65
Tuesday
H
AYEK’S SECRETARY WAS already gone for the day when Jim Burke knocked on the chairman’s door. There was no sound from within. He entered, wondering what he would find. The trading floor might be filled with frenetic activity, yet up here the air was usually somehow purified, as if the King had found some way of crystallizing out the sweat and the fear. Today was different, however. The air smelled tainted with a dust so fine it coated his tongue before he even spoke. “Got a minute?”
Hayek’s posture was no different. He stood at the window behind his desk, observing a tableau that on any other day would have been magnificent. The stone courtyard glistened with rain. The central lake shimmered with liquid fractures. The sky was deepest gray, except for one slit to the west where the sun lanced through. The surrounding clouds were liquid fire, and all the drops caught by the light became fairies dancing to thunder’s tune. Hayek said nothing, merely swung one hand in a fractional motion, waving Burke inside.
“I have something for you.” A strange choice of words. Like gift-wrapping a dagger. He motioned to the two people in the outer lobby. “Come on in.”
Hayek stiffened as the San Francisco trader stepped inside. Ankers’ habitual smirk had a pasted-on quality, as though borrowed from some better time. The head of security slipped in behind the trader and moved to a shadowed corner. For such a big man, Dale Crawford had an assassin’s comprehension of stealth.
Nodding toward Anker, Hayek said, “I gave strict instructions for the entire team to be kept isolated.”
“I asked him to join us. It was the only way.” Burke waited, but the chilling force Hayek could bring to bear when contradicted did not arise. Burke said to the trader, “Tell him.”
“We’ve been working for days to get inside Colin Ready’s system. But his firewalls were too solid. We couldn’t do a break-and-enter from outside.”
“What is this insanity? You bring this man in to tell me one of the men responsible for computer security is doing his job?”
Burke hesitated. Not because of his own news, but rather because of Hayek’s response. The bark was there, but not the fire. His trader’s senses sorted through the change, both in the man and in the air. And came up with the only possible option. “You already know?”
“What is there to know, that Colin Ready works as a spy? We’ve been through this before. Did you think the Brazilians and the Russians and the Japanese would simply grant us their billions and walk away?”
But there was more. Burke watched as Hayek reached into his engraved gold case for a cigar and realized the chairman sought something for his trembling fingers to hold. For the first time since entering Hayek’s world, Burke was afraid. He said to Anker, “Tell him.”
Anker swallowed hard enough for Burke to hear. “Colin Ready left early today.”
“Right after the incident with that young trader,” Burke supplied.
“We circumvented his passwords and entered using his own system,” Anker continued. “It took hours, but we finally did it. We found a message from Jackie Havilland. She claims to have one of our traders’ access codes.”
“I’ve already shut down the system,” Burke said. “We don’t know how long they’ve been in, or even if they managed to enter at all. But nobody and nothing can do it now. Tonight we’ll reconfigure the entire system. Everyone will have new passwords waiting for them in the morning.”
Hayek reached for his heavy desk lighter and made a ritual of firing up his cigar, inspecting the smoldering tip, blowing the smoke on and on for what to Burke seemed like hours. He then looked directly at Anker for the first time. “Not a word of this to anyone.”
“N-no sir. I wouldn’t dream—”
“Get out.” He held Burke in place with a stab of the cigar. When Anker was gone, he continued, “You have the article prepared?”
“Ready and waiting.”
“Plant it after the morning papers have gone to press, but in time for the news shows. They’ll leap at the chance of breaking a story this big ahead of the newspapers.” He glanced toward the corner where the security man still stood. “You have the woman’s address?”
“Already checked it out,” Crawford answered. “Just waiting for your green light.”
“Do it.”
Burke said, “I want to go with Crawford. I want to watch Colin and this Havilland woman pay.” When Hayek did not respond, Burke licked his lips and took another tiny taste of the air. He found no comfort, no assurance. Only the dust of crypts. “You were right all along. The woman was poison.”
66
Tuesday
W
HEN THEY WERE in the car, Burke said, “Give me a gun.”
Crawford glanced over and gave his patented little smile, but said nothing. He was a strange sort of man, moving in whispers to match his voice. Unfazed by anything. Watching the world with the tight leer of one who had seen and done it all.
“What, you think I can’t handle it?” Burke felt more than heat grip his gut. Anything that caused Hayek fear made serious tremors to his universe and had to be viciously stomped out. “I want—”
“It doesn’t matter what you want.” Crawford pulled the nondescript Chevy into a busy service station and killed the motor. “Guns are for making statements. Guns leave messages.”
“That’s what we want.”
