The Prometheus Deception

by Robert Ludlum

  “And how do we know he’s opposed to it? Leaks, right? Isn’t that how it works? But leaks to the press always have a hidden motive—people have reasons for making things known, for influencing public perceptions. Maybe Richard Lanchester wanted to sort of cloak his ambitions because he actually wants to be named to this position—which he would then reluctantly accept!”

  “Jesus. I suppose it’s possible he’s been engaged in some sort of diversion for some reason.”

  “That ‘some reason’ being that at the same time he’s behind the Prometheus conspiracy, and it’s important to him that he not seem to be connected to any such maneuverings. Think of that game that is played with the shells and little ball, where you move the shells around and people try to guess which shell the ball is under. A shell game, yes? So this is a diversion, as you put it—a deflection. We all watch the public battle over legislation, over laws—while behind the scenes the real battle is being waged. The one involving immense amounts of money and power! A battle waged by wealthy and powerful private citizens who stand to become ten times as wealthy and powerful.”

  Bryson shook his head. Much of what she was saying was logical, made sense. Yet a national security adviser to the president, a White House official—a man in such a goldfish bowl simply could not orchestrate such a massive conspiracy. The risks were too great, the danger of exposure too grave. That did not make sense. And then there was the question of motive. The drive for money and power was as old as human civilization itself—older, perhaps. But … all of this simply to ensure that Lanchester was named to another bureaucratic position? Ludicrous. It couldn’t be.

  Yet he was now convinced that Richard Lanchester was the key to Prometheus—a vital link in the chain that led to Prometheus. “We have to get inside,” he whispered urgently.

  “Inside Meredith Waterman?”

  Bryson nodded, deep in thought.

  “In New York?”

  “Right.”

  “But to do what?”

  “To find out the truth. To find out what the exact connection is between this Richard Lanchester and Meredith Waterman and the Prometheus conspiracy.”

  “But if you’re right—if Meredith Waterman is really the node, the locus of massive payments around the world—then it’s going to be locked as tight as a drum. It’s going to be well guarded, every file cabinet triple-locked, every computer code word protected, the files encrypted.”

  “That’s why I want to get you inside.”

  “Nicholas, that’s crazy!”

  He chewed at his lower lip. “Let’s think this through fully. To adapt one of your metaphors, if the door is locked, go in through the window.”

  “What’s the window?”

  “If we want to find out how a reputable old merchant bank got into the money-laundering business, I guarantee we’re not going to dig up records in the expected places. Because, as you say, it’ll be locked tight as a drum. All contemporary records will be sealed, locked away, unreachable. So we have to look at yesterday—at the old Meredith Waterman, the prestigious investment bank, back in its glory days. At the past.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Look, Meredith Waterman used to be one of those old-shoe Wall Street partnerships—a bunch of doddering old inbred geezers who made all the decisions around a coffin-shaped conference table under oil paintings of their ancestors. So when—how—did they start channeling money for bribes? And who did it? How did it happen, and when?”

  She shrugged. “But where do you look for such records?”

  “The archives. Every old-line bank with a sense of history stores its old files, archives, saving every damned scrap of paper, filing them away, labeling them for posterity. They had a true sense of history, these old guys, a sense—no doubt inflated—of their own immortality. The new owners would be unlikely to discard the old records, considering them essentially benign, since they came from the days before all the secret funds transactions. And that’s our window, the soft underbelly. The place where security is most likely to be lax. Now, can you book us a couple of plane tickets on that thing?”

  “Of course. To New York, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Tonight. If you can find two seats tonight, grab them, on any airline, together or not, it makes no difference. We have to get to New York as soon as possible.”

  To the Wall Street headquarters of a venerable old investment bank, he thought. A once-reputable bank that is now a vital link to the Prometheus deception.

