Drummer In the Dark (4 page)

When Preston accepted a job with the Hayek Group, she had worried without understanding why. When the money had started pouring in, she had grown truly frightened. But Preston had found a place that justified his talents, one so all-consuming he could ignore the past they both loathed. Preston had risen among the ranks of traders until she could no longer argue against his choice. She had finally given in to his enthusiasm, accepted his money, and revived her own dream of returning to graduate school. All the while, she remained troubled over the waters where Preston now swam. She studied international finance in hopes of delving the tides and the currents and identifying the sharks before they devoured him.

And then Preston had introduced her to Shane Turner.

Jackie was in the process of tossing that particular memory to the wind when she noticed the motorboat. It was the same one she had seen earlier, and now that she was focused upon it she had the impression this was not its first pass around her island. The man at the wheel fastened upon her with a pair of binoculars, a ludicrous act considering the turbulence. Jackie rewarded him with an appropriate gesture, then rose uncertainly to her feet as the boat veered and headed straight for her. The dolphins whistled a warning and disappeared.

Apprehensive and utterly isolated, she began pulling her mast from the water. Her position in the cove was suddenly very hazardous, out of other storm sailors’ sight, in a wind strong enough to drown out her screams.

Jackie gripped the boom and swept the sail about, seeking a pocket of wind to cast her away. But the trees and untamed shrub were too effective a wind block. She was about to give up and fling herself into the water when the motor craft swung broadside and the man shouted across, “Are you JackieH at Juno.com?”

The query was so ludicrous she let the boom fall without thinking. “What?”

“JackieH at Juno.com!” He was young and his voice high-pitched. More than that she could not tell over the motor’s idling roar. He was ridiculously muffled in a floppy fishing hat pulled low, sunglasses, and a windbreaker with the zipper pulled up to his chin. All she could see clearly were his pale nose and mouth. And bone-white hands that knew nothing about holding a boat steady. “Is that you?”

When she gaped and nodded in response, he cut the motor with the boat still broadside to the chop. It was an expensive rental, an overpowered OMC inboard-outboard. He was far enough beyond the cove’s shelter for the next wave to almost pitch him headlong over the side. Jackie found herself relieved by his evident alarm. “Start your engine and put it one notch above idle, then steer directly into the wind.”

As he fumbled and struggled to follow her instructions, she settled back onto her board. “Now back into the cove, no, don’t turn the boat around, just put the boat into reverse.”

But the young man showed no desire to approach any closer than where he was. Instead he left the motor running, oversteering and unsettled by the chop. Over the wind and the motor he called, “Why are you interested in certain people and companies?”

Again she had no choice but gape in reply. The young man expected nothing more. “You’re already in danger! There’s only one way to survive, are you hearing me, JackieH?”

“Yes.”

“Keep searching under your current internet address and find nothing. Then take on a second name with a different server system and use another name as both ID and payee.”

She thought she detected an accent but couldn’t be certain. “Why?”

“Use a secure phone for your hookups. Your home line is either tapped or will be soon. When you’re established, go to the website Trastevere.” He spelled it out. “Can you remember that?”

“Who are you?”

“This is
vital!”
His shriek carried the strain of more than the present tempest. “Trastevere website. Leave me a message.” He paused for a moment, pressed the sunglasses up tight to his nose, continued, “Address it to the Boatman.”

“Wait. I need to know—”

But the young man revved the motor and blasted away, almost tumbling over the back of his seat in the takeoff. Jackie was left to the isolation of a confused and storm-tossed day.

4

Wednesday

W
YNN ARRIVED at Senator Trilling’s office still fuming over his meeting with Jackson Taylor. It did not help matters to find the ranking senator from California housed in chambers that were positively palatial compared to his own. “Congressman Bryant?”

“That’s right.”

“Kay Trilling. Are you alone?”

“Is there a problem with that?”

“As far as I’m concerned, no. But few people in elected office go anywhere around here by themselves.” Her tone was so clipped the words sounded razored. “There’s always the risk of being caught and compromised, or having the press claim you said something you can’t deny.”

