***
"What's going on?" Sandra muttered as she replaced the receiver after her fifth call. Every hotel and motel in the city seemed to be full for the night. She'd already checked out of the place where they'd spent the last night and the desk clerk had mentioned they were expecting a tour bus at any moment. This was January, not April when the cherry blossom festival brought thousands of tourists to the city. Why were there so many people occupying hotel rooms?
Sandra sat at the train station on North Capital Street. It was convenient and private. Union Station had been restored in recent years, and it was a hub of activity for the capital. It still had the old wooden telephone booths where a person could sit in privacy and talk. The forty-watt bulb over her head provided illumination for the thick Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone directory that rested on the small shelf. An array of coins lay under the mirrored surface of the phone. Using her finger she ran it down the list and picked another motel. She dialed the number and waited for someone to answer.
"I'm sorry, we are completely booked for tonight and the rest of the week," she was told after inquiring about a room. "We might be able to book you if you call after six tomorrow."
What were they going to do? It was getting late and Wyatt hadn't answered when she'd call the appointed number. They'd been separated for three hours, the longest they had been apart since she found him bleeding in the snow. Suppose he'd been caught. Was he in jail? Was he dead? She shivered.
Going to see Annie alone had been a mistake. Although they needed the money if they were to continue, she should have had Wyatt go with her. At least she'd know where he was and if he was all right. She dialed the memorized number he should have answered, but only the relentless ringing continued in her ear. Wyatt was missing.
"Damn," She slammed the phone down, "Wyatt, where are you?" She admitted she missed him. Before he'd come into her life she'd been doing little more than existing. Even now, when her life was in so much turmoil, she felt more alive than she had since John's death.
Wyatt was all right, she told herself. He'd survived for a week before he met her. But he'd been caught and nearly killed. If he'd only call her or go to the phone where she could reach him! Something had to be wrong.
Sandra sat staring at her fingernails. They were short and unpainted. She peeled at the skin about her index finger wondering what her next move should be. Grabbing a coin, she dropped it in the slot and dialed her father.
"Michael, this is Sandra." She tried to keep the rising panic out of her voice. "Have you found my father?"
"Just a moment, Ms. Rutledge," he said formally.
Sandra chewed her lower lip, pressing the black instrument closer to her ear as the seconds stretched out.
"Sandy, are you all right?"
"Dad!" She almost cried at the familiarity of his voice. "I'm fine. I'm fine. I need to talk to you."
A minor hesitation preceded his reply, "Of course. Are you sure you 're all right?"
"I've been with Wyatt Randolph. He's said some terrible things about you and I need you to clear them up."
"Where are you?"
Sandra looked through the glass of the phone booth. The cavernous structure reached three stories into the sky. A glass skylight arched upward like a bubble umbrella. Suddenly, she wasn't sure of her own father. Had Wyatt undermined her this badly? Outside the booth she heard the garbled announcement of a train arriving. She covered the mouthpiece until it ended.
"I'm downtown, not far from you," she told him. "Can you meet me somewhere?"
He cleared his throat. Sandra knew that gesture. He used it as well as he used the pregnant pause to buy himself a few seconds while he decided what to say. "I'm on my way out right now. Why don't I call you later and we can meet?"
For a moment she didn't think she'd heard him correctly. He'd rarely refused her requests to talk. No matter what was happening, he'd told her he would always be her father first, a senator second.
"Sandy, where are you staying?"
"I don't exactly know."
"What does that mean?" Concern crept into his voice.
"Don't worry, Dad. I'm not sleeping on the streets." She didn't know where she would be sleeping. Revealing the information would only cause him unnecessary stress, and she didn't want to do that. He was still her father.
"Are you with Senator Wyatt?"
"Not at the moment."
"You do know where he is?"
Sandra remembered the call to the pay phone. "I haven't seen him in a while."
"Sandy, you have to get away from him."
"Why?"
"I can't explain it now."
"Then meet me somewhere."
Again she heard the hesitation. "All right. There's something I must do first. Then we'll have dinner."
"Good."
"Do you have your cell?"
She glanced at her purse. The red light pulsed indicating it was on. She'd hoped Wyatt would remember she had it and call her. "Yes."
"Good. I'll call you when I'm free and we'll meet."
"All right," she said. "Dad, can you make it soon? I don't think we can keep running too much longer."
"It's nearly over, honey."
His voice was low and warm, the way she remembered it being when she'd been a gangly teenager and needed to talk to someone. Wyatt had to be wrong. Her father would call. They would meet and everything would be cleared up. She hung up with a smile. She'd tell Wyatt and soon this horrible business would be behind them. She could return to her studies and Wyatt could go back to representing the people of Pennsylvania.
Sandra frowned. Why did she find the prospect of returning to her everyday routine unappealing?
***
Agent Melvin Norman followed the secretary into the inner sanctum of Director Christopher's private office. He'd been with the bureau for six years. This was his first time on the top floor.