“I was there same as you. I didn’t hear the man say a thing about statements. Don’t go getting slick on me, now. You hear what I’m saying?”
“These people are a genuine menace.”
“Aren’t they all.” Crawford slid from the car. He started to walk away, then leaned back down and added, “Try to remember this is just a job. Nothing more. That’s the way to stay safe.”
Burke watched Crawford enter the service station and recalled the last time he had seen him in action. Burke had gone along against Hayek’s wishes that day, not certain himself why he had wanted to be present. In fact, Burke had not been clear on why Hayek had wanted the job done at all. But when the order was passed on to Crawford, Burke had included the lie that Hayek wanted him there as a witness. Crawford had offered another of his tight-lipped smiles but said nothing at all. Leaving Burke with the sense that he knew more about what was going through Burke’s head than Burke did himself.
That particular day had been the third annual march on the IMF and World Bank general congresses in Washington, D.C. As predicted, the protest had proved far more successful than the earlier marches. They had picked up the woman as she left her apartment that frosty spring morning, then used the cover of the city’s chaos to drive downtown and enter the deserted underground garage of a hotel where Crawford had taken a room. From their rooftop perch they had watched the city become a six-mile-long street party. The police were on strict orders to maintain some semblance of control while not provoking any of the violence that had created such worldwide publicity in Seattle.
The marchers had taken the turning where Lafayette Park met Sixteenth Street. Then the leaders had turned to harangue the protesters and amp up the volume. Burke had stood at a slight distance, feeding off the actions, watching and learning. For the first time he had noticed how Crawford’s eyes were a washed-out brown, like the man was sparse even with color. His smile was the worst thing about him.
Crawford was smiling then, as he held the woman there at the roof’s edge. From where Burke stood, he could hear the crowd down below but could not see them. The lip of the roof protruded just far enough to block his view of the street. Lisa Wrede had shown remarkable poise for a woman on the brink of dissolution. She had refused to look directly at either of them, staring instead up at the sky with an intensity that for some reason left Burke shivering.
The rally cheered the spokesman with the bullhorn. From this height, the clamor sawed the crisp air, adding an extra force to the day’s events. The drums and noisemakers and whistles all crashed and melded together, as though some feral beast crouched in the narrow stone cavern and roared for its next meal.
Crawford glanced at Burke and spoke to him for the first time. “Stand well back, now. We don’t want them hippy-dippies seeing anybody but the missy here.”
He then gripped the corner of the tape sealing her mouth. Burke heard the ripping sound, watched as Lisa Wrede winced but said nothing, as if she had already left such mundane things as momentary pain far behind.
Crawford cut her hands loose, then took a firm grip on her arms. He tensed so that his every muscle clenched tight, right up to the cords around the edge of his jaw.
Lisa Wrede continued to stare up at the sky, as though fascinated with the clouds.
The man moved in close enough to fill her vision with a pockmarked leer. “Be a good girl, now. Give us your very best scream.”
She blinked once, and returned her gaze to the sky. In a small voice, she spoke then. Saying only, “Oh God, you are my God.”
The words seemed to convulse Crawford, so that he recoiled from her rather than flinging her forward. Lisa Wrede flew out and over the lip.
Burke was himself drawn forward. He had a single momentary glimpse of the truly enormous crowd below. Then gentle fingers of air and wind turned Lisa Wrede about, so that she could glimpse the sky once more. Her clothes opened up around her, like shadows of unseen wings.
B
URKE WATCHED CRAWFORD load two five-gallon plastic containers of gasoline into the trunk. The security chief then drove in a seemingly aimless pattern before halting a second time at another busy service station. When Crawford returned with two more filled canisters, Burke got out of the car. Crawford lifted them into the trunk and said merely, “Lot of old houses around Winter Park. Nothing burns fast as cured cypress.”
Burke said nothing, his gaze held by what else the trunk contained. A thin leather satchel revealed a precision rifle with a long-distance scope, and a blanket was wrapped around three ax handles. Crawford gave him another of those tightly knowing smiles and said merely, “Can’t hurt to be ready for whatever comes.”
They parked down the street from Jackie Havilland’s residence. The rain had stopped momentarily. All the world smelled of cool wet earth. Crawford led them unerringly around the main house and along the gravel drive. Silently Crawford directed Burke to walk on the grassy verge to mask their footfalls.
Burke stood alongside the lanky man and stared up at the garage apartment. Lights blazed from every window. He could distinctly hear two voices, one male, one female. A young man shouted the single word, “Amazing!” It was enough to identify him as Colin Ready. Burke started for the stairs.
Crawford stopped Burke with an iron grip. He walked over, pressed cautiously on the bottom step, then pulled back as soon as the old wood creaked. Crawford raised a warning finger at Burke before vanishing into the night.