“Which means I’ve just made another beginner’s blunder.” Not bothering to keep the bitterness from his voice.

She bobbed her head, perhaps to hide a smile. “This way, please.”

Trilling was black, rail-thin, extremely well dressed, and tough. She led him into her private office, shut the door, and continued, “I miss Graham Hutchings terribly. Personally as well as politically. We were in a prayer group together. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in joining us.”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.” She gestured to her associate, a handsome silent man with the aquiline features of an Arab or North African. “This is Nabil Saad, an intern seconded to my office by the World Bank.”

Evidently the senator commanded a more senior staff than a mere congressman. “I had the impression you wanted to speak to me about something urgent.”

“That is correct. Hutchings and I were to have worked together on a Conference Committee. I don’t suppose you know anything about this.”

“Not a thing.”

Little worry lines invaded her polished image, creasing out from her mouth in rays of subsurface strain. “This is not good. The committee is a joint House-Senate group intended to reconcile two conflicting versions of the same legislation. There is a big appropriations bill coming up, very critical to both sides, over a thousand pages to cover.”

Wynn sensed the room’s tension converging about him. Two pairs of eyes, one feminine and Western, one dark and very Arab, carefully measured his reaction. Trilling went on, “One of the issues we intend to cover is known as the Jubilee Amendment.”

“Right.” So this was more of the same. Everybody probing, looking for the deal. Making sure he was bought and paid for. “Of course.”

“You’ve heard of it, then.”

“All I know is, a lot of people want to see this thing dead and gone.” Wynn rose to his feet. “Whoever appears next on your list, tell them I’ve already gotten the message.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, I think you do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lifetime of catch-up waiting back at the office.”

Trilling did not rise so much as uncoil, her lips pursed so tightly now the creases ran up both sides of her nose. “Quite frankly, Congressman, I find your manner disappointing. This is a critical issue.”

“Aren’t they all.”

“Don’t you even want to know where we stand?”

“Couldn’t care less.”

She moved swiftly, blocked the door with her body, and hissed, “I don’t know who you think you are, mister, but a warning to the wise. I’ve dined on upstart freshman from both chambers for years.”

Wynn jerked on the doorknob, giving her a choice to move out of the way or be knocked flat. He said in parting, “I’ve always despised politicians who’ve grown slick as bazaar salesmen.”

“I’ll make sure you regret your attitude and your words both.”

“Not near as much,” Wynn replied, already crossing the outer office, “as I regret being here at all.”

W
YNN REENTERED THE SUNLIGHT, still smoldering. He searched his pockets and pulled out his cellphone, then grew angrier still at how natural the action was. He had not used one since his wife died, not since the sale of his company, not since his last day in court. All three soul-wrenching blows had come in the same month, and in that order.

He and Dianne had been filing the separation papers when she was taken ill. Wynn had returned home and played the dedicated husband for eleven grueling months. Esther Hutchings, Dianne’s closest friend, had been one of the few who had not approved of his actions. Of course, nothing Wynn could do would ever have been proper in Esther’s eyes. She had loathed him with undisguised bitterness, and at Dianne’s funeral had publicly accused him of causing his wife’s death. Two weeks after the funeral, Jackson Taylor had finally made a firm offer for Wynn’s company. Wynn had never thought making money could be so hard, never understood all the warnings about the price of success. Not until the day he had signed the documents, then turned up in court to hear his attorneys announce they were dropping all charges. Wynn had found himself wishing there were some way to shout his denial. He had walked away from the courtroom a free and solitary man, with utterly nothing to fill his days or his soul’s gaping wounds. Swearing then and there he would never care so much for anything ever again.

“Congressman Bryant’s office.”

“It’s me. Wynn.” He stepped back into the shadows of the Senate office building. “Who in our office is handling this Jubilee Amendment?”

“I believe Carter is holding those files.”

