“We tried a long time ago, Mom.” Jesse hesitated. “It just didn’t work out. But we’re still good friends even though we don’t see each other much.”
“I remember the way you used to look at Todd. You could find romance with him.”
“Mom, please.”
“He’s even better-looking now than he was in high school,” Connie teased.
“When did you see him?” Jesse couldn’t avoid her curiosity.
“He stopped by the house the other day, just to say hello. He’s such a nice person.”
“Yes, he is.” Jesse noticed paint peeling from the ceiling. “How is your money holding out, Mom?”
“Fine.” Connie’s tone went flat.
“Don’t brush me off so fast,” Jesse admonished gently. “Tell me the truth.”
Connie rinsed the last dish in the sink, then trudged wearily to the table and sat down. “I have a little bit of money in the bank, and I have my monthly Social Security check and your father’s pension.”
Jesse looked up, a look of mild surprise on her face. She had asked her mother so many times about her money situation but had always gotten nowhere. Now she was finally getting answers. “How much is a little bit in the bank?”
“A couple of thousand dollars.”
“That’s all? Didn’t Dad have any life insurance policies?”
“Yes, but that money went to pay for your stepfather Joe’s hospital bills. For his heart attacks. It turned out Joe didn’t have the retiree medical benefits we thought he did.”
Jesse felt the anger rise instantly at the mention of her stepfather’s name. Joe Schuman had been good for nothing—except spending her father’s money. “Mom, how could you use Dad’s money on Joe?”
“Let’s not get into that.” Connie sighed.
Jesse fought the anger as it rose several more degrees. “What about the house? You’ve lived here for twenty-five years, so it must be paid for. Surely you could get some equity out of it if you needed to.”
Connie put a hand on Jesse’s arm. “It’s funny how things like clothes and braces cost so much. It just seemed like your father and I were never able to get ahead. We were always taking out another mortgage. I can’t tell you how many of those papers I signed.”
“Didn’t Joe leave anything?”
“No.” Connie had always wanted Jesse and Joe to get along, but it hadn’t happened. Now Joe was dead and the opportunity for reconciliation was gone forever. “I never understood why you wouldn’t give Joe a chance. He was a good man, not the monster you made him out to be. I needed someone. It wasn’t his fault your father died.”
Jesse felt the knot in her stomach tighten, but forced herself to say nothing, to hold back the story she so wanted to relate. “How much is the Social Security check and Dad’s pension?”
“Together they come to eight hundred dollars a month.”
“Have you fixed the roof yet?”
“Not yet. That takes a backseat to food and utility bills. I’m trying not to touch what I have in the bank just in case there’s an emergency.” Connie’s expression became grim. “I’ve always told you not to ask about this. It’s kind of depressing when you stop to analyze it. But it isn’t your problem.”
The fall wardrobe would have to wait. Jesse rose from the chair, retrieved her purse from the hall, then sat back down at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing?” Connie asked suspiciously.
Without answering, Jesse withdrew two hundred-dollar bills from the purse and laid them on the table. “Here, Mom. It won’t fix the roof, but it’ll help.”
“I can’t take that, Jesse. You gave me money last month and I swore I wouldn’t take any more.”
“Just take it.”
“But…”
“Take it, Mom,” Jesse said firmly.
Slowly Connie’s fingers crept across the wooden tabletop to the money. “You really are an angel.”
* * *
—
The man blew thick smoke into the dimly lighted office. “Do you smoke, Commander Pierce?”
“No, sir.”
“Would you care for something to drink?” He motioned toward a wet bar in one corner of the room. “I know you don’t allow yourself alcohol, but there are soft drinks as well.”
“Thank you, no sir.”
The man watched the naval aviator for a few moments as he puffed on the Monte Cristo again. Commander Pierce wore civilian clothes, but his crew cut, steely eyes, and ramrod-straight posture still exuded a no-nonsense military veneer. “I appreciate your flying in so quickly from Nevada. I know it’s a long way to come just for a discussion, but this wasn’t something I felt we could talk about over the phone.”
