The Inner Sanctum

by Stephen W. Frey

  Jesse knew that as well as anyone. People were constantly trying to fool the IRS with all kinds of convoluted ownership structures. “Pending that information, your theory is that one corporate entity might have been responsible for purchasing all Coleman Technology shares in the company’s initial public offering, but tried to mask what was really going on by spreading the shares around its portfolio companies.”

  Tod nodded. “Exactly.”

  This was excellent information. Something that could be confirmed and might give them a concrete trail to follow. “And why would someone do that?” She was thinking out loud.

  “It would be a convenient way to fund a candidate’s campaign without making it obvious who the money people were.”

  That was her idea as well, but she had wanted to see if Todd would come to the same conclusion without prompting. She glanced down at the table next to the chair in which David had been sitting. Her eyes narrowed. Becky’s card was gone.

  * * *

  —

  David climbed into the back of the limousine next to Elizabeth Gilman as the driver shut the door. He had walked all the way to the other side of the apartment complex because Elizabeth didn’t want the limousine parked where Jesse might see it.

  “What happened?” she asked. “You weren’t in there very long.”

  He was barely able to make out her profile in the darkness. “A friend of hers came by out of the blue. It wasn’t going to happen.”

  “What friend?”

  “Some guy named Todd Colton. She claims he’s just a friend, but I don’t know.”

  “Todd Colton,” she whispered. “Todd Colton.” She said the name again, committing it to memory.

  David closed his eyes and relaxed. He was coming to find there was a great deal more to Elizabeth Gilman than the refined grande dame exterior she portrayed.

  “Did you find anything while you were in her apartment?” she asked.

  David hesitated. The file on the kitchen counter had accused candidate Elbridge Coleman of conspiring with a group of corporate angels to manipulate his election, of working with a conservative faction focused on controlling the defense industry and beating down people like Malcolm Walker. David’s godfather in Washington would be a likely candidate for that faction. So would Jack Finnerty, he thought to himself. And the potential link to GEA, Sagamore, and himself had crackled through his brain like lightning as he stood in the kitchen staring at the papers.

  Then David had heard Jesse’s hair dryer turn off and realized he had to put the file back. The frenzied look in her eye as she came running from the bedroom told him she was afraid he had seen it. “No, Elizabeth, I didn’t find anything.” Information such as the file was best kept to himself until it could be used as a bargaining chip. “Nothing out of the ordinary, anyway.”

  “All right, but I want you to search her apartment again thoroughly. And I want you to get closer to her. I want you two in constant contact.” Elizabeth needed to know where Jesse was at all times now.

  “I don’t understand, Elizabeth.” David’s voice was flat. “Why is that so important?”

  She couldn’t tell him the truth. “I’m thinking of making her a job offer now, contingent upon her graduation from business school, of course. I don’t want the investment banks to have a chance at her, so I’m going to preempt them.”

  “I don’t understand why you’re going after Jesse so hard. There will be lots of candidates to choose from. Candidates from Ivy League business schools with much more experience than Jesse Hayes.”

  “I can recognize raw talent immediately.” She turned toward him. “That’s why I run Sagamore,” she said coldly, “and you are a portfolio manager just hoping to celebrate your fifth anniversary with the firm.”

  But even as the whip snapped, David felt her fingers on the back of his hand.

  “David, in four years we’ve never had a chance to really get to know each other.” Her voice softened, and she pulled his hand to her lap. “I think we should have that opportunity tonight.” She saw the strange look come to his face. The words had quickly achieved her goal. To distract him.

  David bowed forward in the seat and rubbed his forehead. The promise of millions and all that money could buy. Of financial security. All he had ever wanted. To be rich. But was it really worth all this?

  * * *

  —

  Gordon Roth watched from behind a minivan as the man on the porch said good night to the young woman, then turned and made his way down the stairs. The apartment’s outside light flipped off and for a moment the man was obscured by darkness, but at the bottom of the stairs Roth picked up his shape again as he walked out into the parking lot and slipped into his car.

  As the red taillights of the man’s car disappeared around the corner, Roth moved from his hiding place, walked quickly to the back of the complex, and scaled the fire escape to the third floor. There he crouched down next to the bedroom window and slowly leaned forward. Through the curtains he watched the woman disrobe and slip under the covers. Then the light went out and he could see nothing more.

  For two hours he waited. Finally, when he was certain the woman was asleep, he pulled the black ski mask over his head and raised the unlocked window—a window he had unlocked this afternoon in preparation for tonight. In just seconds he had stolen across the room, straddled her with his knees on her elbows, and clamped a hand down over her mouth. For a moment she struggled, but despite his average size he was immensely strong and her efforts were useless.

  When she lay still, Roth bent down until his mouth was only inches from her ear. “I’ll take my hand from your mouth, but if you scream, I’ll kill you,” he whispered. With his free hand he removed a long, serrated hunting knife from his belt and pressed it against her cheek. “Do you understand?”

  She nodded frantically, her eyes wide open.

