Jesse shook her head. “God, that sounds incredibly stressful.”
“It is, and the execution is almost a public event. People are obviously fired behind closed doors, but everyone at the firm is aware of impending five-year anniversaries. When the condemned is called in to meet with the executive committee, work stops and people joke about the lights dimming. You know, how the electric chair saps the juice.”
Jesse nodded. “How many portfolio managers have been fired at their five-year anniversary since you’ve been at Sagamore?”
“Two. And one made it.”
“Are you worried?”
David thought about the A-100 for a moment, about his deal with the godfather. “You always worry until you get past that fifth year.”
“But you said you earned a hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar bonus last year. You must be doing fine. They wouldn’t pay you that kind of money if they didn’t like you.”
David tapped his watch a moment before answering. It had stopped, and he made a mental note to get a new battery. “That’s why it really hurts when you get fired. You become hooked on the money. They pay very well no matter what. Then they cut you loose if your performance is below par and you fall off a cliff.”
“So you catch on with another firm,” Jesse reasoned.
He shook his head quickly. “Senior people at the other big money management firms know Sagamore canned you, so they won’t touch you either. And it wouldn’t surprise me at all if Sagamore management actively puts out the word on people once they’ve been fired. That guy Art Mohler you met, the one Elizabeth said was such a great guy. He would do that. He’s a bastard. She just doesn’t see it. She’s too nice.” David reached into a linen-covered basket, withdrew a hot dinner roll, put it on his butter plate, then offered the basket to Jesse. “Of course, she still seems to be able to fire people if their results aren’t what Sagamore requires. That’s the thing about the firm. It’s all about making money, nothing else. That’s what you have to understand. Don’t get me wrong—there’s a huge upside to accepting an offer from Sagamore. But there’s a huge downside too. If you don’t perform, you lose your high-paying job and you can’t get another one. Then you go flip burgers at McDonald’s for a living.”
Jesse took a roll from the basket and put it on her butter plate. “And if you can’t handle that, you commit suicide, right?”
David’s eyes flashed to hers as he put the bread basket back down on the table.
“Your wine, sir.” The waiter leaned down to display the label.
“Fine, thank you.”
They sat in silence as the waiter opened the bottle and put it down on the table to breathe. David picked up the cork, sniffed it, and nodded approvingly.
When the waiter had gone, David leaned close to Jesse. “What did you mean by that suicide crack?” He didn’t take his time circling back to this question.
“I did a Lexis search this morning. I found news articles about two portfolio managers at Sagamore who had committed suicide in the last few years.”
Things weren’t always as they appeared. Jack Finnerty’s words. “Those two were older. They hadn’t been fired,” David assured her. “I told you, no one is fired after the fifth year.” He picked up the wine bottle and poured the dark, rich liquid into her glass, then into his. “Cheers.” He touched his glass to hers.
“Cheers.” Jesse picked up her glass and drank, closing her eyes as she swallowed. It had been so long since she had let herself go, since she had forgotten about the pressures of work and school and simply enjoyed herself. Finally she opened her eyes. “Why have you told me all these things about Sagamore? As you said, I’m sure Elizabeth wouldn’t appreciate it if she knew.”
“Because I wish someone had told me before I joined. I probably would have accepted the offer anyway, because the money is incredible. But I would like to have known.”
Three hundred thousand dollars a year, millions if you made it past year five. Jesse could hardly imagine what it would be like to earn that kind of a paycheck, hardly imagine the freedom and peace of mind that kind of money would provide—even with the performance pressures David had described. And from what he had said, the odds were one in three that you’d make it past year five. That didn’t sound too bad. And Elizabeth seemed to like her. That ought to make the odds even better.
David pushed his glass against hers again. “And I’ve told you these things”—he hesitated—“because I like you.”