“Absolutely no problem. It’s a short flight in the jets I pilot. And I had other business here in Washington, so it worked out well.”
“Good.” The man rubbed his lips for a moment before continuing. “We have a situation at Area 51.”
“What kind of situation, sir?”
“A situation that requires the skill you and the other men of your unit possess. I have ascertained that someone at Area 51 is passing along highly sensitive information to Senator Malcolm Walker regarding the A-100 project. Information Walker plans to use in an attempt to derail the project.”
The commander’s top lip curled into a sneer.
“The Navy needs the A-100, Commander Pierce. We all need the A-100,” the man emphasized.
“Yes, sir.”
“We organized your unit for this exact situation. You know what to do.”
“Of course.”
The man smiled. “You are protecting your country, Commander Pierce. You are doing the right thing. Sometimes we can’t always play by the rules in our effort to do the right thing.”
“I understand, sir,” Pierce answered resolutely. “What is the traitor’s name?”
“Captain Paul Nichols. Do you know who he is?”
“Yes. We’ll take care of him.”
“Good.” The man puffed on his cigar once more. The situation had been addressed and resolved that quickly.
* * *
—
Jesse nodded politely at the receptionist, then moved quickly out of the professional offices and into the hallway. There she leaned back against the wall, shut her eyes, and exhaled heavily. The unexpected encounter with Father McCord and the conversation with her mother had rekindled the memories. Thank God Becky had been able to meet on such short notice.
Chapter 12
Middleburg, Virginia, located thirty miles west of downtown Washington, lay claim to some of the most beautiful and expensive real estate in the East. Handsome stone mansions were set behind miles of six-foot-high white post fences dotting the rolling hills and lush fields of the picturesque countryside.
Middleburg also lay claim to some of the most expensive Thoroughbred horses in the world. For many who lived in this moneyed enclave, breeding horses was a livelihood highlighted by the Triple Crown, the Grand National, or the sale of a particularly fine stallion to a wealthy Arab emir for an exorbitant amount of cash. These people resided on thousand-acre farms, owned many horses, drove old-model Volvo station wagons to town on errands and Rolls-Royces to the fall steeplechases, and waited breathlessly for the spring crop of foals. They never discussed money, never flaunted it, and were never without it. They were the old money.
Jack Finnerty’s fifteen-acre farm lay in the middle of this moneyed expanse. At one time his six-bedroom colonial had been a guest house on the huge Auchincloss estate, which now bounded Finnerty’s farm on three sides. Four years ago, Finnerty had purchased the property to mark his election as president of General Engineering & Aerospace, the huge defense conglomerate headquartered in the Washington suburb of Falls Church.
Through brilliant afternoon sunshin
e pouring down from a cloudless blue sky, David Mitchell eyed the Finnerty stable, blue and white racing colors flying from the weather vane. The stable was two hundred yards away from the house, across neatly manicured lawns. He shook his head. This place seemed almost surreal, it was so beautiful. But would he really want to deal with the snobbery and false pretenses of this life? He laughed. Who the hell was he kidding? It was exactly what he wanted, why he was willing to take these huge risks. This was financial security. All he had ever wanted.
David’s expression turned sour. God, the waiting was killing him. The test flight was supposed to have taken place yesterday and Finnerty was to have called from Nevada to relay the good news. News that the A-100 was a monstrous success, and that it would only be a matter of time before GEA’s stock price lifted off into nosebleed territory. Only a matter of time before David could walk into Art Mohler’s office and drop a newspaper story concerning the A-100 and its powerful effect on GEA right down on Mohler’s antique desk.
But Finnerty hadn’t called from Nevada. Instead his secretary had called, inviting David to Finnerty’s home for a face-to-face meeting. That couldn’t be a good sign, could it? A face-to-face instead of a simple phone call. Maybe the test flight hadn’t gone so well after all. Suddenly a tidal wave of doubt rushed over him.
