The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

Jesse felt the anger and resentment building, as it always did. But it helped her to go through this. It helped to be able to share the physical pain and mental anguish of those moments with someone who understood. Pain and anguish that twelve years had not healed. It helped to share all this with someone who didn’t judge. Who wouldn’t be devastated knowing. They had been over it so many times, but it was cathartic on every occasion—once she was past the attack.

  “He pins you down on the bed, pulls your clothes off, and—”

  “—rapes me.” Jesse finished Becky’s sentence, then let out a long slow breath. “He rapes me.” She said it again. It was part of the therapy to say it—and repeat it. She hadn’t even been able to say it once until five years after the attack. Now she could say it twice in a row, sometimes three times.

  “So in the same night you’ve lost your virginity to Todd and been raped by your stepfather. You’re a psychological mess, and the person in the world you’re closest to, the one you’ve always turned to for everything, can never even find out. You won’t let her help you this time.”

  “Can you imagine if I had confided in my mother or told the police and filed charges? Can you imagine if my mother had found out? Found out that her husband had raped her daughter? And her entire congregation at Sacred Heart Church would have found out. She’s a devout Catholic. It would have pushed her over the edge. She would have committed suicide. I couldn’t tell her.”

  Becky allowed Jesse to finish, then moved on. “A month later you find out you’re pregnant, and you don’t know who the father is.” Becky closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know how you kept it together. You were a very strong woman, even then.”

  Jesse felt tears coming and coughed a few times to help hold them back. “I didn’t feel strong.”

  Becky saw the tears. “You still have such a violent reaction to all this. That’s why I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to see Todd, or anyone you associate with the attack. I think you’ve still got ghosts inside that you and I haven’t found yet. If you and Todd became involved, those ghosts might make an appearance. I’m not certain the results would be good.”

  “But the tests showed the baby wasn’t Todd’s.” Jesse was pleading his case. “That it was Joe’s. And Todd still took care of me. He took me to the hospital and paid for the abortion.” Jesse let her head fall into her hands, and the tears suddenly spilled down onto her blouse. “I was going to go to an inner-city clinic, for God’s sake. Todd wouldn’t hear of it. He insisted I go to the hospital and have the operation done right. Who knows what would have happened to me at the clinic? A week after I was going to go there the government shut the place down because they lost a young woman on the table.”

  “Keep him at a distance, Jesse. He’s got a lot of baggage too.”

  “He knew it was Joe’s, and he still took care of me. And he’s never said anything to anyone. He’s just been there for me whenever I’ve needed him.” Jesse wiped the tears from her face. “He was so wonderful to me during that time. He got me to you.”

  Becky watched Jesse carefully. There must be some terribly stressful outside forces putting pressure on her. She had suddenly become vulnerable again. “Is that it?”

  “Is what it?”

  “You just said he got you through all that. Do you feel you owe him? Is that the real problem?”

  Chapter 21

  One by one they filed silently into the dimly lighted meeting room. It was unusual for them to reconvene so soon, but circumstances had dictated the meeting.

  Senator Webb hesitated for a moment, allowing the others time to take their designated seats. “If we’re all ready, I’d like to begin.” His gravelly voice brought the meeting to order over the strains of Bach.

  The members nodded in agreement as they pulled their chairs to the table.

  “The first topic tonight will be the security leak I mentioned at the last meeting,” Webb began. “As I told you then, someone had stolen a file from Neil Robinson’s river place before we got to it. We believe the file contains incriminating information concerning the Senate race between Malcolm Walker and our associate Elbridge Coleman.” He nodded in Coleman’s direction. “Tonight I’m happy to inform you that we’ve identified the individual who took the file,” he said triumphantly.

  “Who was it?” Finnerty asked, arms crossed tightly across his chest, a worried expression on his face.

  “A woman who works as a revenue agent in Baltimore. She reported to Mr. Robinson before his untimely demise.”

  “How did you identify her?” Admiral Cowen wanted to know.

  Theodore “Ted” Cowen was the Chief of Naval Operations—the United States’ most senior naval officer—and Webb suddenly wondered how the man had managed to achieve that position three years ago. Cowen was overweight, swarthy, and for such a senior official, constantly focused on unimportant details. But he had proved malleable on bigger issues, like the A-100, and able to influence the Secretary of the Navy and the Secretary of Defense at opportune times, so his minutia fixation could be overlooked.

  “We recovered a glove we believed was worn by the individual when she took the file from Robinson’s house,” Webb explained. “We traced the glove to a store and then matched the list of people who had purchased those types of gloves from that store in the last six months to the names of the revenue agents. She was on both lists.”

  “Excellent.” Cowen smiled. “It sounds as if we have a positive identification. No chance of mistaken identity.”

  “No chance,” Webb assured him. Of course, there was always a chance of mistaken identity. All you could ever do was take the physical evidence you had gathered and make the best deduction possible. But if Cowen felt better hearing there was no chance of mistaken identity, so be it.

  “Good.” Cowen rubbed his large belly. “I just wouldn’t want to have any innocent people involved.”

