “See how simple it is?”

  THE COMMITTEE CHAMBER was very imposing, very Roman. The royal purple carpet was bordered with silver-gray laurels, as were the drapes. The ceilings were forty feet high and tiled with indirect lighting. The walls, curved into a pointed oval, were lined by mahogany columns and fronted by curved rows of desks. Kay took the committee chairman’s seat, flanked by flags and the oil portrait of a long-dead power broker. The place had the burned-powder scent of previous battles.

  Carter indicated Wynn’s seat by standing behind it. Kay rapped for attention, then began a drone that she could keep up all day. Only seven of the fourteen seats were taken. The rest of the room was empty, save for a scattering of aides.

  Wynn motioned Carter forward and asked, “What am I doing here?”

  Carter’s voice was pitched for Wynn’s ears alone. “This is an omnibus appropriations bill. Ten thousand pages. The president considers it a take-it or leave-it bill, which means every congressman, every senator, and every lobbyist was out to make attachments. We hope we’ve been able to slip this in without raising too much of a stink.”

  “What do you want me to do now?”

  “Sit tight. This won’t last long. The Conference Committee has an equal number of senators and congressmen, and their job is to iron out the differences between the House and Senate versions of this bill. Once we’ve constructed the final version, the two chambers will vote on it again. Staffers have been gathering for a couple of weeks now, defining all the areas where there’s no real conflict. That’s taken care of sixty, maybe even seventy percent of the issues. Tomorrow the committee members will begin hammering out the divisive points.”

  While Carter was speaking, Kay banged her gavel to adjourn the meeting. She rose from her seat, shook a few hands, then aimed for Wynn. He braced himself for another onslaught of unanswered challenges, but all she said was, “Is it true you’re living at the Willard?”

  “That’s right.”

  “A suite?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Do us all a favor. Move. You want to stay in a hotel, go someplace that won’t make such a splash on the six o’clock news.”

  “It’s my money, Kay.”

  “There’s nothing the press would love more than a photo of you getting out of a limo at the Willard with a pretty girl on your arm. I can see the caption now. Fat cat Wynn Bryant, so out of touch with his district he thinks a thousand dollar suite is real life.”

  “You really think it’ll come to that?”

  She gave him a look of brittle experience. “Try the Four Seasons. Nothing but a brick wall to shoot. Could be anyplace.”

  AS SOON AS Wynn entered his office, his secretary announced, “The governor’s office is on line two.”

  “Right on time,” Carter said.

  “You knew about this?”

  “He caught me before the committee hearing. Yelled at me for a couple of minutes since you weren’t in range. I figured there was no need to worry you in advance.” When Wynn showed no interest in picking up the phone, he went on, “Sooner or later you’re going to have to let him sing his tune.”

  The governor’s assistant, whom Wynn had known for more than ten years, treated him like an utter stranger. Or a pariah. “Hold for the governor.”

  But when Grant came on the line, there was none of the screaming Wynn dreaded. The man’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you have any idea the kind of storm you’ve raised for yourself?”

  “Just doing my job, Grant.”

  “Your job. What about our agreement?”

  “What about your responsibilities to my sister?”

  He hit a high note then. “You leave Sybel out of this!”

  “Afraid I can’t do that. Which you know as well as I do.”

  “Go on up to Washington, I said. Have yourself a high old time. Sign a few bills, get your picture taken with the powers that be, meet some fine big-city ladies. Vote down one piece of legislation. Keep your nose clean until I got myself elected to the top club in the world. Was that so much to ask?”

  “Yes, Grant. It was.”

  “Well, this here’s your demolition notice. They’re coming after you. And when they’re done, we’ll be hard pressed to find a greasy stain.”

  “Who’s behind this, Hayek?”

  “That name happens to belong to one of my top supporters. You can’t possibly be implying he’d be mixed up in anything as nasty as what’s going to happen to you.”

  Wynn countered, “You don’t have any trouble being the spokesman for the same group that murdered your wife?”

  Another hard breath, then the phone slammed down.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” Carter observed from his place by the door. “I don’t see any singed hair.”

  Wynn swiveled his chair around to face the window. Through the sunlit curtain he could just make out the stone wall across the courtyard. Trapped in a cage of his own making.

  Carter said, “They’ve got something on you, don’t they.”