“Good afternoon, Mitchell.” Finnerty moved into the room from the study, arms crossed tightly over his chest.
It occurred to David that he had rarely seen Finnerty without his arms crossed. “Hello, Jack.” He always addressed Finnerty by his first name even though Finnerty always used David’s last. David assumed Finnerty’s use of last names in conversation—even when addressing close associates—was a habit with its roots buried in his military days.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.” Finnerty spoke in a precise, nasal voice tinged with the hint of a New England accent. He was a fair-skinned man with short red hair reflecting his Irish ancestry via Boston. A former Marine made good in the corporate world, he spoke in rapid bursts, supremely confident of his observations and analysis.
“It’s all right.” But David’s tone was measured. He wanted Finnerty to understand that he was irritated at not being called from Nevada yesterday.
“How’s Wall Street?” Finnerty took David’s hand and gripped it tightly.
David withdrew his hand quickly. He hated the way the guy always tried to tear fingers off when he shook hands, as if it was some kind of macho game to see if he could bring pain to your face. “I’ve told you before, Jack, what I do isn’t considered Wall Street. As a portfolio manager I buy what Wall Street sells.”
Finnerty tilted his head to one side and smiled his I-don’t-give-a-crap-and-didn’t-really-expect-an-answer smile. “Buy side, sell side, who the hell cares? It’s all money, and money is Wall Street to me.” Finnerty hesitated. “I don’t have time to worry about Manhattan smoke and mirrors. I build military equipment for the United States government.” He set his jaw. “And I do a damn good job of it.”
“The stock market thinks otherwise,” David replied coolly, unimpressed with Finnerty’s bluster. “The stock was at twenty-five when I persuaded my people at Sagamore to buy the new issue from GEA. Now it’s down to twenty-one and a half as of this morning. You told me this was a sure thing, and so did that damn godfather you sent me to.”
The pressure had to be eating Mitchell’s guts out for him to cut to the chase so quickly, Finnerty surmised. “You know it’s been a tough time for the defense industry, what with all the budget slicing and the end of the cold war.”
David sensed a certain sadness in Finnerty’s tone at the mention of the cold war’s demise, but he wasn’t interested in reminiscing with an ex-Marine about outfoxing the Soviet Union. “What happened in the desert yesterday, Jack?”
“Let’s take a walk, Mitchell. It’s never a good idea to speak about these things in an unsecured place. The walls have ears.” Finnerty’s fear of listening devices bordered on paranoia.
“You mean you don’t have your entire farm swept by the CIA every day?” David asked. He was trying not to control his impatience, but it was becoming more difficult by the minute.
“Enough, Mitchell.” The sudden edge in Finnerty’s voice zipped through David like an electric shock. It was a tone he had never before heard from Finnerty, a tone laced with warning.
“Fine.” David’s stomach churned but he managed to maintain a calm demeanor.
Outside the large front door the two men turned right, then walked slowly over the neatly manicured grass toward the stable. “How did it go in the desert yesterday?” David could wait no longer.
They stopped beneath a huge oak tree. Finnerty turned toward David. His face was grim. “Mitchell, the landing went fine. But the catapult takeoff…” Finnerty paused a beat and looked down. “…was perfect.” He was suddenly grinning, obviously enjoying the fact that he had toyed with the younger man’s emotions. “The entire flight couldn’t have gone any better if we’d scripted it. And the billion dollars from Sagamore was a key factor in the A-100’s success. GEA couldn’t have done it without that friendly up-front money to help build the prototypes.” Finnerty put a hand on David’s shoulder. “I’m sure you took some heat from your people as the stock went down, but rest assured, Sagamore is ultimately going to reap a huge profit from this transaction.”
