Total Control

by David Baldacci

  in the other direction, a point adjustment the other way is catastrophic."

  "Jesus. Any way to find out who took those kinds of hits?"

  Tiedman smiled. "Lee, with the complexities of money movement today, neither you nor I would have enough years left to do that."

  Tiedman didn't speak for at least another minute, and Sawyer really couldn't think of anything else to say. When Tiedman finally broke the silence, his voice was suddenly bone tired. "Until we had our earlier discussion, I never had considered the possibility that Arthur's relationship with Steven Page could have been used to coerce him into doing it. Now it seems rather obvious."

  "You understand, though, that we don't have any proof that he was being blackmailed?"

  "We'll probably never know the answer to that, I'm afraid," said Tiedman. "Not with Steven Page dead."

  "Do you know whether Lieberman ever met Page at his apartment?"

  "I don't believe that he did. Arthur mentioned to me once that he leased a cottage in Connecticut. And he cautioned me about mentioning it in front of his wife."

  "You think that was the rendezvous spot for Page and Lieberman?"

  "It could've been."

  "I'll tell you where I'm going with this. Steven Page left behind a considerable estate when he died. Megabucks."

  Tiedman's tone was one of complete shock. "I don't understand. I remember Arthur telling me more than once that Steven was always complaining about money."

  "Nonetheless, it's undisputed that he died a very rich man. I'm wondering, could Lieberman have been the source of that wealth?"

  "Highly unlikely. As I just said, Arthur's conversations with me indicated that he believed Steven to be far from affluent. In addition, I think it quite impossible that Arthur could have transferred that kind of money to Steven Page without his wife knowing about it."

  "Then why take a risk with leasing a cottage? Couldn't they have met at Page's apartment?"

  "All I can say is he never mentioned to me that he had visited Steven Page's apartment."

  "Well, maybe the cottage was Page's idea."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Well, if Lieberman didn't give Page the money, someone else had to. Don't you think Lieberman would've been suspicious if he had walked into Page's apartment and saw a Picasso on the wall? Wouldn't he have wanted to know where the funds came from?"

  "Absolutely!"

  "Actually, I'm certain Page wasn't blackmailing Lieberman. At least not directly."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "Lieberman kept a picture of Page at his apartment. I don't think he would keep a blackmailer's photo around. On top of that, we also found a bunch of letters at Lieberman's apartment. They were unsigned, romantic in content. Lieberman obviously valued them highly."

  "You think Page was the author of those letters?"

  "I know a way to tell for sure. You were friends with Page. Do you have a sample of his writing?"

  "Actually, I've kept several handwritten letters he wrote me while he was working in New York. I can send them to you." Tiedman paused. Sawyer could hear him scribbling a note. "Lee, you've adeptly pointed out ways Page could not have reaped his millions. So where did he get his wealth?"

  "Think about it. If Page and Lieberman were having an affair, that's plenty of ammo to blackmail him with, you agree?"

  "Certainly."

  "Okay, what if someone else, a third party, encouraged Page to have an affair with Lieberman."

  "But I introduced them. I hope you're not accusing me of perpetrating this ghastly conspiracy."

  "You may have been the one to introduce them, but that's not to say Page and whoever was funding him couldn't have helped that introduction occur. Moving in the right circles, helping publicize Page's financial brilliance to the right people."

  "Go on."

  "So Page and Lieberman hit it off. The third party may believe that Lieberman may one day run the Fed. So Page and his backer bide their time. The backer pays Page to keep up the romance. They would've

  documented the relationship every which way from Sun-day--taped phone calls, video, still photos--you can believe that."

  "Then Steven Page was all part of a setup. He never actually cared for Arthur. I... I can't believe this." The little man sounded terribly depressed.

  "Then Page gets HIV and allegedly commits suicide."

  "Allegedly? You have doubts about his death?"

  "I'm a cop, Charles, I have doubts about the Pope. Page is gone, but his accomplice is still out there. Lieberman becomes Fed chair man, and barn, the blackmail begins."

  "But Arthur's death?"

  "Well, your comment about him seeming almost happy that he had cancer tells me one thing."

  "Which is?"

  "That he was about to tell his blackmailer to take a flying leap and was going to go public with the scheme."

  Tiedman rubbed his brow nervously. "It all makes perfect sense."