  47

  Thursday

  JIM BURKE SPRAWLED in the corner of his patio Jacuzzi, a drink the color of a tropical depression at his elbow. He felt as lifeless as the pictures he had seen in the development’s brochure—the couple seated just exactly where he was, strong-limbed and empty-headed, giving each other these full-tooth smiles. As if being here was the answer to every problem they’d ever had. He sipped from his glass, grimaced, and pushed it away. Since coming in with Hayek, these were the first free days he had taken while the trading floor was open. He absolutely loathed it. The world was spinning, the markets were flying, and he was trapped in a concrete square that made its own bubbles.

  When his phone rang, Burke checked his watch. Right on time. He punched the button and said, “Burke.”

  “Thorson here.” The man sounded suitably wired for somebody who had been taken from the cellar and launched into multibillion dollar orbit. “The senior trader’s had a phone-in order. H
ayek’s group wants to buy another three-fifty worth of dollar-yen. That puts them a hundred million over the current Interbank limit.”

  “Let me check with headquarters and get back to you.” Burke hung up the phone, leaned back, and imagined all the action he was missing. He felt the absence in his gut, a hunger that burned so bad he’d willingly swallow acid just to give it a physical name.

  The Central Markets department of First Florida was in absolute chaos. This he knew from Brant Anker. Burke closed his eyes and saw it like he was there, standing in the corner, feeding off the frenzy. Thirty-seven traders operating in a space maxed out at twenty. Everybody sweating and screaming and moving money in great heaping piles. He understood why Hayek had ordered him to lie low and monitor activities from a distance. Thorson needed time to get used to his position as board member and top man. During this start-up phase, their Interbank line would be nudged up in three hundred million dollar increments. Enough to be noticed, but not enough to cause alarm. Not when they were literally awash with money. A billion had been injected so far. Double that in forty-eight hours. Another billion the next day. Then the big hit. Five billion more.

  Burke decided he had waited long enough. He called Thorson back. “That’s a go on the three-fifty in yen.”

  “Right.” Thorson was too experienced a trader to let much of his ebullience show. But it was there just the same. “I’ve had six calls from the Interbank crowd so far this morning. More than I’d usually have in a month. People asking what’s going on. I’m giving it to them straight, just like you said. At least so far as the money is concerned. Nothing about the new owner.”

  “Good.”

  “When they hear we’ve lined up Brazilian money, the envy starts pouring down the line.” Thorson sounded tightly jubilant. “Had three offers so far this morning to raise the size of our Interbank lines.”

  “Take whatever they offer. Tell your senior trader to use it all.”

  “Hang on a second.” The trader paused, then came back with, “The bank’s very own personal pachyderm has just entered the room. He looks hot.”

  That would be Robert Carlton the Fifth. “I guess you better put him on.”

  There was the shuffling of a phone being passed, then the fruity voice of history demanding, “Is this Burke?”

  “It is.”

  “I want to know what you’re going to do about these security people you have camped in my front lobby!”

  “It’s a temporary measure,” Burke said, not caring whether the man believed him. “Just until we get the Capital Markets sectioned off.”

  “One of them refused to let me pass until I showed him my driver’s license! Those dolts are frightening off my best customers!”

  “Your best customers,” Burke replied calmly, “are the ones currently pumping fresh blood into your bank. I don’t suppose you’ve heard they just placed another half-billion with your foreign exchange department this very morning.”

  “I want them out of here!”

  “Look. Your Capital Markets division is now dealing in highly confidential information. And they’re making your bank a ton of money. We need to ensure no one from the outside gains access.”

  Carlton took a couple of heavy breaths, then crashed down the receiver.

  Burke raised his glass to the sunlight and the unfolding of Hayek’s strategy.

  48

  Thursday

  THE HEAD OF THE Senate Appropriations Committee was not large, yet he rolled from side to side as though his limited physical bulk were weighted with political muscle. Trailing behind was his chief of staff, which in itself was an indication of the importance the senator gave this meeting. He dropped into his chair and motioned his visitors toward the seats opposite him. “You’ve got ten minutes.”

  “Appreciate the time, John.” The lawyer at Valerie’s side was a desiccated veteran of Washington power brokering. Polk Hindlestiff had sat on three presidential cabinets, lawyered two heads of state through courtroom crises, and advised more high-level campaigns than even he could recall. “I mean that.”

  “The request coming from your office is the only reason we’re here at all.” Staring at Valerie as he said it. Letting her know just how far down the totem pole she sat.

  To punctuate the ticking clock, his secretary poked her head through the door and said, “You are expected at Treasury in a half hour, Senator.”

  “Don’t I just know it.” Ire coated his features like a layer of putty. “All right. Let’s hear what’s so all-fired important I’ve had to rearrange my afternoon.”