“The test flight was successful.” David whispered the words as if he couldn’t believe them. As if the weight of the world had been lifted from his shoulders after two and a half years.
“Yes.”
“Really?” he asked again, still unconvinced.
“Yes. What’s amazing is that in this day and age of leaks and moles we’ve been able to keep this project secret for two and a half years. The black program stayed black. It gives me faith. If someone had leaked information about the A-100, GEA’s stock price would have bounced around.”
David barely heard Finnerty’s voice. Insufferable stress had turned to euphoria in the time it took to flip a light switch. But there was still one thing that bothered him. “Why didn’t you call me from Nevada yesterday? You said you would.”
Finnerty began walking toward the stable again. He had called the others immediately, but Mitchell would never know that. “I couldn’t find a secure phone.” It was a lame excuse, but it was something for Mitchell to hang on to.
“But I asked you to—”
“What difference does it make?” Finnerty cut David off abruptly. “You know now.”
They reached the stable and stopped at the paddock gate. Finnerty checked the area to make certain none of the grooms were within earshot. “The plane easily fulfilled all prototype specifications. We can begin production immediately.” He dropped his arms from his chest for a moment. “A hundred and fifty planes a year for the next seven years. Over a thousand in all, not to mention the maintenance agreement.” Finnerty’s voice was hushed. “When details of the contract become public, the investment community will go ballistic. The A-100 means an extra twenty to twenty-five billion dollars of revenue a year for GEA. Maybe more.”
David nodded but said nothing. He was furious that Finnerty had put him through an extra day of agony. The bit about the lack of a secure phone line was bullshit and they both knew it.
“GEA’s stock will skyrocket,” Finnerty observed.
“The stock should be pushing a hundred dollars a share very quickly, based on my projections of GEA’s incremental cash flow attributable to the A-100 project,” David agreed. The price would now certainly blow past the fifty-dollar number Art Mohler had been so worried about. David raised an eyebrow. “It’s going to make all those GEA stock options you and your management friends gave yourselves six months ago extremely valuable.” He watched for Finnerty’s reaction.
“That’s none of your concern.” Finnerty’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t forget, Mitchell, you’ve got your own persona
l GEA options too. The ones I was able to siphon off for you and put in a street name. If the stock goes to even fifty bucks a share, you’re going to be worth ten million dollars more than you are right now. This will have been a very nice deal for you personally.” A slight breeze blew dust up from the paddock, and Finnerty turned his head for a moment. “I’ve always wondered how the senior people at Sagamore would react if they knew one of the conditions you imposed on me, before you would consider investing in GEA, was that you personally receive options to buy stock.” Finnerty crossed his arms over his chest again. “Of course, no one will ever know about that little detail”—Finnerty glanced at Mitchell ominously—“except me.”
David cleared his throat nervously. He had negotiated the options as an insurance policy, as his own bonus for taking this huge risk on behalf of Sagamore.
“I bet they’d also like to know about the million dollars you took out of that Sagamore holding company two and half years ago as influence money for your godfather downtown,” Finnerty continued. It was time to start hammering David Mitchell, time to start making him realize that he’d fallen into a maze, one from which there was no escape. “I’m sure you used some creative bookkeeping to account for the payment.” This was why Finnerty hadn’t called from Nevada, why he had requested the face-to-face instead. So that he could begin to tighten the screws. Mitchell had to realize that he had unwittingly become their pawn. “What did you call the payment to the man downtown, Mitchell, a loan to a supplier?”
David swallowed hard. Loan to supplier. That was exactly what he had called the payment. Finnerty’s accuracy was eerie.
“You’re going to use profits from your GEA options to repay the money you took out of the Sagamore holding company, aren’t you?”
David almost nodded, then caught himself.
“Because after all, you’ll still have a ton of cash from the options even after you personally repay the money. And you’ll have your job.” Finnerty pressed his arms tightly against his chest. “The FBI would probably like to know about all this too.”
The Inner Sanctum Page 9