Todd had been right on target about David’s intentions, Jesse realized now. She could see it in David’s eyes, and under normal circumstances she would have been flattered. He was handsome, wealthy, and seemingly nice—quite a catch for someone. But any kind of romance with him was out of the question. It might put her opportunity to join Sagamore in jeopardy. Elizabeth probably wouldn’t make an offer if she thought David and Jesse were involved. “To the start of a wonderful business relationship,” she said firmly.
“Right,” he answered, recognizing the meaning of her words. “To a business relationship.” But his smile betrayed him.
Chapter 15
Despite the steady rain he was enjoying his walk through Georgetown University’s campus. The students had returned from their summer break, but at this late hour the grounds were empty, providing him a short respite from the constant crush of telephone calls received at the office and at home. He appreciated solitude immensely but was rarely able to find it these days. Life on the Hill was hectic. And the more senior one was, the more frenetic the pace.
Senator Webb tilted his wide green-and-white golf umbrella forward to hide his face as a lone couple approached from beneath the maple canopy swaying over the walkway in the gentle breeze. But there was no need to worry about recognition. They weren’t looking around. They were huddled together, heads down beneath a small umbrella, trying to reach their dormitory as quickly as possible.
After the couple passed, Webb stopped for a moment and looked up at the trees in the eerie glow of a street-lamp. The tips of the leaves were just beginning to take on their fall colors. He inhaled deeply. The night held the slightest trace of a chill, and he smelled the faint scent of wood smoke from an impatient fireplace. Just one more six-year term after his certain victory in November. At the beginning of that term he would name his successor—as was his privilege—and train him in the ways of the Senate, specifically the Appropriations Committee. Then he would retire to his beloved Georgia and enjoy the spoils of war.
“Good evening, Senator,” Phil Rhodes said quietly, as he approached from the same direction the couple had. Rhodes shook the senator’s hand.
“Hello, Phil.” Webb’s tone was upbeat. The thought of going back to Georgia after his last term had suddenly boosted his spirits.
“Glad you’re doing well tonight.” Rhodes heard the amicable tone.
“Thank you.” Webb checked up and down the path, but there was no one coming. “Why did you want to get together?”
Rhodes pushed his tongue against the inside of his cheek. The senator was in a good mood, and the odds were strong that this bit of information would spoil it.
“Come on, Phil. I told my wife I’d be home in thirty minutes.” Webb was suddenly impatient. “Get on with it.”
“Yes, sir.” Rhodes pulled his umbrella down close to his head as the rain began to fall harder. “You remember I told you I had a mole in Malcolm Walker’s office?”
“Of course.”
“Well, she has relayed to me information I think you ought to hear. And I didn’t want to say anything over the phone.”
Webb nodded. Rhodes had turned out to be a strong source of information. “What is it?”
“Malcolm Walker is planning to hold a news conference in the next few days to blow the whistle on the black-budget project going on in Nevada.” Rhodes’s Brooklyn accent became more pronounced as he became ner
vous. This was really going to piss off the senator. “It’s a plane known as the A-100. I’m assuming, given your position, you know about the project.”
“Shit!” Webb kicked at a twig on the path. His pleasant walk had just been ruined.
Rhodes cringed. Sometimes it wasn’t good to be the bearer of bad news, even if you had nothing to do with it and the information was valuable.
“That bastard. He ought to know when to keep his mouth shut. Christ, it’s a top-secret project and he’s got to be a bleeding heart. He just doesn’t know how the game is played. I can’t stand this new breed of do-gooders and their politically correct platforms. They don’t know what it means to defend a nation. They’ve never had to fight a war.” Webb looked at Rhodes menacingly. He was breathing hard. “The hell with Walker. It doesn’t matter. The plane’s already past the prototype stage. It’s already gone to full production.”
“I guess Walker lost his informant out at Area 51 and got scared that someone might put the clamp on him, so he’s going public as soon as possible.”
Webb nodded. Commander Pierce had done an excellent job of silencing Captain Nichols.