  TWENTY-NINE

  The headquarters of the eminent investment bank Meredith Waterman was located on Maiden Lane in southernmost Manhattan, just a few blocks from Wall Street, in the shadow of the World Trade Center. Unlike the mock-Renaissance palazzo of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York nearby, where much of the nation’s gold reserve was stored in five underground floors, the Meredith Waterman building was unassuming yet proud, quietly elegant. It was a graceful, four-story neoclassical building with a mansard roof and brick-and-limestone façade, constructed a century earlier in the style of the French Second Empire; it seemed to belong to a different place, a different era—to Paris in the time of Napoleon, when the French dared to dream of a world empire.

  Surrounded by the new skyscrapers of the financial district as it was, the landmark Meredith Waterman building radiated a serene confidence born of its aristocratic pedigree, for Meredith Waterman was the oldest private bank in America. It was famous for its genteel reputation, for managing the fortunes of generations of America’s wealthiest families, its clients the oldest of old money. The name Meredith Waterman called to mind its legendary mahogany-paneled partners’ room, yet at the same time it had a global reach. Articles and profiles in financial publications from Fortune to Forbes to The Wall Street Journal talked of the privately held bank’s clubbiness, of the fact that it was owned by fourteen general partners whose families traced their roots back to the very founding of Manhattan, that it was the last remaining private partnership among America’s large investment banks.

  Bryson and Elena had spent a few hours in preparation. She had done considerable on-line research on Meredith Waterman, using the Internet facilities of the New York Public Library. Very little financial information about the bank was available: since it was not a publicly held corporation, it was required to divulge relatively little about its operations. About the general partners she was able to pull up considerably more, though largely in the realm of straightforward biography. Richard Lanchester was not among the listed partners; he had resigned shortly after being named the president’s national security adviser. Since then he seemed to have no ties at all to his old employer.

  And what about social ties, personal ones, friendships dating back to school days, family connections? Elena searched and searched, and found nothing. Lanchester’s social circles seemed not to overlap with those of his old partners; neither had he gone to the same schools. If there was a Lanchester connection, it was not overt.

  In the meantime, Bryson gathered information in the way in which he was most comfortable: by foot, by eye, by telephone call. He spent several hours walking around the neighborhood, posing as a telephone repairman, as a software salesman, as an entrepreneur in search of office space to rent, chatting up computer specialists who worked out of neighboring buildings. By the late afternoon he had amassed a decent amount of information about Meredith Waterman’s physical plant, its computer systems, even its old corporate records.

  Then in a final sweep of the area before his rendezvous with Elena, he walked past the building, directly in front of it, with the casual curiosity of a tourist from out of town. The main entrance was at the top of a broad, steep granite staircase. Inside, the oval marble lobby was illuminated dramatically, the centerpiece a large bronze statue on a pedestal. It appeared, at first glance, to be a Greek mythological figure; it looked familiar. Bryson had seen it somewhere before. Then he remembered: the skating rink a
t Rockefeller Center.

  Yes. It appeared to be modeled after the famous gilded bronze statue in Rockefeller Center.

  The statue of Prometheus.

  * * *

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon; they had completed their preparations, yet Bryson’s surveillance indicated that they should not attempt a covert entry until after midnight. At least seven hours from now.

  So long a wait, yet so short a time. Time was a scarce commodity, not to be wasted. Others had to be reached, chief among them Harry Dunne. Yet he was not to be found, no information offered as to his whereabouts beyond a vague statement that the deputy director of Central Intelligence was “on leave” for unspecified “family reasons”; rumors circulated that “family” was coded language for “medical,” that the senior intelligence official was seriously ill.

  Elena had done searches, made inquiries, yet turned up nothing.

  “I tried the front-door approach,” she said. “I called his home number, but the person who answered, a housekeeper, said he was very ill, and no, she had no information as to where he was.”

  “I don’t believe she doesn’t know.”

  “I don’t either. But she was obviously very well briefed, and she was very quick to get off the phone. So that’s a dead end.”