  Sawyer lowered his voice. "You haven't mentioned 'any of what we've discussed to anyone, have you?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "Well, stick to that habit, and never let your guard down."

  "What exactly are you suggesting?" There was a sudden catch in Tiedman's voice.

  "I'm just recommending in the very strongest possible terms that you be very careful and do not tell anyone--not any of the Fed members, including Walter Burns, your secretary, your assistants, your wife, your friends--anything about this."

  "Are you saying that you think I'm in danger? I find that very hard to believe."

  Sawyer's tone was grim. "I'm sure Arthur Lieberman thought that tOO."

  Charles Tiedman gripped a pencil on his desk so hard that it snapped in half. "I'll certainly follow your advice to the letter."

  Thoroughly frightened, Tiedman hung up.

  Sawyer leaned back in his chair and longed for another cigarette as his mental engine went into overdrive. Somebody had obviously been paying off Steven Page. Sawyer thought he had a reasonable answer for why: setting up Lieberman. The question nagging at him now was who? And then the biggest question of all: Who had killed Steven Page? The FBI agent was now convinced, despite evidence to the contrary, that Steven Page had been murdered. He picked up the phone. "Ray? It's Lee. I want you to give Lieberman's personal physician another call."

  CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE

  Bill Patterson looked at the dashboard clock and stretched out his large body. They were traveling southbound about two hours north of Bell Harbor. Next to him, his wife was sound asleep. It had been a far longer trip to the market than they were expecting. Sidney Archer had been incorrect. They had not stopped on the drive up to Bell Harbor, and had reached the beach house barely ahead of the storm. Having piled their luggage in the back bedroom, they headed out for food before the storm worsened. The market in Bell Harbor was sold out, so they were compelled to drive north to the far larger grocery in Port Vista. On the way back, their route had been closed off by a jackknifed tanker truck. Last night had been spent very uncomfortably in a motel.

  Patterson now checked the backseat; Amy was also napping, her little mouth forming a perfect circle. Patterson looked at the heavily falling snow and grimaced. Fortunately, he had not been privy to the latest news flashes proclaiming his daughter to be a fugitive from justice. He was sick enough with worry as it was. In his anxiety he had chewed his fingernails until they had bled and his gut was full of acid. He wanted to be protecting Sidney now, as he had dutifully done when she was a little girl. Ghosts and bogeymen had been his chief foes back then. The current ones were far more deadly, he had to assume. At least he had Amy with him. God help the person who tried to harm his granddaughter. And God be with you, Sidney.

  Ray Jackson stood silently in the doorway of Sawyer's cramped office.

  Behind his desk, Lee Sawyer was immersed in a file. A full pot of coffee was on a hot plate in front of him, a half-eaten meal next to it. Jackson could not remember the last time the man had fail
ed at his job. However, Sawyer had been taking increasing heat--internally from the director of the FBI on down, in the press and from the White House to Capitol Hill. Jackson grimaced. Hell, if they thought it was so damn easy, why didn't they hit the streets and try to solve the case?

  "Hey, Lee?"

  Sawyer jerked up. "Hey, Ray. Fresh pot of coffee on the hot plate, help yourself."

  Jackson poured himself a cup and sat down. "Word is you've been taking some grief from upstairs on this case."

  Sawyer shrugged. "Goes with the territory."

  "You want to talk about it?" Jackson settled down in a chair next to him.

  "What's there to talk about? Fine, everybody wants to know who was behind that plane going down. I do too. I also want to know a hell of a lot more than that. I want to know who used Joe Riker for target practice. I want to know who killed Steve and Ed Page. I want to know who blew away those three guys in the limo. I want to know where Jason Archer is."

  "And Sidney Archer?"

  "Yeah, and Sidney Archer. And I'm not gonna find out by listening to all the people who just have a bunch of questions and no answers.

  Speaking of which, have you got any for me? Answers, that is?"

  Jackson got up and closed the door to Sawyer's office.

  "According to his doctor, Arthur Lieberman did not have the HIV virus."

  Sawyer exploded. "That's impossible. The guy's lying his ass off."

  "Don't think so, Lee."

  "Why the hell not?"

