The Inner Sanctum (17 page)

After the couple passed, Webb stopped for a moment and looked up at the trees in the eerie glow of a streetlamp. 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 nervous. 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 nonvio-lent 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 reverend was unsympathetic. "He is a United States senator. One of the most recognized black men in this country. He needs to give us respect, publicly."

Holmes said nothing. Pitts had broken into his sermon voice, and Holmes knew this was a subtle signal not to interrupt.

"Walker likes the title 'senator'--no, cherishes it," Pitts interrupted himself, "and all that goes with it. Derek, LFA has become a most powerful organization in Maryland, the state that gives him the title of senator. I could turn many of his voters against him, at least half a million, and take the title away. He is in a dead heat with Coleman right now. If he lost LFA, he would lose his seat. He must realize that I hold the power, not him. All I ask is that he give us the respect we are due."

Holmes was tired of this conversation. They had engaged in it one way or another every day for the last week. "Why do you want him in your pocket so badly?"

"Because of what he could do for us. Think of it."

"Reverend, we've done fine without him so--"

"He could take us to the next level," Pitts interrupted the younger man. "He could bring us into the major leagues. Perhaps help us go national. He should be doing all he can to help his people."

"I think he is, but he needs to win the election to keep doing that. That is how he can best serve us."