  “But obviously he is reachable—if we’re correctly interpreting that note in Simon Dawson’s PalmPilot from a few days ago.”

  “I went through Dawson’s PDA, and there’s no phone number for Harry Dunne. Not even encrypted. Nothing.”

  “What about on-line records searches—medical records?”

  “Easier said than done. I tried all the conventional medical-records searches using his name and Social Security number, but nothing came up. I even tried a little outright deception, which I was fairly sure would work. I called the CIA personnel office pretending to be a White House secretary—I said the president wants to send flowers to his old friend Harry Dunne, and I needed an address to send them.”

  “That’s nice. Didn’t work?”

  “Unfortunately, no. Dunne obviously doesn’t want to be found. They insisted they had no information. Whatever his reasons, he’s got a pretty effective cordon of privacy.”

  Cordon of privacy. A realization dawned on Bryson. What was the term Dunne had used once, in connection with Aunt Felicia? A ‘security cordon’? “There may be another way,” he said softly.

  “Oh? How so?”

  “There’s an administrator at the nursing home where my Aunt Felicia lives—a woman named Shirley, as I recall—who always knows how to reach Harry Dunne. Always has his phone number so she can call him whenever anyone calls or visits Felicia.”

  “What? Why would Harry Dunne care who sees Felicia Munroe? The last time we saw Felicia together, wasn’t she in very bad shape, mentally?”

  “Sadly, yes. But Dunne obviously thinks it’s important to keep a careful watch on her—a security cordon, he called it. Dunne wouldn’t have placed a security cordon on her unless he feared she had something to reveal. Presumably whatever she knows—whether she’s aware of its importance or not—had to do with the fact that Pete Munroe was in the Directorate.”

  “He was?”

  “There’s so much to tell you—more than we have time for now. We’ll talk on the way.”

  “On the way where?”

  “To the Rosamund Cleary Extended Care Facility. We’re going to take a little drive upstate, to Dutchess County. To pay an unannounced, unscheduled visit to my Aunt Felicia.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  * * *

  They arrived at the well-manicured, beautifully landscaped grounds of the Rosamund Cleary Extended Care Facility shortly after six-thirty. The air was cool, fragrant of flowers and newly mown lawn and the end of a long, hot day.

  Elena entered first and asked to speak to an administrator. She was driving by—she was staying with friends in town—and she had heard such wonderful things about the facility. It sounded like the perfect environment for her ailing father. Of course, it was late in the day, but was there maybe someone who worked there named Shirley? One of her friends had mentioned a Shirley.…

  A short while later, Bryson entered and asked for Felicia Munroe. Since Elena was monopolizing Shirley’s time, and Shirley was Dunne’s contact, it was possible that a call might not be placed to Dunne. That would make things easier, but Bryson was not counting on that. For there was nothing wrong, really, with misleading Dunne into thinking that Bryson remained preoccupied with his own past. Perhaps it would falsely reassure the Prometheans that Bryson was on the wrong path, that he was therefore not that immediate a threat.

  Let them think that I am dwelling on the past, on my own history. Let them think I’m obsessed.

  But I am.

  I am obsessed with unearthing the truth.

  He prayed that Felicia would be in a lucid state.

  She was eating dinner when Bryson was shown in, sitting by herself at a small, round mahogany table in the handsome dining room, where other residents sat by themselves or with one another at similar round tables. She looked up as he approached, and it was as if she were seeing someone she had just been speaking to five minutes earlier. Her eyes displayed no surprise. Bryson’s heart sank.

  “George!” she trilled, delighted. She smiled, her pearly dentures smeared with lipstick. “Oh, but this is so very confusing. You’re dead!” Her tone became scolding, as if lecturing a naughty child. “You really shouldn’t be here, George.”

  Bryson smiled, gave her a peck on the cheek, and sat across the table from her. She still mistook him for his father. “You caught me, Felicia,” Bryson said sheepishly, his tone lighthearted. “But tell me again—how did I die?”

