Drummer In the Dark (22 page)

“I won’t fail you.”

“Esther Hutchings is involved with the Sant’Egidio band. So is the new congressman’s sister. Which makes the risk of their meddling absolutely unacceptable.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Proceed with the next phase. Meet the bankers this weekend.”

Burke had to smile. Forcing a bank’s board to meet on Easter weekend would establish the perfect atmosphere for what they had in mind. “And the funds?”

“The first installment will be transferred on Tuesday.”

Burke hesitated, decided he had to say, “I don’t like how the senior traders have made Colin Ready their pet techie. It only means his reach has been broadened even further.”

“Don’t give me mere chatter,” Hayek snapped. “It is time for proof.”

“I could put Anker back on him.” Then Burke waited. When Hayek did not object, Burke knew with utter certainty that Hayek in truth had not objected to Anker’s tactics. Only his failure. “And if it’s Colin?”

“Proof,” Hayek insisted. “Hard and fast. And spread your net further in case you’re wrong.”

This time Burke did not move. “What do I do if Colin Ready is spying for the Brazilians?”

Hayek did not like being trapped. “Must I really spell out every detail for you?”

“No.” Burke headed for the door, vastly satisfied. “Absolutely not.”

V
ALERIE LAWRY SAT in Hayek’s outer office and pretended to fume. Thus far she had been kept waiting precisely two hours and twenty-three minutes. No one kept her waiting two hours and a half. Not even the President of the United States, when twice she had attended conferences in the Oval Office. And to have it be Hayek, a man known for his eccentricities and his swagger, was doubly galling. Not to mention the fact that she had just risen from seven hours of ragged sleep, after two transatlantic flights in thirty-six hours. Even so, she didn’t want to leave, or even complain. In truth, she was far too shaken for much real anger.

People were coming and going from Hayek’s office in a constant stream. Initially the great double doors had opened to reveal a genuine shouting match inside. Valerie had never heard Hayek raise his voice before, or show any emotion stronger than scorn. Then the doors had expelled a waxy-headed young man in Rodeo Drive garb, looking utterly crushed as Hayek blistered the silk wallpaper. Even Hayek’s secretary was frightened.

Then Hayek had emerged, but not for her. A line of sullen traders had entered Hayek’s office. Among them was the slender techie who had sat in on her last bout with Hayek, a man who appeared frightened of his own shadow. Strange that he would be there among the heavy hitters. Valerie made a mental note to find out who he was. But not today, when the atmosphere stank of gunpowder and dread.

She would not be there at all, except for the fact that Hayek was her first real client. Not of the K Street firm where she slaved and struggled. Her own. Almost six months earlier, Hayek’s android, Burke, had sought her out at the close of an international banking forum and explained that they were looking for a private rep. Her firm was the chief lobbyist for the American Investment Managers, or AIM, so there was certainly the potential for a conflict-of-interest claim. But these things happened all the time within lobbyist circles. They were far less organized or monitored than, say, the lawyers. Which was why Valerie had hung tough, obtained her secret dream, then signed.

Valerie had fought tooth and nail for a contract clause that stated if she reached the six-month mark, she would be kept on for an additional five years. Which meant a solid base with which to go indie and start her own firm. Next week marked the six-month window. Which made this meeting crucial.

“Ms. Lawry?” The secretary gave Valerie a pasty smile. “Mr. Hayek will see you now.”

She rose to her feet, took a moment to straighten her jacket and smooth the lines of her skirt. But her mind refused to throw off the jet-lag clumsiness. Valerie decided she would hear him out, then claim fatigue. Which was both understandable and the truth. She would not be pressed into making any decision until she had rested.

Even so, her ankles wobbled on her high heels as she entered Hayek’s office. He waved her into the seat opposite his desk. “How are you this morning, Ms. Lawry?”

