45
Wednesday
J
ACKIE SAT OUTSIDE the prison gates, studying them as she would the doors of death itself. The prison parking lot was surrounded by a high stand of loblolly pine, shielding the Beeline Expressway drivers from all but a fleeting glimpse of chain link and glinting razor wire. Jackie listened to the whispered wail of her own heart. Start the motor, back out of the lot, take the entrance ramp in either direction. Put some solid distance between herself and the most idiotic thought that had ever entered her brain.
Why she had made such a preposterous offer to Eric she could not begin to say. Every ounce of logic told her there was still time, she could go back and heft that sack of cash and name it her very own far-away fund. But despite her finest arguments and the rising cry of her own heart, she started toward the gate and the line of visitors passing through security.
The same guard was there doing escort duty. “Figured you for somebody who’d said all her good-byes.”
“So did I.”
He moved ahead of her down the path. His belt creaked in time to his steps, and his keys and baton jangled like alarms of coming flames. “You see it all in this game. People can get stuck on just about anything, they try hard enough.” He pushed open the metal door leading to the front hall. “Start seeing pain as just another part of their day, instead of a wake-up call to make tracks. You hear what I’m saying?”
This time Shane was already waiting for her. Which made leaving the guard’s safety and walking over all the more difficult. She covered the distance to the table as if she were scaling a ninety-degree incline. He waited for her to sit down to say, “I’ve been hoping you’d come back. There’s so much more I wanted—”
“Eric Driscoll has fifty-three thousand dollars he’s been stowing away for when you get out of prison. The only way he’ll help me is if you forget the money and agree to let him go.” It wasn’t even close to the smoothness she needed. But the bile in her throat caught all the right words and stripped them down to a slurred rush. She fumbled in her purse, drew out the envelope, forced her fingers to pull free the single page and flatten it on the table between them. “I want you to sign this.”
He read the few sentences, stating unequivocally that Eric Driscoll had nothing whatsoever to do with Shane’s embezzlement, and anything stated to the contrary was merely a lie. She could run it by the office afterward and have a friend supply the notary stamp—a small crime compared to what she was doing to herself right now.
Shane kept his head down long enough for Jackie to begin fearing one of the old explosions, when the rage spewed like acid. She reached into her purse and pulled out the pen, wishing it were something far more substantial. A machete, maybe. Or an Uzi.
But when Shane spoke, it was in a cautious manner that was not his own and never had been. “He’s right, you know. I didn’t turn him in because I wanted somebody there to pave my way back to easy street.”
He raised his gaze then. And revealed no rage. Resignation, maybe. Bitter regret. A trace of longing. But all he said was, “Can I use that?”
Numb fingers dropped the pen on the table. Not wanting to make the slightest contact with this man. “I don’t understand you.”
“I’m not surprised.” He scrawled his name along the page’s bottom. Penned in his social security number. “Not much in my past for you to hang this on.”
She grabbed the paper away, folded it, and jammed it inside the envelope. She had to fight off the urge to leap up and away. “Why are you doing this?”
His eyes had always been his best feature, that and his ability to lie with grace. “It wasn’t for you. Not just, anyway.”
Jackie used both hands to rise. All her strength was captured by the words boiling up inside. The words she couldn’t choke off, no matter how much she tried. When they emerged, it was the sound of a strangled intruder who gasped, “I accept your apology.”
She turned and fled, moving so fast she had to wait for the guard to catch up and unlatch the barrier. Which gave her time to glance back. Shane was still seated at the table, staring down at his folded hands.
46
Wednesday
T
HE MORNING WAS so gray even the Capitol’s garden was muted, the flowers only slightly more tinted than the surrounding granite. All the trees wore minty adornments. The air tasted of diesel and conflict and coming rain.
Outside the Dirksen Senate Office Building’s largest committee room, Wynn found Father Libretto in tight-knit conversation with Kay Trilling and Carter Styles. As soon as he spotted Wynn, the priest disengaged from the others and approached with hand outstretched. “Congressman Bryant, forgive me for interrupting your morning.”
“You’re not interrupting, and the name is Wynn.”
“Wynn.” The priest spoke his name like a gift he had himself received. “I cannot tell you how sorry I am about Sybel. How are you?”
“Struggling.”
The priest scarcely moved, yet gave the impression of bowing with his entire body. Up and down, a slow rocking that took him a distance of scarcely an inch in either direction. A movement of spirit and mind, not of flesh. “Sometimes God can only capture our attention when we have been stripped down to our very bones. People spend so much time asking, how did this happen, and why to me? I have no answer for them, except to ask another question. It is the role of priests sometimes, not to give answers but to show how to seek through tears. How to search out what is there, yet remains hidden. Even when it is painful, yes, even when the emptiness eats at you like an abyss.”