Clarence Christopher's office was large, but not gigantic. Photos on the wall showed him smiling with various men and women. Norman recognized past Presidents, a few bureau directors, and even a Hollywood movie star.
"Agent Norman," the director acknowledged his presence.
"Sir, Ms. Rutledge is in a phone booth at Union Station. Agents have been dispatched to pick her up."
Christopher shook his head, but otherwise indicated no emotion.
"She spoke to Senator Rutledge in his office. He's to call her back on a cellular unit."
"Find the number and have it located."
"We're already on it sir."
***
Star Wars! Worse than Star Wars. Wyatt couldn't believe his eyes. He'd have sworn this kind of thing had died with the Reagan/Bush administrations. When communism failed, it was no longer necessary, but it seemed as if Chip hadn't realized it.
Wyatt hadn't been sure what he would find when he entered Chip’s office. Only two weeks ago his friend had been alive. Now Chip was gone forever. Would someone else already occupy the office? Would everything be moved and Wyatt’s trip be wasted? Entering the building was fairly easy with the ID, Wyatt found. In light of 911 and the attack on the Pentagon, Wyatt was surprised he’d passed through without detection. In Chip’s office he found the computer still connected, but everything else had been packed. The walls were bare of plaques and photographs Wyatt remembered seeing on his last visit.
Three boxes sat on the floor next to a file cabinet. He could see Chip's degree sticking out of one of them. He wondered why they were still there. Why hadn't his sister come to get them or why hadn’t they been sent to his next of kin? He turned away, not wanting to bring forth memories of their past antics or a future they’d miss.
Wyatt sat at Chip's computer. He'd stolen into his office and turned on the machine. The color monitor beamed his notes over the micro-circuitry, offering the only light in the room. He'd found Project Eagle as a password-protected directory.
Wyatt thought he'd discover the password quickly. He and Chip had known each
other forever, but it took him much longer than he expected. Finally, he found it. Opening the directory, he discovered only one file was readable. The others were encrypted. Gibberish flowed like lightning across the Pentium-powered screen. The idea of copying the files came on the heels of seeing the backup directory on the screen. It was empty when he opened it. Chip was meticulous about making sure he didn't lose data due to a hard-disk crash. He was, however, tied into a network. That would be backed up nightly and he'd have no need— Wyatt didn't complete the thought. If Chip had no need to back his own files, why did he have a backup directory? What had been inside it? Someone else had been here, Wyatt thought; been here and taken what Wyatt was looking for.
There must be other tapes, he thought. Pulling the drawers open, he found only a few paper clips and an array of disks scattered in the bottom.
"Thank God!" he prayed. Wyatt quickly signed into his email account and began attaching and sending the directory to a personal Internet site he set up for personal use. It took twenty minutes to complete. His palms sweated as he worked. Pacing the room, his heart pounded as if he could force the process to complete faster than the drive could handle it. The sun kept sinking, darkening the room except for the light produced by the monitor. Wyatt wondered what time the guards began rounds. Would someone come in and find him? Computer piracy would be added to the lists of crimes he'd committed by just being in the building. And he still had to get out. He'd wanted to leave with the crowd during rush hour, but he hadn't finished.
He also hadn't called Sandra. Chip appeared to have high-tech equipment, including his phone. The Pentagon probably had the best phone system in the world. Chip's phone had several extensions on it Wyatt recognized words like CAMP, FLASH, and FORWARD from his own phone back in the Senate Office Building. He knew when he picked up the receiver his secretary and several of his aides knew he was on the phone. He couldn't take the chance that someone might notice the light from an extension of one Chip Jackson, recently deceased.
Finally, the last message finished. He was done.
Before turning the machine off he checked for other references to Project Eagle. He found none. Flipping the switch, the screen went black. The only light seeping into the room came through the vertically slated blinds. Wyatt checked the outside, finding nothing but the incessant traffic on Route 1 whizzing by at speeds in excess of the legal fifty-five miles per hour.
His time was up. He had to get out now. When he turned back to the room he could see everything outlined in the dimness; the desk, the computer, the boxes on the floor. He lifted Chip's degree which had hung on the side wall next to a book case a few weeks ago. The trustees of Morgan State University certify that Edward Jackson has satisfactory completed . . . He knew the words by heart The two of them had been ecstatic about graduation. They were going to conquer the world. Now Chip was dead and he was a fugitive from both the law and some unknown assailant.
Wyatt slipped the frame back in the box and straightened. He looked at the wall, seeing more in his mind than through his eyes, the place where citations for community service work had shared space with certificates from continuing education programming and computer software classes. Turning away from the memories, Wyatt started for the door. The anteroom remained empty as it had been when he arrived. He cracked the door to the hall and peeped out. The hallway was clear. He prayed his thanks and stepped onto the polished floor.
He walked down the hall, forcing his steps to be unhurried. He made it through the first security checkpoint. The activity in the ring was busy and hurried. People passed him as they scurried to whatever emergency was at hand. Wyatt hoped it wasn't him. Continuing, he walked until he was in site of the exit. Darkness had fallen and he could see his reflection as he approached the door. Just a few steps away and he'd be out, clear of the building and out of imminent danger.