“Tired. I have just gotten back—”

“From Rome. Yes. Rome.” Hayek wore his most infuriating smirk, his dark eyes glittering and mesmerizing. The man’s authority was what had struck her the first time they had met, and it affected her still. He was far from handsome, with his eagle’s beak of a nose, eyebrows like silver-gray shrubbery, hair Brylcreemed to his skull, and lips both sensuous and cruel. The jaw of a prizefighter, cheekbones of an Indian chief. But his demeanor was so awesome the physical attributes were secondary, if noticed at all. He rested calm and omnipotent, surrounded by a storm of his own making. Sucking whatever he required from those about him, giving nothing back. She was merely another pawn for him to put into play. There was only one way to give the situation any dignity at all. And that was to use him just as cynically, playing this situation to accomplish her own agenda. Lawry and Associates. Offices on K Street, three blocks from the White House. A name known to everybody in the business of power.

Hayek asked, “How was your journey?”

In truth, it had been as grand an experience as any intercontinental flight could be. Hayek’s new private plane was the largest Gulfstream made, equipped with deerskin seats, a six-screen entertainment center, butler, bath, and a double bed whose silk sheets smelled of lavender and rosewater. “Long.”

Hayek asked, “Will you have coffee?”

“Thank you, but I’ve had two and a half hours to drink your coffee.”

“Indeed so.” Hayek leaned back in his chair, swiveled so as to stare out the back window. “You saw the congressman in Rome, did you not?”

“Of course I did. Since that was why you sent me over.”

“And then you did what?”

“Came straight back. Oh, I took time for one decent meal. Would you like to know what I ate?”

“That won’t be necessary.” Hayek remained absorbed in whatever he saw mired in sunlight. Forcing her to watch his silhouette. The window’s glare scratched at her eyeballs. “Tell me, if you would, what you thought of our congressman.”

“The same as before. Utterly lost at sea. It was a wasted journey.”

“Was it indeed.” Hayek mused to the world beyond his window, “Then I must assume you are not aware that you have been traced?”

“Traced?”

“Correct. From Rome. To here.”

“Here?” Hating the way she sounded. But her astonishment was too great to hide.

He turned around to face her now. The eyes were as harsh and brilliant as she had ever seen, the voice soft as a snake’s hiss. “Correct again. You see, Ms. Lawry, there was indeed a purpose behind having you wait. I needed to have this confirmed. And steps taken in response.”

“But . . .” She fought against the mental bedlam. “How did you know?”

“We almost didn’t. They apparently managed to hire themselves an extremely capable team.”

“No, I mean how did you
know?
”

“Because we’ve been tailing you.” Hayek showed no unease whatsoever. “What do you think?”

She started to object, but there was no future in that. “I can’t believe Wynn would be capable of such a thing.”

“Perhaps it was not the congressman at all.”

“You can’t mean that woman.” She searched her mind, squeezed out the name, “Havilland.”

Hayek merely raised one eyebrow and lifted the corner of his mouth. But the contempt was as clear as a slap to her face. “There are others beyond them. We can no longer ignore this risk.”

She wanted to ask, risk to
what
? But she knew Hayek would not answer. She also knew she needed further strength to match the man’s mastery. “You must forgive me. I must have a brief rest. We can meet later, if you wish—”

“About your contract.”

She halted midway to the doors. “Yes?”

“I have no problem with continuing our arrangement,” Hayek said. “But only if you remain in your present position.”

Valerie did her best not to gape. She had shared her secret ambition with no one. She was being struck by too many surprises, and from too many unexpected directions. “But were I to go independent, I would be able to concentrate more fully upon your needs.”

“On this point we must disagree,” Hayek replied. “It is far more important that I be able to mask my activities within the framework of your functioning for AIM as a whole.”

Defeat and victory mingled like ashes in her mouth. “Very well. I accept your terms.”

“My secretary has an amendment to your contract awaiting your signature.” Hayek turned back to his window. “Good day, Ms. Lawry.”

The casual dismissal galled so that Valerie demanded, “What will you do about this risk?”

Hayek focused once again upon whatever lay beyond his window. “It is already done.”