  Quickly Roth removed two long pieces of cord from his belt and secured her wrists to the bedposts, then ripped the covers back and did the same to her ankles.

  She gazed up at him, on the verge of tears. “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged.

  “I need information. If you cooperate, you’ll be fine.” He pushed the razor-sharp knife point against the soft skin of her neck.

  Instinctively she moved her neck as far away from him as possible, but he followed and pushed the knife in until a tiny drop of blood oozed onto the tip. “You’re hurting me.” Her voice was loud.

  Instantly he clamped a hand over her mouth again. “I told you not to make a sound,” he hissed. “One more time and you’re dead.” He took the hand away slowly.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  He bent down until his mouth actually touched her earlobe. “Where is the file?”

  “What file?” she sobbed.

  He tried again several times, but to no avail. Clearly she wasn’t going to cooperate easily. He pulled a rag from his coat and shoved it into her mouth roughly. “I’ll be back.”

  For half an hour, starting with the bedroom, he tore the apartment to shreds, but found no file. Grim-faced, he returned to the bedroom, knelt over her again, and removed the gag. “Where is the file?” he asked firmly.

  “I don’t know about any file,” she insisted. “I swear to you.”

  “Did you give it to the man who was here tonight?”

  “I told you,” she sobbed pathetically, “I don’t know about a file. Please let me go.”

  “This is going to get very bad unless you cooperate right now. It would be so much easier if you’d just tell me.”

  “I don’t know about any file!”

  Roth jammed the gag back in her mouth, and for an hour he tortured her. He left no marks on her body but devastated her psychologically with the threat of the huge knife. Still she gave away nothing. Finally he pulled a pillow over her face and meted mercy. When she
had gone limp, he untied her wrists and ankles, picked up her body and moved to the window. She had died in her bed of asphyxiation. But the world would think her death had been the result of a fiery car crash.

  Chapter 23

  “Good morning, Malcolm.” Monique Howard was Walker’s chief of staff. She was tall with long dark hair, a pretty face, and a slender frame. She had been with Walker since his campaign for the state senate and often accompanied him to formal government affairs, because the senator’s hectic schedule allowed him little time to date. As they were both unmarried, rumors of a physical involvement abounded. And if he had made it obvious that he was interested, Monique knew she would have agreed, because she was extremely attracted to his sharp features, quick wit, and natural charm. But in their ten years together, he had always been a perfect gentleman. So like most Washington gossip, the talk was just that—talk.

  “Monique, how are you this morning?” Walker’s voice boomed out over his huge desk, cluttered with papers and empty Styrofoam coffee cups.

  He was naturally disorganized. He had tried to convince Monique for years that he kept the desk a mess on purpose because it helped him to think in a more liberated fashion. That the mess represented free thought. But she knew the truth. He just didn’t like cleaning up. So it was she who reorganized the desk once every two weeks to keep him from being buried by the paper mountain.

  Monique eyed Walker suspiciously. “Why are you in such a good mood today?” He had been outwardly discouraged lately by Coleman’s strong showing in the polls.

  “Today we begin the comeback.” He stood up quickly and moved to the large office doorway, acknowledging the four young interns working in the outer office with a quick nod before shutting the door. Then he began pacing, as he always did when he was excited. “Today we grab the spotlight back from Elbridge Coleman.” Walker smacked his lips as if savoring a delicious meal.

  “Oh, right, the news conference.” Monique was not as excited about the day’s possibilities as Walker.

  He continued to pace. “Yes, the news conference.” He heard the skepticism in her voice. “Why do you say it like that?”

  Monique smoothed her pleated knee-length skirt. “Let’s go over your remarks,” she said, sidestepping his question for the moment.

  Walker paused at the window of his first-floor suite in the Russell Senate Office Building to collect his thoughts. From this spot he had a wonderful view of the Capitol. Only senior senators were allowed office space in the Capitol itself. The rest of them walked or took the short train ride through the underground corridor connecting the two structures to attend sessions. “First, I will disclose the existence of the A-100 stealth fighter-bomber,” he began. “I will detail the A-100’s immense cost to the American people, probably a hundred fifty billion dollars over seven years when everything is said and done. And the fact that it represents an extraordinary waste of taxpayer money in this day and age of United States military dominance. I will, of course, point out that the funds could be used more effectively in a number of social programs, citing several specific examples.

  “Second, I will discuss the black budget in general and how the A-100 contract was awarded under its veil. I will call for a full Senate investigation of the contract process, both in Congress and at the Pentagon, with the objective of shutting down the old-boy network.” He pushed out his chin defiantly. “There. What do you think of that?” he asked, turning away from the window.

  He would be taking a huge gamble following this strategy, Monique knew. “What exactly do you intend to say about the black budget?”

  “What I know.”

  “Tell me again what that is.”

