The Inner Sanctum (5 page)

A wave of resentment coursed through David, but he managed to keep his temper in check.

Mohler removed another piece of paper from his notebook. "I have a graph here you gave me when you presented the GEA investment idea. It shows that you believed GEA stock would be at fifty dollars a share by now. That we'd make a billion dollars and double our money. Instead we've lost a hundred and twenty million. At least on paper. What's going on?" Mohler was quickly becoming angry.

Once a month they went through this over the GEA investment, and every month Mohler's criticism grew sharper. "You know, Art, I think--"

"GEA is going nowhere." Mohler didn't allow David to finish. "The defense industry continues to shrink, and the company hasn't won a major Pentagon contract in three years. It's time to jettison this position. Call the investment banks. Call our people at Alex Brown and Goldman Sachs. See what they can do for us. It's a big position, but maybe they can arrange a couple of private trades."

"What?" It was the first time Mohler had instructed David to actually sell the stock. And the directive couldn't have come at a worse time. "We can't get out now."

Mohler rose from the couch. "What if GEA's stock price drops further? We'll totally blow this year's earnings. Do you think this is funny money or something? Because it isn't. This is real money we're losing," he yelled. "Big money."

"I don't think it's funny money at all. I remember very well what I predicted for GEA when I pitched this idea to you two and a half years ago, and I know it hasn't happened yet," David said, standing up. "And I'm telling you, there's no one more upset about it at this firm than me." He leaned over the desk. "But I don't need you coming in here once a month reminding me that the stock keeps going down. I'd like to be out of the position too, but we'd slit our own throats getting out at this point. I don't know about you, but I don't want to take a hundred-and- twenty-million- dollar loss."

"Well, you'd better do something!" Mohler's eyes bulged.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen." Elizabeth Gilman's cotton-soft voice floated into the office.

Instinctively both men stepped back. Elizabeth was the firm's senior, managing, and founding partner. Among the three individuals on the executive committee, her vote on matters of importance counted much more than that of either Mohler or its third member, Martin Broadbent. She did not approve of heated conversations, as she called them, on the premises. It wasn't how privileged people ought to act, she would say.

"Hello, Elizabeth." Mohler was suddenly reserved.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Gilman," David said politely.

Elizabeth smiled. "David, you've been here four years. I appreciate the respect, but you need to start calling me by my first name. Otherwise you're going to give me a complex and make me start feeling my age. And that wouldn't be a good thing."

"All right . . . Elizabeth."

She smiled again. "Wonderful. Now let's all try to get along. It's a big sandbox and there's plenty of room to play in it without getting in each other's way. If we do happen to have a little disagreement, let's settle it in a more civilized fashion."

Both men nodded.

Elizabeth turned to leave, then leaned back into the office. "How is your mother, David?"

"Fine, thank you, Elizabeth."

"Please tell her I said hello."

"I will."

"Very good." She walked from the office.

David watched her go. She was a lovely lady. The only senior executive at Sagamore who didn't get caught up in the pressure and take out frustrations on others.

Mohler made certain Elizabeth was out of earshot, then pointed at the younger man. "Remember what I told you, David. Get us out of the GEA position. Hawk it on the street corner if you have to, but get us out," he said, then stalked from the office.

David put his hands on the desk and let his chin drop slowly. Tomorrow had to go well.

"Head up, kid. Just play the game."

David glanced up. Nash Sollers, one of the older portfolio managers, stood in the doorway. "What?"

"It's all part of the game, son. Just do what they want. You'll be okay."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing specific, everything in general. Be smart and all will be fine." Sollers walked away.

David was tempted to follow and press Sollers for answers. But there wouldn't be any. There never were.

** Chapter 4

The house, a quaint brick abode surrounded by tall oak trees, was set atop a gentle rise overlooking the Severn River. Fifteen miles to the south, the Severn met the Chesapeake Bay at Annapolis, site of the United States Naval Academy. In the summer, even at this late hour, the river would still be a buzz of activity there, clogged with pleasure crafts, fishing boats, and Navy vessels. But here the river was quiet.

Moonlight played across the Severn's glassy surface. Ospreys peered silently down from the treetops searching for prey. And the only sounds were the rustle of leaves as a gentle breeze made its way upriver and the occasional crash of talons through salt water as one of the ospreys found its mark, then shrieked hauntingly as it lifted away from the surface with the fish snared in its viselike grip.

Jesse stood on the darkened porch, shivering despite the heat of the summer night. It was all exactly as the E-mail had explained. Neil Robinson was dead. The combination to locker 73 at the Greyhound bus station in downtown Baltimore had been 22-31-7. Inside the locker had been a small key. And the key had opened the front door to the house at 6 Gull Road.

Neil had been a wonderful manager, and a good friend. A man who had given her confidence that she was as capable as anyone. Now he was gone and she would miss him terribly.

He had sent the message to her through the local network, Jesse assumed, via the option in the branch's central computer that allowed supervisors to transmit electronic mail on a delayed basis. A message from the grave requesting her aid. He had helped her many times. Now, as frightened as she was to be here, she would help him.

Jesse stepped toward the door, then hesitated. She glanced around. The lights of the closest house, a quarter of a mile away, glowed eerily through the trees. Another shiver raced up her spine.

Get hold of yourself, she thought. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and moved into the house, clicking on the flashlight she had brought with her from the car. She felt dampness between her fingers as she pushed the plastic switch. The fur-lined leather gloves encasing her fingers were causing her hands to perspire heavily.

Jesse was wearing gloves so as not to leave fingerprints, she was using a flashlight so no one would know she was in the house, and she had parked in a small grove of pine trees in a secluded area a half mile down Gull Road from Neil's house so no one would see the car--and its license plate. All of this she had done just in case there was something to the ominous tone of Robinson's message.