30

Thursday

W
HEN THE MUEZZIN woke him to the gray light of another predawn, Wynn entered the suite’s sitting room to find breakfast already waiting. He poured a cup of coffee and moved to the balcony, where Sybel sat with her legs propped upon the balcony railing, her Bible open in her lap. Her hair was unbound, a ripe black field stroked by the dry morning wind. He sipped his coffee and recalled other mornings, back when they shared a tiny room in a house void of love and welcome both. Sybel had sat then as she did now, hunched over the open Book, clutching at the words with a fierce ardor that shone on her face.

He knew she was aware of him, so when the muezzin grew silent he said what he had often thought, but never spoken before. “The only part of the whole religion thing that I could ever stand was mornings like this.”

She flicked the hair from her face as she lifted her gaze, but said nothing. Just watched and waited.

“I hated everything to do with Christianity. It’s what took us to Cairo. It robbed us of Mom and Dad.”

“It defined them.” Another swipe at her hair. “It defines me.”

“Is that why you did this?” He knew his tone was hard, but couldn’t help that. All he could do was pull over a chair and sit down. Show her that he really wanted an answer. “Why you pulled me away from the life I’ve made for myself?”

Sybel started to say, What life is that. He could read the words in her eyes, see them form, watch her open her mouth to speak. But she bit back the retort and said instead, “Wynn, listen to me. The only difference between a person who just exists and a person who lives is the vision of what lies ahead. Beyond tomorrow, beyond measured time. It’s not having a
cause
. People give themselves to causes all the time and still grow bitter or bored, or just empty themselves out in the endless battles of life. Causes don’t give you hope. Causes don’t give you a future.” She hefted the Book, held it between them. “I do what I do because I feel called by the One whom I love and to whom I have given my life. He gives me hope, even when there is none. Even when all is lost, still will I love Him. Because in the end, when time is gone and all is over, I know God will prevail.”

Wynn shook his head in such a wide sweep he took in the wafting curtains at one end and the tin-shaded river at the other. “I just don’t get it.”

She rose, wearing the same defeated expression he had seen a thousand mornings before. “We’d better be going.”

K
AY TRILLING STOOD in the lobby, watching Wynn’s approach with undisguised hostility. “This can’t possibly be a good idea.”

“He’s coming, Kay.”

Sybel’s hard resolve was too much even for the senator. Kay stalked through the glass doors and over to where Nabil stood beside a gleaming new Mercedes. She said something angry enough to shake her entire body. The Egyptian replied with a noncommittal shrug. Sybel sighed, a tight sound.

Nabil drove them across the river and through the southern reaches of Giza. Kay Trilling sat beside Nabil. Sybel was in the back seat with Wynn. Both women were frozen into immobile stubbornness. The predawn light illuminated snarled traffic and pedestrian hordes. From within the safety of the Mercedes’ back seat, Wynn observed all manner of dress, representing a society in explosive transition. Fundamentalist women wore black tents that hid all but their eyes. The merely conservative made do with gray
chadors
and brightly colored ankle-length dresses. The nonreligious wore just about anything, particularly the young. Teenage girls in T-shirts and tight suede jeans wore even tighter expressions of fear and defiance. The fundamentalist papers daily offered remedies for their behavior—whippings, brandings, the shaving of heads.

Once upon the desert highway, Nabil drove with reckless Egyptian verve, using the horn as much as the wheel and both more than the brake pedal. All about them, traffic rumbled and blared and flew. Wynn focused upon the view outside his window and did his best to ignore Nabil’s weaving and bobbing at eighty miles per hour. They passed clusters of half-finished apartment buildings in pale Nile brick that pushed back the verdant green of irrigated farmlands. Forests of date palms rose a hundred feet and more. Hawks hung high overhead, their wings fluttering ruddy gold in the sunrise. In the distance, the Giza pyramids rose from the morning mist, floating and shimmering like mystic islands.

Then the desert struck, and the green disappeared. The asphalt ribbon and the dusty billboards and the flashy new cars were mocked by the emptiness that stretched to either side. Kay snuffled her discontent and buried herself in the papers spread across her lap. Sybel kept her attention focused upon her side window. Nabil remained locked upon the challenge of Egyptian traffic. The car’s silence was as complete as a noose.