  "Because he showed me Lieberman's medical file." Sawyer sat back, stunned. Jackson continued. "When I asked the guy, I thought it was going to be like you and I talked about--his expression would have to tell us, because the man sure as hell wasn't going to show me any records without a subpoena in hand. But he did, Lee. No harm in his doctor proving that Lieberman didn't have the virus. Lieberman was some kind of health fanatic. Had yearly physicals, all sorts of preventive measures and testing. As part of the physicals, Lieberman was routinely tested for HIV. The doctor showed me the results from 1990 until last year. They were all negative, Lee. I saw them myself."

  Sidney closed her bloodshot eyes for a moment, lay back on her parents' bed and took a deep breath. Wearily she made a decision.

  She pulled out the card from her purse and stared at it for some minutes.

  She felt the overpowering need to talk to someone. For a number of reasons, she decided it had to be him. She went down to the Land Rover and carefully dialed the number.

  Sawyer had just opened the door to his apartment when he heard the phone start to ring. He grabbed up the phone, taking off his overcoat as he did so.

  "Hello?"

  The line was silent for a moment and Sawyer was just about to hang up. Then a voice came on the other end. Sawyer gripped the receiver with both hands and let his coat fall on the floor. He stood rigidly in the middle of his living room.

  "Sidney?"

  "Hello" The voice was small, but firm.

  "Where are you?" Sawyer's question was automatic, but he instantly regretted it.

  "Sorry, Lee, this is not a geography lesson."

  "Okay, okay." Sawyer sat down in his battered recliner. "I don't need to know where you are. But are you safe?"

  Sidney almost laughed. "Reasonably so, I guess, but it's still just a guess. I'm heavily armed, if that makes a difference." She paused for a moment. "I saw the TV news."

  "I know you didn't kill them, Sidney."

  "HOW--"

  "Just trust me on that one."

  Sidney let out a deep breath as the memory of that horrific night settled back down on her. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you when I called before. I... I just couldn't."

  "Tell me what happened that night, Sidney."

  Sidney was silent, debating whether to hang up or not. Sawyer sensed her deliberations. "Sidney, I'm not at the Hoover Building. I can't trace your call. And I happen to be on your side. You can talk as long as you want."

  "Okay. You're the only one I happen to trust. What do you want to know?"

  "Everything. Just start from the beginning."

  It took Sidney about five minutes to recount the events of that night.

  "You didn't see the shooter?"

  "He was wearing a ski mask that covered his face. I think it was the same guy who tried to kill me later. At least l hope there aren't two guys walking around with eyes like that."

  "In New York?"

  "What?"

  "The security guard, Sidney. He was murdered."

  She rubbed at her forehead. "Yes. In New York."

  "But definitely a man?"

  "Yes, from his build and what I could see of his facial characteristics through the mask. And the bottom of his neck was exposed. I could see beard stubble."

  Sawyer was impressed with her observations and said so.

  "You tend to remember the smallest details when you think you're about to die."

  "I know what you mean. I've actually been in that situation myself.

  Look, we found the tape, Sidney. Your talk with Jason?"

  Sidney looked around the darkened interior of the Land Rover and the garage beyond. "So, everyone knows--"

  "Don't worry about that. On the tape your husband sounded jumpy, nervous. Answered some of your questions but not all."

  "Yes, he was distraught. Panicked."

  "How about when you talked to him on the pay phone in New Orleans? How did he sound then? Different or the same?"

  Sidney narrowed her eyes as she thought back. "Different," she said finally.

  "How? Give it to me as exactly as you can."

  "Well, he didn't sound nervous. In fact, it was almost a monotone.

  He told me I couldn't say anything, that the police were watching.

  He just gave me instructions and hung up. It was a monologue rather than a conversation. I never said anything."

  Sawyer sighed. "Quentin Rowe is convinced that you were in Jason's office at Triton after the plane crash. Were you?"

  Sidney was silent.

  "Sidney, I really don't give a Tinker's dam if you were there. But if you were, I just want to ask you one question about something you might have done while you were in there."

  Sidney remained silent.

  "Sidney? Look, you called me. You said you trust me, although at this point I can understand you not wanting to trust anyone. I wouldn't recommend it, but you can hang up now, try going it alone."

  "I was there," she said quietly.

  "Okay, Rowe mentioned a microphone on Jason's computer."

  Sidney sighed. "I accidentally hit it; it bent. I couldn't get it back straight."

  Sawyer sat back in the recliner. "Did Jason ever use the microphone feature of the computer? Did he, for instance, have one at home?"