“Walker’s going to try to whip up public sentiment against the project,” Rhodes continued. “Apparently he’s got numbers on how much the A-100 will cost taxpayers.” Rhodes shook his head. “I must say, it’s a huge contract. If Senator Walker doesn’t railroad this thing, GEA shareholders will make out very well. I only wish one of my clients could have had a chance to bid on the plane a few years ago when it was offered, but I never heard a word about it. I’ve been here a long time. Usually I hear everything. GEA must have snapped up the contract very quietly.” Rhodes flashed an accusatory look at Webb. He knew what had happened.
Webb saw the look but ignored it. “I could make things very uncomfortable for Senator Walker. Perhaps I should pay him a visit before the press conference.”
“Walker would wonder how you found out.” Rhodes was suddenly worried. He didn’t want to be brought into this via the front page of the Washington Post. His clients wouldn’t be happy about that.
Webb understood the lobbyist’s concern immediately. “Don’t worry, Phil. Your name will never be mentioned.”
Relief ebbed through Rhodes’s body. Senator Webb had proved to be a man of his word. Anonymity would be maintained. “There’s one other thing you need to know.” Rhodes was willing to talk more freely now that the senator had promised secrecy. “Another reason you really might want to consider taking action against him.”
“What is that?”
“Apparently he has decided to go public with what he knows about the black budget in general. How it works, who is involved. He’ll do it at the same news conference at which he plans to reveal the existence of the A-100.” Rhodes sensed Webb’s anger rising. “I thought you might want to know that.”
“Prick!” Rage erupted violently inside Webb. Then, as quickly as it had exploded, it dissipated. This wasn’t disaster at all, it was the opportunity they had been waiting for.
He turned to Rhodes. “Phil, there’s a very large, very lucrative Army transport helicopter contract on the horizon. I think one of your clients will be very happy in the near future when he wins that contract, which means you’ve just earned yourself a nice fat fee tonight.” Webb clasped the lobbyist’s hand and pumped it hard.
Rhodes smiled at Webb curiously as they shook, uncertain of exactly what had just happened but ecstatic in the knowledge that he had just secured what sounded like a multibillion-dollar contract. “Thank you, Senator.”
“No, thank you, Phil. Take care of yourself. I’ve got to go. I’ll be in touch.”
Rhodes spoke up quickly. “Senator, could I ask you a question before you go?”
Webb nodded.
“Why have you spent so long on Capitol Hill? I mean, you were an attorney before being senator, isn’t that correct?”
Webb nodded again.
“It’s just that you could have made so much more money in private practice, and without all the hassles of public life. Without every joker you’ve ever met looking for a handout. Why do you keep coming back to Washington?”
Webb peered at Rhodes. Rhodes could never know the real truth about the money side. But the question was an interesting one, and its directness had taken him by surprise. “Power,” he finally admitted. It was the first time he had ever answered that query to anyone—including himself.
“What do you mean?”
“The ability to manipulate people. To make them do whatever you want.”
Chapter 16
Voices rich in gospel song rose from the choir as the Reverend Elijah Pitts moved deliberately across the church’s rostrum toward the raised pulpit. As he climbed the first of fifteen steps leading to the apex, the all-black congregation stood, raised their hands above their heads, and joined the choir.
When he reached the pulpit and stretched his arms out toward them, the celebration reached a frenzied crescendo. Men, women and children sang, clapped and swayed rhythmically to the piano so intensely that conversing with even the person immediately to the left or right would have been impossible. But it didn’t matter. No one wanted to talk. They were there to see Elijah Pitts, supreme leader of the organization known as Liberation for African-Americans, and all eyes were upon him.
LFA had existed for only three years, but already numbered over half a million members. Its purpose was simple—to promote the advancement of Maryland’s African-American population through nonviolent means. And in thirty-six short months, with the charismatic Reverend Pitts at the helm, LFA had become a force to be reckoned with.