“Perfect.” He glanced at his watch. “I’m headed over to the White House now.”

“Your meeting’s been changed to the OEOB.”

Wynn started to ask what that was, then decided he’d rather reveal his ignorance to a taxi driver. “Have Carter meet me in the lobby.”

He clicked off, then dialed another number from memory. He still had some fury to vent, and his sister was scheduled to have arrived back from Ecuador that morning. Her convenient absence throughout the campaign had rankled deeply.

“The governor’s mansion.”

“Is Sybel Wells back yet?”

“Who is calling?”

“This is her brother, Wynn.”

“Of course, Congressman. She arrived about three hours ago. I believe she’s in her office. One moment, please.”

A pair of clicks, then, “Wynn? I was going to call you tonight—”

“What have you gotten me into here, Sybel?”

“Just a moment.” She spoke in low tones to someone else, then, “All right. What’s the matter?”

“I’m trapped up here in Washington. I’m drowning in bureaucratic garbage. Everybody is an enemy with an agenda I don’t understand.”

“Not everybody.”

He hated her calm, tight control. “Jackson Taylor is here, Sybel.”

“Of course he is. He’s the chairman of your party.”

“He asked to see me. Just to make sure I’d drop the Jubilee Amendment. You know what that is?”

“Certainly.”

“Did you also know Grant ordered me to kill it?”

“Grant told you that?” A pause, then, “So that’s why he didn’t fight my idea any more than he did.”

“Wait, it gets better. Grant threatened me, Sybel. He said he’d go public with our funds transfer—”

“Stop right there.” It was her turn for panic. “You’re a congressman now, do you understand me? You’re calling the
governor’s mansion.”

“All right. Fine.”

“I’ll deal with Grant. You deal with Washington.”

“I don’t think I can.” A wrenching confession.

“Deal with it, Wynn.” Revealing her core of stainless Sybel steel. “I’ve got to go.”

T
HE DRIVER was from Outer Slombonia and drove a taxi that smelled like an imported camel. But even he knew what OEOB stood for, or at least he took off as soon as Wynn repeated the letters. Only they soon became caught in a long, simmering Pennsylvania Avenue traffic jam. Wynn glanced at his watch and saw he was soon to be late for his first appointment with White House personnel. He leaned forward to repeat, “OEOB?”

“Is Old Executive Office Building just there.” A swarthy finger pointed at the appendage attached to the White House’s right side. “You are walking maybe, yes?”

“Absolutely.” He paid and started hoofing it down the sidewalk. Someone should hand out a booklet to all incoming politicians, he mused, something entitled Welcome To The City That Will Eat You Whole. He glanced at his watch, started sprinting.

The OEOB was the kind of building Wynn might have enjoyed researching for a couple of days, entering only when he could greet it properly. This had become a habit of his in the first empty days, studying up thoroughly before diving into any new experience. The OEOB’s exterior invited that kind of study, a palace of age and dignity, an appropriate home to federal power. But Wynn was running to somebody else’s schedule now. He took only a moment to stand with a group of tourists, gasping for breath and combing his hair with his fingers while they flashed their video cameras. When they moved on, so did he.

Carter Styles was in the lobby waiting for him, and for once the man looked right at home. The lobby was utterly without charm, a monument to just how awful a job bureaucrats could do. Take one incredibly beautiful building and remodel the entry with a plywood security desk, steel-reinforced doors, and institutional gray-green paint. Fill the stone-walled chamber with echoes of self-important people, clanging metal detectors, ringing phones, and crashing security locks. Light it poorly with asylum-style hanging fluorescents. Welcome to the machine.

Carter Styles displayed a charm as paltry as the lobby’s. He showed his driver’s license to the guard, gave the name of their host, passed his briefcase through security, and marched Wynn down a high-ceilinged hall. All without speaking a word to his new boss.

The President’s gophers were a pair of quietly intense midlevels. A young man in an ill-fitting suit and checked wool tie met them in an outer office as cramped as Wynn’s, and led them into another tight cubicle. Only this one had an utterly awesome view of the White House, seen through the brushwork of new leaves. As Wynn gaped, the trio exchanged tight little smirks.