By the time they turned off the highway onto the road for Wadi Natrum, the sunlight was so fierce it was impossible to see any horizon. Brilliant sand weaved and melted into hazy hostility with the sky. They drove another hour and entered the valley approaching the wadi, or oasis. The cavern walls held none of the smooth-flowing grace of ancient waterways. Here tides of fierce winds had etched away the softer earth, leaving strange rounded shapes and alien markings in a hundred shades, all of them yellow. They descended deeper into the valley, where the rising wind no longer touched them, only the heat and the light.

Gradually the cavern walls lessened and they rejoined the flat blanched desert. Soon after they entered the village of Natrum. They were slowed to the pace of the donkey cart up ahead. An Egyptian passed on his bicycle, wide-splayed feet pedaling furiously and leather sandals flapping like castanets. His daughter perched on the handlebars, all bright eyes and soft blue shawl. The buildings were baked to colorless unity, even the signs painted mostly with dust. The sky held no color, the earth no shade. Wynn sat in his air-conditioned car, insulated from the world, yet sweating from the furnace raging beyond his window.

They drove a further hour beyond the village, along a road so sand-blanketed only the occasional sign suggested there was any path at all. One moment there was nothing but heat and a track turned white by reflected light, the next, a wall appeared to their right.

Nabil said quietly, “We are here.”

The wall surrounding the monastery was a mile to a side, high and stained a muted ocher by the dust of centuries. The broad wooden gates and the shutters around the sentry post were faded yellow with time and heat. So very much of both.

Within the outer wall, the desert was not vanquished, merely softened. Low buildings fronted carefully tended gardens of cactus and palm and hardy plants. The tallest dovecotes Wynn had ever seen rose like guard towers and marched two abreast along the outer wall. They drove on to where a second wall rose, higher than the first. Two modern buildings flanked the wall, fronted by a dusty courtyard filled with cars and people in severe modern dress.

Wynn rose from the car and watched as Kay Trilling marched resolutely over and began greeting the gathered throng. He looked across the car to where Sybel squinted into the sun and wind. “What should I do?”

“I wish I knew what to tell you.”

“That’s it? You bring me out here and that’s all you’ve got to say?”

“Kay has come here to convince the representatives of nineteen different national governments that we remain committed to making this happen. That without Graham at the helm, we can still make it work.” She did not sound as though she believed it herself.

Wynn spotted a familiar figure in a black cassock. “Is that Father Libretto?”

“I told you. Sant’Egidio is the group that helped organize this meeting.”

“So they’re in charge.”

“No, Wynn.” Explaining adult things to an exasperating child. “This is a council of equals. Sant’Egidio has played the role of messenger.”

He realized that Nabil still stood by his door, watching with the stone features of a human sphinx. “You’ve got something to say?”

“This is important work, Congressman.” The Egyptian hesitated, then added, “Your father would call this the kind of work that makes God smile.”

The words struck Wynn like a fist to his heart. He waited until the Egyptian had walked over to join the others, then said to Sybel, “What about Grant’s threat to destroy me if I don’t do what they want? And don’t tell me he hasn’t got the goods because he does. Line and verse. He could send us both to prison, and I could lose everything.”

“What if I took care of Grant?”

He understood instantly what she was saying. “You’d do that? Go back to him?”

“I haven’t left him yet. But you heard Nabil. This work is vital.”

“Tell me why.” When Sybel responded by glancing over to where the crowd was moving inside the conference hall, Wynn pressed, “Two minutes. You can spare me that much.”

“Eighteen funds are now larger than all but six national economies. Two are larger than Italy’s GDP. Of America’s top ten banks, eight derive more than half their total profits from derivatives and currency transactions. Their power to make or break economic recoveries and governments is a constant threat. They not only make profit from instability, they
want it to continue
. They respected no nation, no law, nothing except profit. National sovereignty and control of finances is at risk.”

As though to emphasize her words, the wind chose that moment to attack. A giant’s fistful of grit was flung into Wynn’s face. The dreaded
khamsin
dominated that time of year, a blistering breath from the southern deserts that blew so hard and long it deposited tons of ocher and gold high up in the Alps, two thousand miles to the north.