Wynn licked his lips. Knew the others were watching, measuring him. “What question should I be asking, then.”
“Oh, I think you already know. You are a very intelligent man, very perceptive. You know the words. Having me say them will not make finding the answer any easier.” Father Libretto patted Wynn’s shoulder, the benediction of a caring friend. He lowered his arm and dropped a card into Wynn’s coat pocket. “My role is that of servant and messenger to all drawn into service. You may call on me at any time.”
Kay stepped forward but continued to watch the priest’s departing back. “I’ve always been comforted by the extreme promises of faith. The healing of wounds seen and unseen. Eternal salvation. Love and peace even here, in a town run by blind ambition.” She looked at him then, her gaze guarded. “It all boils down to one thing. Are you still searching for the chance to tell your sister what a fool you’ve been? Or are you finally at the point where you want to speak the words to someone else?”
Wynn swallowed around a suddenly dry throat. It cost him, but he kept a lock on her gaze.
Even so, Kay took his silence as defeat and turned away. “See how simple it is?”
T
HE COMMITTEE CHAMBER was very imposing, very Roman. The royal purple carpet was bordered with silver-gray laurels, as were the drapes. The ceilings were forty feet high and tiled with indirect lighting. The walls, curved into a pointed oval, were lined by mahogany columns and fronted by curved rows of desks. Kay took the committee chairman’s seat, flanked by flags and the oil portrait of a long-dead power broker. The place had the burned-powder scent of previous battles.
Carter indicated Wynn’s seat by standing behind it. Kay rapped for attention, then began a drone that she could keep up all day. Only seven of the fourteen seats were taken. The rest of the room was empty, save for a scattering of aides.
Wynn motioned Carter forward and asked, “What am I doing here?”
Carter’s voice was pitched for Wynn’s ears alone. “This is an omnibus appropriations bill. Ten thousand pages. The president considers it a take-it or leave-it bill, which means every congressman, every senator, and every lobbyist was out to make attachments. We hope we’ve been able to slip this in without raising too much of a stink.”
“What do you want me to do now?”
“Sit tight. This won’t last long. The Conference Committee has an equal number of senators and congressmen, and their job is to iron out the differences between the House and Senate versions of this bill. Once we’ve constructed the final version, the two chambers will vote on it again. Staffers have been gathering for a couple of weeks now, defining all the areas where there’s no real conflict. That’s taken care of sixty, maybe even seventy percent of the issues. Tomorrow the committee members will begin hammering out the divisive points.”
While Carter was speaking, Kay banged her gavel to adjourn the meeting. She rose from her seat, shook a few hands, then aimed for Wynn. He braced himself for another onslaught of unanswered challenges, but all she said was, “Is it true you’re living at the Willard?”
“That’s right.”
“A suite?”
“For the moment.”
“Do us all a favor. Move. You want to stay in a hotel, go someplace that won’t make such a splash on the six o’clock news.”
“It’s my money, Kay.”
“There’s nothing the press would love more than a photo of you getting out of a limo at the Willard with a pretty girl on your arm. I can see the caption now. Fat cat Wynn Bryant, so out of touch with his district he thinks a thousand dollar suite is real life.”
“You really think it’ll come to that?”
She gave him a look of brittle experience. “Try the Four Seasons. Nothing but a brick wall to shoot. Could be anyplace.”
A
S SOON AS Wynn entered his office, his secretary announced, “The governor’s office is on line two.”
“Right on time,” Carter said.
“You knew about this?”
“He caught me before the committee hearing. Yelled at me for a couple of minutes since you weren’t in range. I figured there was no need to worry you in advance.” When Wynn showed no interest in picking up the phone, he went on, “Sooner or later you’re going to have to let him sing his tune.”
The governor’s assistant, whom Wynn had known for more than ten years, treated him like an utter stranger. Or a pariah. “Hold for the governor.”
But when Grant came on the line, there was none of the screaming Wynn dreaded. The man’s voice was barely above a whisper. “Do you have any idea the kind of storm you’ve raised for yourself?”
“Just doing my job, Grant.”
“Your job. What about our agreement?”
“What about your responsibilities to my sister?”
He hit a high note then. “You leave Sybel out of this!”
“Afraid I can’t do that. Which you know as well as I do.”