Ten feet from freedom a colonel stepped in front of him. He stopped, his feet spread apart, his arms behind his back.
He rocked slightly back and forth. "Senator Randolph, welcome to the Pentagon."
***
When Sam Parker blocked his exit, Wyatt thought his life was over. His stomach sank. He swallowed hard over the lump clogging his throat and waited, waited for men to grab each of his arms and restrain him. Instead, Sam stepped forward and pumped his hand as if they were old friends who hadn't seen each other in a long time. Together they left the building and walked to Sam's car, parked in the first lot.
"You've got to be the craziest man on earth," Sam told him as they left the parking area and joined the traffic. "What did you think you were doing, breaking into a government building?"
"I didn't break in." Wyatt checked the sandstone-colored building they'd just left. "I thought you'd turn me in," he said, returning his gaze to Sam.
"You're lucky I saw you before someone else did."
Wyatt wasn't sure. He and Sam had known each through Chip. The three of them had spent a lot of time together, but he wasn't sure how things stood now that Chip was dead. Wyatt had called Sam, but Wyatt didn't know if his agreement was fully trustworthy. When he found the security badge he'd decided to go it alone.
Sam worked in the same area as Chip -- computerized defense systems. That was about as much as Wyatt knew.
"Chip was my friend, too, and I want to know who killed him," Sam said.
Wyatt checked Sam's expression closely. He didn't know if he was telling the truth or not. “What has the Pentagon said about it?"
"They issued the standard condolence statement and said the investigation was underway. That’s usually where it ends unless the family begins to make noises."
"They dropped it?"
"Not altogether. Officially the department isn't saying a thing, but behind the scenes I hear snatches of conversation, see an occasional memo. Except for trying to find you, nothing is open. Of course, the grapevine says Chip sent you something. Only a few of us actually know what it was."
So Sam knew about the stones. Is that why he'd helped him get out of the Pentagon? Was he trying to get them back?
"You want to know if it’s true?"
"I already know it's true," he laughed. "If you didn't have them, you wouldn't have taken such a big risk to get into Chip's office."
"How did you know I was there?"
"Where else would you go?"
"What are you going to do now?"
"Relax, Wyatt." He glanced at him. "I'm on your side. If I wanted to turn you in, I could have done it when you phoned."
"Why didn't you?" Wyatt asked suspiciously. "You're a career soldier. What you've done could get you court-martialed, drummed out of the service with no pension and no benefits." Wyatt didn't mention it could also get him killed. "Why would you want to put all those things on the line to help me?"
"Because Chip is. . .was my friend, too," he repeated. "And I don't like what I think they're going to do to him."
"What is that?"
Sam sighed heavily. He turned the car onto the Beltway and headed toward Maryland. Wyatt waited, his patience slipping away.
"They're setting him up to be the scapegoat . . . and you, too. You're a wildcard. They hadn't counted on Chip taking the stones or sending them to you. I also think my involvement is also on the line."
"How are you involved?" Wyatt asked.
"Chip and I were working on the same project. We were at different points and didn't know about the other. We're only allowed to discuss our work with someone who knows about it. For weeks we didn't see each other, although we worked in the same building. By chance we met at the end of the lunch hour one day and I happened to mention that the Eagle was driving me crazy. I was more than a little surprised to find out he knew what I meant. We talked later, away from the Pentagon, and found out we were working on the same thing, but mine was a device to sabotage foreign communications, while his was a linking mechanism to use the combined power of separately orbiting satellites."
"That's what the stones do?"
>
Sam stared at him. "You don't know? Chip didn't tell you what you're holding?"
"No."
Sam pulled into the driveway of his house and cut the motor. He didn't move to open the door, but turned to look Wyatt directly in the face.
"Project Eagle is a communications device that can eavesdrop on anything from a single phone to the entire world."
Chapter 9
"Dad?" Sandra grabbed the ringing phone and shouted into the receiver. She'd been waiting all afternoon for him to call. Wyatt hadn't answered any of her attempts and she was so angry she could eat nails.
"You called your father?" Wyatt's voice was reprimanding.
"Wyatt! Where are you? I've been out of my mind with worry."
"So out of your mind you called your father?" he shouted.
Her anger intensified. He'd been missing all day. She didn't know if he was alive or dead and he was shouting at her. "What did you expect me to do? You weren't where you were supposed to be. I called that number over and over and not once did you answer it."
She heard him take a long breath. It was calming also to her. "I talked to my father this afternoon."
"What did the senator have to say?"
Sandra heard the dark censure in Wyatt's question.
"Not much. We agreed to meet later for dinner."
""You didn't tell him where you were?"
"No, at the time I didn't have anyplace to tell him. I just found a room. He's going to call me later."
"How?"
"On the cell phone—"
"Listen to me, Sandra. You're in immediate danger. I want you to get out of there, now!"
White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2) Page 13