  Cowen was so damn self-righteous. It was all right with him to kill someone as long as you were certain it was that person who had committed the offense. A crime so horrible as usurping a simple file. But hold the train if it might be an innocent bystander. What a crock of shit that was, Webb thought to himself. It must be the military training, he guessed. Perfectly acceptable to eradicate anything interfering with a mission. Unacceptable to use force otherwise.

  “I don’t want this to be a loose end any longer than is absolutely necessary,” Art Mohler said. “When will we address the problem?”

  “Tonight,” Webb answered quickly, watching Cowen grab a roll of his belly.

  “Good.” Mohler was relieved.

  “Second issue on the agenda,” Webb announced loudly. He wanted to waste no time. He was exhausted from a long day on the Hill. “The issue of Malcolm Walker…and not in the context of the election,” he added.

  The others looked up as they heard an ominous tone in Webb’s voice.

  “I have learned that Walker had an informant at Area 51,” Webb continued. “The informant was passing information to Senator Walker concerning the A-100.”

  “What? Bullshit,” Cowen growled through clenched teeth. “Area 51 is a secure base. One of the most secure in our system. The civilians working on projects there are carefully screened and strictly monitored. We’ve never had a problem.”

  “His informant wasn’t a civilian, Admiral. It was an Air Force captain.” Webb looked down at a paper on the table. “His name is Paul Nichols. He was receiving payments in exchange for the information and of course had the added incentive of derailing a Navy project.”

  “You’re kidding!” Cowen was suddenly alarmed.

  “No, I’m not. Apparently Senator Walker was paying him big. As they say, money talks, bullshit walks. And what we pay our military is bullshit, so those with questionable moral character are easy targets. Anyway, I have taken care of the problem under black-budget authority. Capta
in Nichols has been incarcerated. He is no longer a problem and won’t be for quite some time. I can hold him in jail for at least six months without trial.” Webb withheld a smile as he imagined the captain’s fall from ten thousand feet through the Nevada night with Commander Pierce by his side.

  “Was Nichols able to pass anything important on to Walker?” Mohler removed his half-lens glasses, and put them down on the table. He was clearly worried.

  “Apparently. A friend of mine tells me that Walker will be holding a news conference tomorrow to disclose the existence of the A-100.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Mohler brought his hands to his forehead.

  “The purpose of the news conference will be twofold,” Webb continued. “First, Walker will be trying to derail production of the A-100 by hyping figures the government will spend on the program. As we all know, it is a large program, and he will play on the public relations problem we in the defense arena have. You know, six-hundred-dollar hammers, thousand-dollar toilet seats, and the like. All the ridiculous stories leaked to the press by the liberals in the last few years and swallowed hook, line, and sinker by this country’s gullible public. Walker will compare the A-100 to these stories and try to have the plane’s production put on hold.”

  “How do you have this information on Walker’s plan?” Cowen was impressed.

  “I have a mole in Walker’s office.” Webb moved on quickly. He didn’t want Cowen focusing on that little detail. “The second and potentially more disturbing reason for the press conference is that Walker plans to lay open the black budget and the programs within the black budget in an attempt to bring it under greater public scrutiny. Apparently he has become privy to certain information he should not have through his informant at Area 51, and probably through other avenues as well.” Webb’s expression became defiant. “Malcolm Walker has decided to raise the level of his Defense Department war to a new and very dangerous level.”

  “That bastard!” thundered Admiral Cowen. “I need the A-100 program at least six months into production before word of its existence leaks out. It would be too easy for someone to shut it down now. I must have that fighter-bomber.”

  “Easy, Ted.” Finnerty waved a hand at Cowen. “Keep your pants on.”

  Finnerty was as calm and composed as usual in the face of adversity, and it was reassuring, Webb thought to himself.

  Art Mohler picked up his glasses from the table and put them back on. “It’s obvious to me what’s happened. Walker has realized he’s in trouble as far as November goes. He’s seen the polls and knows he’s on the bubble,” Mohler analyzed. “Elbridge is pulling ahead, and Senator Walker can’t stop the express. It’s almost as if we’ve done too good a job with Elbridge. Walker’s going to a scorched-earth strategy with the black budget because it’s the only option he has left. He’s going directly to the American people with black-budget details as a last-ditch effort to show them he’s a true establishment fighter.”

  “But he can’t just babble on about the black budget in front of the national press corps,” Cowen argued. “I know it’s no secret that there’s a black budget, but people don’t know the inner workings of it. They don’t know the extent of it. We can’t have some joker giving away national secrets on network television, for God’s sake.” Cowen turned toward Webb. “Senator, can’t you invoke a gag order under the national security rule black budget allows? Then we could have people there to put the clamps on him when he opens his mouth.”

  “Wouldn’t that look great?” Finnerty interjected. “The Defense Department gestapo marching up to the podium, locking a black senator in chains, and leading him away. Land of the free and home of the brave. Walker would have a fucking orgasm. The press would be all over him for the story. In thirty seconds we’d destroy everything we’ve been building for three years, Ted.”