  Hindlestiff settled back, his job done for the moment. Having him make this and four other appointments had cost Valerie sixty-five thousand dollars. But it was the only way to meet privately with the heads of both parties and the top committee chairmen, all in one day. Not to mention the fact that merely by hiring such a heavy hitter, Valerie Lawry was declaring this a major league issue.

  “Thank you very much for seeing us, Senator. The matter I bring before you today is one of vital importance.”

  “It always is.”

  “Hear her out, John,” the lawyer murmured.

  “Last night the House forwarded the omnibus appropriations bill to the Conference Committee.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “Yes, sir. But the problem is, they also inserted a last-minute rider that will add immensely to the corporate tax burden and undermine our national sovereignty.”

  “Remarkable feat to manage, shooting those two birds with one stone.” But the senator was listening now. He was a conservative of the old school and nothing pushed his buttons harder than taxation and threats to America’s regal status. As Valerie well knew.

  She outlined the basics of the Hutchings Amendment, then concluded, “What makes this amendment so alarming is that parallel measures are being put forward by other governments. We need to act swiftly if we are going to keep these maniacs from giving control of our financial institutions to other nations. This is a killer issue, Senator. If this gets out of committee it is going to cost your party seats in the next election.”

  IT WAS THE first conference Valerie had ever chaired within her company’s boardroom. Just standing and surveying the people awaiting her green light was a rush that left her almost panting. “I assume everyone knows each other.”

  There were a few wary nods across the table. The two assembled crews were more accustomed to battling than cooperating. Conservatives to her left, liberals to her right. Four administrations were represented, five presidential races fought with these people in key positions. Her own crew clustered at the table’s far end, agog at the power and history on display. “As you know, one of the problems we face is that support for the amendment comes from both sides of the aisle. Unfortunately, several players have also threatened to turn renegade if their parties take a contrary stand. So on this particular occasion we are expecting you ladies and gentlemen to bury the hatchet and work together.”

  The first two chairs, one to either side, were occupied by people known in Valerie’s circle as policy wonks. Retired lawmakers, now prestigious talking heads. To them she said, “You will use every connection you have to address this issue in public. Explain in the soberest possible terms how this proposal robs America of its heritage.”

  “A threatening precedent,” the liberal intoned.

  “Precedent, schmecedent,” the conservative barked. “They’re aiming to nuke our banking industry.”

  “Enough,” Valerie said. The next two opposing chairs were taken by outside campaign experts. These were her gutter fighters, authorities on designing negative campaigns. “You gentlemen don’t have much time. We need to see this amendment become a threat to Middle America.”

  “Down and dirty,” the liberal agreed. “Show how this will kill people in Colorado Springs.”

  The conservative bristled. The Colorado flatlands were among his most prized territories. “We can have something ready for release by tom
orrow. Maybe a photo of an ox goring people through the streets of Boston.”

  “Just so long as it’s in time for the six o’clock news.” Valerie nodded to the next pair, think-tank personalities with national followings from both sides of the arena. “We need editorials and air time explaining why this will be bad for the American economy, how it’s going to cost jobs. We need to make this something more than just an arcane argument about Wall Street. This has got to be turned into something that hits farmers. Makes things harder for small businesses. Threatens workers’ abilities to obtain full benefits.”

  “I got you.” The conservative was male and white and pompous. “Five percent of the population understands what the currency market is about, one percent cares. But everybody understands tax increases. Everybody understands interest rate hikes.”

  The liberal was black and female and a porcupine who found offense in a sneeze. “Thank you oh so much for such a clear explanation of the painfully obvious.”

  “All of you have just one task here,” Valerie continued. “Make it impossible for them to slip this one by. Go out there and frighten people to death.”

  49

  Thursday

  KAY TRILLING OPENED the Hutchings’ apartment door that night with the news, “It’s started. AIM’s chief hired gun has spent the afternoon declaring our amendment a free-fire zone. I shudder to think what kind of chits they called in to arrange meetings with the heads of both parties, the appropriations chiefs of both houses, and the senior party whips, all in one afternoon.”

  Wynn followed her inside, nodded to Carter, and returned what he assumed was a wave from Graham parked by the fireplace. Then Esther called to him from the adjoining room. When he walked over, she handed him the phone and said, “Talk some sense to her, please.”

  Wynn took a good look at Esther, but saw nothing save weary tension. No anger, no bitter resentment of his presence. He lifted the phone and said, “Who is this?”