  Felicia’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “George, none of that! You know very well how it happened. Let’s not rehash all that. Pete feels bad enough, you know.” She took a forkful of mashed potatoes.

  “Why does he feel bad, Felicia?”

  “He wishes it were him instead. Not you and Nina. He just berates himself over and over again. Why did George and Nina have to die?”

  “Why did we have to die?”

  “You know very well. I don’t need to tell you.”

  “But I don’t know why. Perhaps you can tell me.”

  Bryson looked up and was surprised to see Elena. She put her arms around Felicia, then sat down next to her, clasping in her two hands Felicia’s bony, liver-spotted hand.

  Did Felicia recognize Elena? It was impossible, of course; they had seen each other on only one occasion, years earlier. But there was something about Elena’s manner that Felicia found comforting. Bryson wanted to catch Elena’s eye, to find out what had happened, but Elena was devoting all her attention to Felicia.

  “He really shouldn’t be here,” Felicia said, giving Bryson a sidelong glance. “He’s dead, you know.”

  “Yes, I know that,” said Elena gently. “But tell me what happened. Wouldn’t it make you feel a little better to talk about what happened?”

  Felicia looked troubled. “I always blame myself. Pete always says he wishes they didn’t have to die—he wishes it were him. George was his best friend, you know.”

  “I know. Is it too painful for you to talk about? What happened, I mean? How they were killed?”

  “Well, it’s my birthday, you know.”

  “Is it? Happy birthday, Felicia!”

  “Happy? No, it’s not happy at all. It’s so very, very sad. It’s such a terrible night.”

  “Tell me about that night.”

  “Such a beautiful, snowy night! I made dinner for us all, but I didn’t care if dinner got cold! I told Pete that. But no, he didn’t want to spoil my birthday dinner. He kept telling George to hurry, hurry! Drive faster! And George didn’t want to, he said the old Chrysler couldn’t handle the icy roads, the brakes were bad. Nina was upset—she wanted them all to pull over and wait out the storm. But Pete kept pushing them, urging them on! Hur
ry, hurry!” Her eyes grew wide and filled with tears; she looked at Elena desperately. “When the car went out of control and George and Nina were killed … oh, my Pete was in the hospital for over a month, and the whole time he kept saying, over and over and over again, ‘It should have been me who was killed! Not them! It should have been me!’” The tears were spilling down her cheeks as the painful memory emerged from deep in the confused mind of a woman for whom the past and the present were a mingled palimpsest. “They were best friends, you know.”

  Elena put a comforting arm around the old woman’s fragile shoulders. “But it was an accident,” she said. “It was an accident. Everyone knows that.”

  Bryson reached over and hugged Felicia, blinking back tears himself. She was tiny, birdlike in his embrace.

  “It’s all right,” he said soothingly. “It’s all right.”

  * * *

  “It must be such a relief for you,” said Elena, sitting beside Bryson in the rented green Buick.

  Bryson nodded as he drove. “I think I needed to hear it—even given the circumstances, even given the confused state of her mind.”

  “There’s a certain observable consistency to her thoughts, even given the confusion, the thought disorder. Her long-term memory is sharp: that usually remains intact. She might not remember where she is at any given moment, but she’ll clearly remember her wedding night.”

  “Yes. I suspect Dunne was counting on her advanced senility in the event that I contacted her for confirmation of his carefully constructed lies. As the sole surviving witness to the events, she’s as unreliable as they come; Dunne knew that, knew she wouldn’t be able to effectively contradict his fraudulent version.”

  “Though she just did,” Elena pointed out.

  “She did. But it took a degree of trust, of patience and persistence, of gentleness that I doubt Dunne’s CIA men possess. Well, thank God for you, is all I can say. You’re the one with the gentleness, and I think she picked up on it. Who’d ever have thought that such a gentle creature could have the makings of a deep-cover operative?”