  Cowen saw Finnerty was right. “But we’ve got to do something. We can’t just let him go on national television and torpedo the A-100 and maybe the entire black-budget process.” Cowen swallowed hard. “Think where that could lead. I mean, forget about the fact that we lose our wealth engine for a minute. There’s the other side of the coin too. I’m sure there are a few people who would love to know what’s been going on here in this room. What if someone really starts digging?” He looked at Webb pleadingly. Suddenly he was nervous. “We can’t let that happen, can we, Senator?”

  A slight smile inched across Webb’s face. “I have a solution.”

  “What’s that?” Finnerty had known Webb for years and recognized the smile. God bless him. He had an answer for everything.

  “Jack, and the rest of you,” he said, making eye contact with all of them, “I’d like to keep that to myself. Please indulge me.”

  The others nodded hesitantly. They trusted Webb implicitly, but Malcolm Walker had suddenly proved himself a formidable opponent.

  “Good. Next on the list is movement in the GEA stock. It ticked up today a few points.” Webb kept the meeting moving forward. “Art, what’s going on?”

  Mohler slowly pulled his chair closer to the table. He was still distracted by the news that Walker intended to lay open the black budget like some skewered pig. He wanted to push Webb on his solution but decided against it. “Uh, it is true that the common share price of General Engineering & Aerospace rose a few points in today’s trading session. The stock closed today at twenty-seven, up three dollars a share from the beginning of the day and up five and a half from its fifty-two-week low. But I don’t believe the activity is attributable to a leak about the A-100. Remember, the overall market has been up in the last week too. And all the defense stocks have gotten an additional shot in the arm on rumors that U.S. budget negotiators have reached a compromise on the size of the defense portion for next year. It’s a smaller amount than last year, but still more than was anticipated.”

  “Art, have you calculated the effect the A-100 will have on GEA shares?” Cowen grabbed another roll of his belly. It was a nasty habit but he’d been doing it so many years he was no longer aware of it. “I know you analyzed that a while back, but I was wondering if you had looked at the situation lately.”

  The room fell silent. Suddenly there was no sound except the symphony playing softly in the background. It was the key question. They had all profited via this infrastructure before, but the GEA transaction was to be the mother lode.

  “I really hate to put a specific figure on it at this point, because you will all hold me to it later,” Mohler complained.

  “But you will give us the figure.”

  Mohler looked up at Webb, recognizing the tone. There would be no further stalling. “My rough calculations indicate a stock price of almost one hundred dollars a share within a year.”

  “Does that take into account any incremental business GEA will pick up from the DOD as a result of successfully engineering and bringing to production as high-profile a program as the A-100?” Finnerty asked.

  Mohler shook his head. “No.”

  “Bear with me,” Cowen said slowly, leaning over the table. “I know we’ve been through this before, but I want to make sure I’ve got this straight.”

  Finnerty suppressed a grin. Admiral Cowen was still new to the game. They had brought him into the circle three years ago, specifically for the A-100 because of the size and scope of the project. Webb could appropriate the money from the black budget, but they had needed someone actually at the Pentagon to approve the contract quickly and quietly within DOD. To his credit, Cowen had immediately recognized the enormous potential inherent in the partnership of a private investment firm and a black-budget insider. After a few stock tips from Webb and Mohler, Cowen had become a disciple. Then they had made him a member. Now he was just as greedy as the rest of them.

  “Sagamore invested a billion dollars in GEA common stock, right, Art?” Cowen asked.

  “Yes,” Mohler answered. “And we paid twenty-f
ive dollars a share.”

  “So if the stock goes to a hundred the way you said it would—”

  “The way I said it might,” Mohler corrected.

  “Sorry, might.”

  “Yes.”

  “It means—”

  “It means,” Mohler interrupted the admiral again, “that Sagamore would net almost three billion dollars on the billion-dollar investment.”

  “How much of that is ours?” Webb demanded.

  Mohler paused. This would raise their expectations to a stratospheric level—something he didn’t want to do—but he didn’t have the nerve to ignore, or even dance around, a question from Webb. For some reason the man scared him. Perhaps it was his relationship with Gordon Roth, or his ability to lock up an Air Force captain and throw away the key for six months. “Scared” wasn’t the word. The word was “petrified.” “Sagamore earns a two percent fee on any profits,” he said. “On three billion dollars that would be sixty million. Half of that remains at Sagamore, half comes to this group.”

  Cowen began to laugh. He was going to be a millionaire and the envy of every other branch of the service with the most advanced stealth fighter-bomber in the world—as long as Malcolm Walker could be neutralized. “Ain’t that some shit,” he said to no one in particular.

  Mohler’s posture stiffened at the obscenity. He hated Cowen’s brash manner. But Cowen had come through on the A-100 project with flying colors. Webb had assured them, against some resistance, that Cowen and the Navy were the best choices for the project that would make them millions, and he had been right, as always.

  “It’s a helluva profit. But we’ve all worked hard and we deserve it.” Webb gestured at Mohler. “You are certain you can suck that money out of Sagamore without raising too many eyebrows?”

  “Yes.”

  Finnerty changed the subject. “How’s Mitchell doing, Art?”

  “All right. Yesterday he made the two-million-dollar transfer to the Grand Caymans account you gave him from one of Doub Steel’s local banks.” Mohler smiled. “He’s very predictable.”