Sybel tightened down her face to where not even the wind could penetrate. “During the first economic boom of the twentieth century, the robber barons had to be reined in through governmental control and their monopolies broken. Now there’s a different threat, one that knows no borders. To harness the globalized power, global laws are needed. Hutchings’ plan was to levy a very small tax on every international currency transaction, one-tenth of one percent. Not enough to harm any business making currency purchases for normal trade in goods and services, but enough to slow the tidal surges of speculation. Funds generated from this tax wouldn’t go to any country’s treasury. Instead, a world body would be formed. Perhaps a revamped World Bank, perhaps something entirely new. They’d use these funds to pay off all outstanding debts of the developing nations, starting with the poorest first.”

She stopped and waited. Wynn knew she sought what he was unwilling to give, a commitment as total as her own. “I’ll think about it.”

Sybel whirled about. “Sure. You do that.”

“You can’t expect me—”

“I’ve already told you, Wynn. I don’t
expect
anything.”

W
YNN SAT IN the corner of the conference hall by the exit. He sought to concentrate on Kay Trilling’s address, but felt barred from understanding as well as admission. Sybel sat far enough away for him to observe her tragic resignation. He had years of experience disappointing Sybel, yet the act never came easy. When she took the coffee break as an excuse to leave the building, he followed her. As they crossed the parking area, Wynn half expected to be told to disappear. He took her silence as the only welcome he deserved, and followed her towards the monastery’s fortresslike walls.

Wynn slipped through the narrow gate behind Sybel and entered an interior square. The wind was muted here, kept at bay by the thick high walls. Eucalyptus trees perfumed the air. Together they crossed the square and started down a broad lane, shaded by a wooden lattice woven in geometric design. They passed several monks in their long black robes and strange embroidered caps. Most did not appear to notice them at all.

They turned a corner and found themselves at the entrance to a chapel. Wynn followed her example, slipped off his shoes, and stepped inside. The church was composed of three interconnected rooms, with perhaps two dozen penitents scattered throughout. There were no seats, of course. But the reed mats were cool against his feet and gave way to thick Persian carpets up by the altars. Sybel approached the front, stood there a moment, then abruptly spun about and departed.

Wynn found her standing outside, slipping on her shoes and blinking against the transition from interior cool to desert light. He asked, “Are you all right?”

Before Sybel could respond, a robed figure stepped up and said, “You are wishing to see my home, yes?”

Sybel seemed genuinely relieved at the invitation. “Very much.”

The monk’s beard fell in gray waves upon his chest. He offered his hand to Wynn, but only a smile to Sybel. The man’s fingers were cool and hard as the surrounding stone. “I am Father Binyamin. Where you are from, please?”

“America.”

“America. How nice. Please, you are Christian?”

Sybel answered for herself alone. “Yes.”

“You are welcome.” He gestured to the right. “I will show you our heart, our church. This way, come please.”

Sybel asked the monk as they walked, “That was not a church where we were?”

“Oh yes, is chapel. We have seven. Where we are, this is outer court. All you see here is new. Seventeenth-century church, sixteenth-century walls.”

“And that is new?”

“Here, yes. Very new.” He stepped into an alcove, pushed open a heavy door, and beckoned Sybel to enter. Sybel hesitated, which the monk found humorous. “Is safe,” the monk assured her. “All is safe within these walls.”

She ducked down and entered the passage, far thicker than it was broad. Wynn bent over, took the three steps, straightened and gasped aloud.

“Is surprise, yes? Of course, of course, Baramous Monastery is a place of many surprises. Many mysteries. Please, you come.”

The inner courtyard was ringed by walls so high Wynn felt as if he were standing inside a sky-domed cavern. The lane they walked was soft as golden flour, and broad enough for a line of poinciana trees to stand attendance down the middle, their red flowers bursting flames of color. Along one wall stretched a series of ancient doors. A sudden burst of wind hummed low and sullen overhead, hurtling great yellow spumes above the ramparts. The monk accepted the returning storm with a tiny shrug. “Do not worry, please. Our home has lived through many, many khamsin.”