Pitts raised his outstretched arms slowly and leaned back until he was facing heavenward. Bodies quivered and voices sang, until they could sing no louder. Only the reverend’s bodyguards—twenty large young men dressed in dark suits, dark bow ties, white shirts, and dark glasses, positioned before the stage—did not join in the rapture. They stood perfectly still, hands crossed before them, faces expressionless.
Pitts brought his arms down and three hundred voices fell suddenly silent. “Brothers and sisters, I am honored to be here this evening.” His voice was deep and mesmerizing. A woman in the front row screamed his name, then collapsed, but he took no notice as one of the bodyguards picked her up and carried her away. “Each time I see a congregation like yours, I am elated. I see that what was only a dream three years ago has become reality. Children, we are half a million strong now. We cannot be ignored. Our voices are being heard loud and clear in Annapolis and, more important, in Washington, D.C.”
A great cheer arose from the throng.
The reverend motioned for quiet again. “When we founded this organization, people ignored us.” His voice began to quake. “Rarely did I have my telephone calls returned. Rarely was I asked to join a panel or sit on a committee that was making decisions involving our people. Rarely was I asked for advice.” He stopped orating for a moment, then began nodding. “Now we have the power.”
Amens ascended from several in the crowd.
The reverend’s expression became triumphant.
The cheers grew louder.
“Now we are so busy I must ask my assistants to attend functions for me. Now we always have our telephone calls answered immediately without having to await a call back.”
People were jumping up and down, screaming his name. He had to yell to be heard even through the microphone. “And it is all because of people like you,” he roared. “Congregations like yours all across this great state of Maryland. We are being heard! We are a force! We will prevail!”
The applause thundered up to him. He took one step back on the pulpit, bowed slowly, then descended the stairs as the choir broke into another gospel tune. At the bottom of the stairs he proceeded back across the stage, turned and waved to the screaming crowd as he reached the far side, then disappeared
behind a purple curtain.
“Beautiful performance, Reverend.” Derek Holmes, vice chairman of LFA, embraced Pitts as the reverend passed between the curtains. Holmes led the reverend through a gauntlet of bodyguards and well-wishers backstage to a small door at the side of the church, where a limousine waited.
Once inside the limousine, Pitts reclined on the bench seat. “When is the next meeting?” he asked Holmes, rubbing his eyes.
“Nine o’clock,” Holmes replied. “We’ve got plenty of time—it’s only eight-thirty now.” The reverend had just finished his fourth engagement of the evening and there were still four more to attend. “Are you all right?” the younger man asked.
“Fine!” Pitts said loudly, sitting back up as the limousine pulled away from the church. “Absolutely fine. Just needed a few seconds’ rest and now I’m ready to go.”
Holmes was constantly amazed at the energy level Pitts—now sixty-one—could maintain. “Why don’t you catch twenty minutes of sleep? I’ll wake you up when we get to the next stop.”
“Nonsense, that would be wasted time. Besides, there’s something we need to discuss.” Pitts watched the lights of downtown Baltimore flash by.
“Oh?”
“Yes. We need to talk about Malcolm Walker.”
Holmes had anticipated that the topic would be Walker. Senator Walker had become an obsession with Elijah Pitts over the last few weeks. “What about him?”
The reverend stretched for a moment. “I told that congregation back there that we always have our phone calls returned nowadays, and that’s true except in one case. That case is Malcolm Walker. He has continued to try to maintain his distance from us.”
“But you know why,” Holmes said. “He believes if he is linked too closely to LFA in the minds of white voters, they will turn against him in the November election. And he’s probably right. The conservative media have successfully painted us as antiwhite, even though that tag couldn’t be further from the truth. Whites make up seventy-six percent of Maryland’s voting population, and Walker needs to keep the white vote he won six years ago to defeat Elbridge Coleman. It’s just a numbers game. He can’t win if he loses that white constituency.”
The Inner Sanctum Page 13