“We’re so grateful you could grant us a few moments of your time, Congressman. Why don’t you have a seat over here.” The spokesperson, Harriet something, was a tightly unattractive package with burning hazel eyes and a bulky knit suit. “Could we ask you what you have planned for this weekend and the Easter recess that follows?”

“I’ve got a little catching up to do.”

“We were wondering if we could ask you to represent the administration at a pair of international finance conferences.” The woman’s preppy tone managed to turn the request into a slur. “Apparently Congressman Hutchings was an official sponsor of both events. The first one takes place this Saturday in College Park, that’s about an hour’s drive from here. Congressman Hutchings was pressuring the President to attend. But you must already be aware of this.”

Wynn resisted the urge to turn and glare at Carter. “Is the President going?”

“Unfortunately he has meetings scheduled at Camp David. The Treasury secretary is also involved. The President thought you might make a natural replacement.”

The young man spoke up. “You’re no doubt aware of the Easter Conference. The Jubilee 2000 assembly in Cairo has been one of Hutchings’ pet projects for over a year.”

“He’s deluged the entire city with papers on this subject,” the woman agreed.

Wynn said slowly, “Cairo.”

The woman registered surprise. “You weren’t aware of this?”

Carter pointed out, “This is the congressman’s first day on the job.”

“It’s no big deal, Congressman,” the young man said. “If you refuse, it won’t cause an international crisis.”

“As far as this administration is concerned, the debt-relief issue is dead in the water,” the woman agreed. “Something we never could get Hutchings to understand.”

“Obviously the President wouldn’t expect someone fresh on the Washington scene to drop everything and fly off to the ends of the world,” the young man added. “Especially for a non-starter like debt relief. We were told to sound you out. Nothing more.”

“The College Park Conference is equally back burner,” the woman agreed. “According to our read on the situation, attendance will be limited to the sort who don’t matter.”

“We’re doubtful it will even get a mention in the national papers.”

“Anything the press considers below the event horizon definitely is not going to raise this administration’s flags.”

Wynn rose to his feet. “This has been most enlightening.”

The young man said, “So we can tell the President you won’t be attending?”

“College Park sounds fine.” If for no other reason than to do the opposite of what this snide pair expected. He headed for the door, not caring whether Carter was with him or not. “Cairo is definitely out.”

Wynn passed through the dismal lobby and rejoined the tourist hordes, just another Washington suit. When Carter caught up Wynn demanded, “Exactly when were you planning on telling me about all this?”

His chief aide shot back, “You made a big mistake back there. And it cost us.”

“Would it be too much trouble to put me in the loop here?”

“Big mistake.” Carter stopped on a relatively quiet stretch of sidewalk and glared at his new boss. He was unattractive in a distinctly Florida cracker manner—piggy eyes, curly reddish hair going patchily bald, sizable gut. Utterly un-Washington in appearance, wearing a rumpled blue blazer, button-down Oxford shirt, stained tie, pressed chinos. “You missed out on a chance to score by asking for something in return.”

“That’s what was behind this, they wanted to size me up?” The slow burn intensified. “I’ll do better next time.”

Carter snorted and turned away. “That was your one and only. You’ve now been dismissed as somebody who’ll be gone before you matter.”

“I’m not through here,” Wynn said, his voice sharp enough to command Carter’s full attention. “What’s going on with this Jubilee Amendment?”

“What difference does it make? You’re just a caretaker, right?”

“I want to know.”

“Don’t bother. It’s totally over your head.” Carter’s sneer finally surfaced. “Eighteen months of embassy parties and scoring with the power groupies, and you’re extinct.”

Wynn watched in amazement as the man walked away, dismissing his own boss as he would a bad smell. Unbelievable. Wynn no longer cared whether the party chairman had an ulterior motive for wanting Carter Styles gone. The man was definitely history.