  Once more Walker began pacing. “That a select number of senior senators, possibly as many as three, probably two, but maybe just one, can, on their own authority, without accountability to anyone, secretly appropriate up to ten percent of the defense budget each year and spend it on new weapons development. That no one has the ability to question the allocation of these funds by the black budgeteers. Not Congress, not the Office of Management and Budget, not the General Accounting Office, not even the President, for crying out loud. That deals with defense firms can be cut under the protection of the program without any objections being raised.” Walker noticed that his chief of staff seemed to be more interested in her skirt than his remarks. “Monique?”

  She’d been rubbing a spot on the skirt. “Yes?” The spot was an irritating reminder that she’d eaten a fruit-filled Danish for breakfast and spilled a good bit of it on herself.

  He didn’t appreciate the indifference she consistently showed for his fight against the Defense Department. “People need to know about the black budget, Monique. They need to understand that this system has been in place for years. That black programs are costing taxpayers a great deal of money, at least thirty billion a year, and that tremendous opportunities exist for fraud and at the very least, incredible conflicts of interest. It’s a system that has never been audited and never will be unless someone takes a stand. I’ve been fighting government waste in the DOD ever since coming to the Hill. I’m the logical choice to lead this battle.” He sat down behind the desk, picked up a tennis ball lying in an unused ashtray, leaned back in the leather chair, and tossed the ball toward the ceiling. “And the press conference will generate a lot of great publicity for us right when we need it the most.”

  “How do you know the black budget actually exists?” The spot wasn’t coming out. And she’d just picked up the skirt from the dry cleaner.

  “Come on.” He was annoyed. “We all know it does.”

  “Specifically, how do you know? The press will ask if you really choose to let loose with all this. You’d better have an answer prepared.”

  “Okay, okay. How about an example? The B-10 bomber was a black-budget program. And what do they estimate each one of those nasty little buzzards cost the American people?” Walker asked rhetorically. “A billion two, that’s how much. Of course, the real price was probably twice that high, and you know people got wealthy off the books. You know development money found its way into secret coffers.”

  “What proof are you going to offer?”

  “The fact that no one will account for the money. Talk to a Pentagon accountant and there’s the fear of God in the expression below the green eyeshade. Talk to OMB or GAO and their eyes just glaze over.”

  “You need more,” Monique said decisively.

  “Look, if you hang around the halls of Congress for six years, you hear things. Whispers about how the DOD budget game is really played. How the contracts are awarded. You never hear anything concrete, never anything anyone will own up to, but you know what you know.”

  “Maybe there’s a good reason no one will own up to it,” Monique offered ominously, still scraping at the spot on her skirt with her long fingernails.

  “Hey, we promised each other we’d never be scared off by these people.” Walker sensed her apprehension, and it irked him. She was a strong-willed woman, and he had never seen her this way before. “Are you getting soft on me?”

  “No!” Her eyes flashed to his. “But sometimes it’s better just to let the lions take their pound of flesh and not bother them.”

  “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.” Walker threw the tennis ball toward the ceiling again. When it came back down he bobbled it. It fell to the floor and rolled across the thick red carpet toward a far corner of the office. “Did someone get to you?” he demanded.

  “Of course not.”

  “Be honest. Did someone approach you?”

  “No, dammit, I’m just trying to protect you.”

  “Then what’s your problem?”

  “Malcolm, let’s suppose you’re right. Let’s suppose there is a huge fund within the Defense Department budget that one or two senators personally control. That there is a conspiracy involving a small cadre of sen
ior Pentagon officials and defense industry top management. Do you really think you’re going to persuade Congress to investigate what’s going on? If the fund is there, it’s there because senior legislators think it ought to be there. You’re going to ask the very same people who think the fund ought to exist and who would then be profiting from it to investigate it. To investigate themselves, in other words. It isn’t going to happen, and you’re going to be ostracized in the process.” She gave up on the spot and resigned herself to another trip to the dry cleaner. “I know you’re disappointed in me, but my advice is to fight them on a project level. Expose the A-100, but leave it at that. Play the game by the rules. You’ll make points with voters and you’ll stay alive.”

  “Oh, please.” He waved a hand at her. “You’re being a little melodramatic.”

  “Am I?” She wasn’t so certain.

  “Yes.”

  “Stay away from the black budget, Malcolm. It’s not that I’m scared. I just don’t think it’s a good move politically to focus on it. I’m your chief of staff. You pay me to give you advice. That’s what I’m giving.”

  “How about the fact that there’s an Air Force captain sitting in a cell at Area 51 who hasn’t been charged with anything?” Walker asked. “Taken into custody and left to rot. Doesn’t it bother you that they can do that?”

  “Of course it does. But doesn’t it bother you that he hasn’t said a word? That he hasn’t accused anyone of anything? That he’s so scared he’s willing to sit in an eight-by-ten room and play tic-tac-toe on cinder-block walls rather than fight to get home to his children? I’d say they’ve gotten to him. If you don’t draw that conclusion from his silence, you’re blind.” She paused. “Doesn’t it bother you that his Washington contact, Senator Malcolm Walker, hasn’t tried to get him out?”

  Walker banged the desk loudly with his hand. “That’s not fair! Captain Nichols came to me. I told him there wasn’t anything I could do if they got to him. He knew the risks.”