“Go on up to Washington, I said. Have yourself a high old time. Sign a few bills, get your picture taken with the powers that be, meet some fine big-city ladies. Vote down one piece of legislation. Keep your nose clean until I got myself elected to the top club in the world. Was that so much to ask?”
“Yes, Grant. It was.”
“Well, this here’s your demolition notice. They’re coming after you. And when they’re done, we’ll be hard pressed to find a greasy stain.”
“Who’s behind this, Hayek?”
“That name happens to belong to one of my top supporters. You can’t possibly be implying he’d be mixed up in anything as nasty as what’s going to happen to you.”
Wynn countered, “You don’t have any trouble being the spokesman for the same group that murdered your wife?”
Another hard breath, then the phone slammed down.
“That wasn’t too bad,” Carter observed from his place by the door. “I don’t see any singed hair.”
Wynn swiveled his chair around to face the window. Through the sunlit curtain he could just make out the stone wall across the courtyard. Trapped in a cage of his own making.
Carter said, “They’ve got something on you, don’t they.”
47
Thursday
J
IM BURKE SPRAWLED in the corner of his patio Jacuzzi, a drink the color of a tropical depression at his elbow. He felt as lifeless as the pictures he had seen in the development’s brochure—the couple seated just exactly where he was, strong-limbed and empty-headed, giving each other these full-tooth smiles. As if being here was the answer to every problem they’d ever had. He sipped from his glass, grimaced, and pushed it away. Since coming in with Hayek, these were the first free days he had taken while the trading floor was open. He absolutely loathed it. The world was spinning, the markets were flying, and he was trapped in a concrete square that made its own bubbles.
When his phone rang, Burke checked his watch. Right on time. He punched the button and said, “Burke.”
“Thorson here.” The man sounded suitably wired for somebody who had been taken from the cellar and launched into multibillion dollar orbit. “The senior trader’s had a phone-in order. Hayek’s group wants to buy another three-fifty worth of dollar-yen. That puts them a hundred million over the current Interbank limit.”
“Let me check with headquarters and get back to you.” Burke hung up the phone, leaned back, and imagined all the action he was missing. He felt the absence in his gut, a hunger that burned so bad he’d willingly swallow acid just to give it a physical name.
The Central Markets department of First Florida was in absolute chaos. This he knew from Brant Anker. Burke closed his eyes and saw it like he was there, standing in the corner, feeding off the frenzy. Thirty-seven traders operating in a space maxed out at twenty. Everybody sweating and screaming and moving money in great heaping piles. He understood why Hayek had ordered him to lie low and monitor activities from a distance. Thorson needed time to get used to his position as board member and top man. During this start-up phase, their Interbank line would be nudged up in three hundred million dollar increments. Enough to be noticed, but not enough to cause alarm. Not when they were literally awash with money. A billion had been injected so far. Double that in forty-eight hours. Another billion the next day. Then the big hit. Five billion more.
Burke decided he had waited long enough. He called Thorson back. “That’s a go on the three-fifty in yen.”
“Right.” Thorson was too experienced a trader to let much of his ebullience show. But it was there just the same. “I’ve had six calls from the Interbank crowd so far this morning. More than I’d usually have in a month. People asking what’s going on. I’m giving it to them straight, just like you said. At least so far as the money is concerned. Nothing about the new owner.”
“Good.”
“When they hear we’ve lined up Brazilian money, the envy starts pouring down the line.” Thorson sounded tightly jubilant. “Had three offers so far this morning to raise the size of our Interbank lines.”
“Take whatever they offer. Tell your senior trader to use it all.”
“Hang on a second.” The trader paused, then came back with, “The bank’s very own personal pachyderm has just entered the room. He looks hot.”
That would be Robert Carlton the Fifth. “I guess you better put him on.”
There was the shuffling of a phone being passed, then the fruity voice of history demanding, “Is this Burke?”
“It is.”
“I want to know what you’re going to do about these security people you have camped in my front lobby!”
“It’s a temporary measure,” Burke said, not caring whether the man believed him. “Just until we get the Capital Markets sectioned off.”
“One of them refused to let me pass until I showed him my driver’s license! Those dolts are frightening off my best customers!”
“Your best customers,” Burke replied calmly, “are the ones currently pumping fresh blood into your bank. I don’t suppose you’ve heard they just placed another half-billion with your foreign exchange department this very morning.”
“I want them out of here!”
“Look. Your Capital Markets division is now dealing in highly confidential information. And they’re making your bank a ton of money. We need to ensure no one from the outside gains access.”
Carlton took a couple of heavy breaths, then crashed down the receiver.
Burke raised his glass to the sunlight and the unfolding of Hayek’s strategy.