A heavy scent of cedar reached her as she moved into the house. She pointed the flashlight straight ahead. Cedar walls. She played the light about the place quickly. The room was cozy, and tastefully furnished. Sadness overwhelmed her again at the thought of Neil's body lying cold in the morgue. Stop it, she told herself. Grieve later. Get in and get out of here as fast as you can.

There was a desk in the den just as Robinson's E-mail had described. She moved to it quickly. She had to get out of here. She had a strange feeling that something was wrong. That danger lurked.

The desk's lower left-hand drawer slid back easily on its rollers. She pointed the soft light down into the drawer. As the message had indicated, there was a file inside. She picked up the manila folder quickly, opened it, and glanced at the first two words. "Dear Jesse." She read no further. This was clearly the right file, and she would finish it later in a safer place.

Gordon Roth moved through the open front door of 6 Gull Road, the .44 caliber Magnum drawn before him. His night vision goggles made navigation easy, and he headed immediately toward the back of the small house. It was there that he had detected the faint glow of a flashlight through the window during his reconnaissance of the property. Somehow, someone had beaten him to this place. Someone who was trying to hide his or her presence, and therefore must be searching for the same thing he was after. But it didn't matter. The person wouldn't be alive much longer.

Adrenaline coursed through Roth's body, but not at a fever pitch. He had learned over the years to control the flow. He could regulate it, like fuel to an engine, as needed. He had the element of surprise on his side, so he did not need to be in attack mode. He did not require the high-octane pulse--not yet, anyway. With a moderate flow he was better able to assess the situation and calculate the attack. Only at the last instant would he unleash his full fury.

He licked his lips as he pressed his back against the wall just outside the den's doorway. Death. It fascinated him. He had made a practice of staring into the victims' dying eyes. To try to comprehend what they were enduring as the last breath rushed from their lungs and their eyes rolled back. Roth killed because that was what they required of him--and because he liked it.

He closed his eyes and allowed the adrenaline to flow more freely. The target was close now. Like a predator, he sensed the prey in the night without actually seeing it.

Calmly Roth held the gun up before his face, both hands clasped around the handle so the barrel pointed vertically, toward the ceiling. Adrenaline began to pour into his system now. It was over. The victim was helpless.

In one motion he pushed off the wall, brought the Magnum down, turned the corner, and moved smoothly through the doorway of the den.

** Chapter 5

Carter Webb--Georgia Republican, senior member of the powerful Senate Appropriations Committee and chairman of its Armed Services Subcommittee--rose stiffly from the uncomfortable wooden chair. A new welfare bill sponsored by the Democrats had become entangled in a Republican-led tax-cut proposal, and the wrangling and backroom negotiating had just begun. It was going to be a long night.

Webb walked across the thick carpet toward the door to the right of the podium. He didn't have far to go to reach the exit, because after twenty-nine years in the Senate he sat in the front row. That was the tradition in this hallowed room. The longer your tenure, the closer you sat to the Vice President and Senate Majority Leader. There had been only one major exception to that rule in the past three decades. Ted Kennedy had remained in the back row despite his decades as a member of the Senate. As a tribute to his brother, he had taken the same seat Jack had occupied as a freshman senator from Massachusetts in 1953, and he had remained in it ever since.

Webb turned right after exiting the Senate floor and moved slowly down the short hallway to the large double doors. With a shove of his shoulder, he opened the right-hand door and moved into a large waiting room, then took an immediate right into a smaller room. There he relaxed against the polished wood wall and rubbed his aching neck, enjoying the solitude.

It was quiet here, away from the melee. Away from the fighting between the damned bleeding hearts, who wanted to make it easier for the inner-city poor to receive food stamps, and his money-grubbing brethren, who wanted to make poor people pay more taxes. Ten years ago, even five, he would have been in the middle of the fray, waging war on the tax-and- spend do-gooders. But now, in the twilight of his career, he was more conscious of conserving energy and picking his battles carefully.

"Good evening, Senator."

Webb glanced to his left through the dim light. The speaker was Phil Rhodes, a small man who struck Webb as too boorish to handle his high-profile job. But there was no arguing Rhodes's success. Over the years he had become one of the most recognized defense-industry lobbyists in Washington. General Dynamics, Lockheed Martin, and McDonnell Douglas constantly called on his services to help them land big Defense Department contracts.

"How the hell did you get in here?" Webb asked. "I thought the Capitol Police had closed this area off for the night."

Rhodes shook the senator's hand as an underboss would the hand of a Mafia don--gently, with his head bowed slightly forward. The senator--a member of the Armed Services Appropriations Subcommittee for twenty-six years and its chairman for the last fifteen--could make or break the fortunes of a defense contractor. Those defense contractors kept Rhodes in Armani suits and Gucci shoes, so he would kiss Webb's ring if it would help win business.

"I think they did close it off, but I'm on a first-name basis with most members of the Capitol Police. I'm going to be putting a lot of their kids through college, so they cut me a little slack." Rhodes spoke in a high-pitched Brooklyn accent.

Webb smiled for a moment. The sad thing was that the crack about paying for college probably held some truth--not that Rhodes would personally foot the bill. That tab would be picked up by the defense firms for which he lobbied.

"How's it going in there tonight, Senator?"

"A pain in the ass, as usual."

"I see. It's too bad you can't head back to Georgia to do some campaigning as a means of getting away from all of that." Rhodes motioned toward the doorway and the Senate floor beyond. "But I guess campaigning isn't really necessary." Webb's reelection was a foregone conclusion. He was an institution in the Senate.