Soon enough he was back with two canisters gripped in each hand. He refused to let Burke take one. Crawford sloshed gasoline all over the stairs, then reached as high as he could and set an open canister down upon the step. When the stair creaked faintly, the two men stared up at the backlit screen door, but saw nothing save the yellowed ceiling. The voices continued to chatter away inside.
Swiftly Crawford poured a trail of gasoline around the base of the walls. He pitched the liquid up and over the two shed doors, then moved around the corner and emptied the final unopened canister directly beneath the narrow balcony. Burke nodded understanding. The man had directed the second flash point below the only other avenue of escape.
Crawford pulled Burke back to the steps, reached into his pocket and handed over a book of matches. The man reeked of gas. Burke would have to light the fire.
Burke’s heart hammered as hard as it ever did on the trading room floor. Another high discovered. He flicked a match and sent it flashing onto the stairs.
The flames started with a quiet little whoosh, a tiny puff Burke felt as much as heard. No heat, just a soft light that danced about the shed, moving so easily it was hard to realize just how fast the flames were spreading.
Crawford punched his shoulder, jabbing a finger at the night and the street. Burke shook his head and turned back to watch the flames.
Crawford gripped his arm and tugged. Burke ripped his arm free and kept his eyes on the fire.
Crawford hissed once, then turned and ran.
An instant later, Burke heard a car motor start and tires squeal. But he did not turn away. Already the flames were growing so hot he had to back off, drawing into the shadows now cast by the surrounding trees. Then the fuel canister at the back of the house caught with an enormous
whoosh
. Flames shot up higher than the roof. From inside, voices rose in alarm. Burke moved farther into the grove. He heard a siren in the background, then another. He continued moving away, but not too fast. He stumbled over a root and almost went down. Still he kept his gaze upon the apartment. Waiting for the screams.
67
Tuesday
T
HE DAY WAS so busy Wynn could not keep up, not even with himself. Radio, television, newspapers, magazines—he refused no one. The unaccustomed nature of the task left him shattered, even when he was merely adding his own punch to lines from the files. Carter’s features became folded in upon themselves with worry, and the other staffers eyed his appearances with genuine anxiety. He took it as a compliment and soldiered on.
Several times during the day, the question was raised, had he broken the law? Wynn brushed it aside, insisting they remain focused on the Hutchings Amendment. To his surprise, they did not insist, leaving him with the impression that they were chasing nothing more than unsubstantiated rumor. So far. He spent the afternoon waiting for the incoming stealth missile, the one that could not be deflected.
But when Kay called at half-past six, it had not yet arrived. “You’ve decided it’s a good day to die, is that it?”
“Just doing my job.”
“Your job,” she replied, “does not include digging your own grave with reporters for pallbearers.”
“I heard the party chairman this morning, same as you.”
“So?”
“There’s so much heat riding on this thing now, somebody is going to take a fall. I’m setting myself on the pedestal, giving everybody an easy target.”
Kay said, “For once in my life, I am truly at a loss for words.”
Wynn managed a smile. “I never knew painting myself into a bull’s eye could be so tiring.”
“Look, why don’t you join us over at Graham and Esther’s tonight, give me another chance to find the right words and thank you.”
He was still smiling when Carter opened the door and asked, “Are you in for a call from the fibbies?”
“This one and nothing more. I need a half hour to camp out on the sofa.” He reached for the phone. “This is Wynn Bryant.”
“Agent Welker here, Congressman. We’ve been following up on bringing your sister home. It looks like they’ll release her remains sometime next week. Our people in Cairo insist it’s not possible to be any more precise than that.”
Wynn rubbed his face.
Remains
. “Thank you.”
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am. I just wanted you to know we haven’t dropped the ball.”
“I understand.”
“Do you mind if I hit you with something else?”
“Everybody else has taken a swing today. You might as well go ahead.”
“I’ve heard from our friend at the Fed. Hayek’s group has placed themselves in an incredible position, buying dollars. We’re talking mountains of greenbacks.”
“You can’t arrest them?”
“It’s not illegal to own dollars, last time I checked. We were just wondering if your insert had anything for us.”
“She’s not an insert, and I can’t reach her.”
“If you like, we could send a couple of agents by, make sure she’s okay.”
Wynn hesitated, then decided it was time for drastic action. “Her name is Jackie Havilland.” He read off her address and phone numbers. “You’ll let me know what you find out?”
“Soon as we know something, I’ll be in touch.”
W
YNN STRIPPED OFF his jacket and tie in one continuous motion. He stretched out on the sofa, comforted by the sounds of his office winding down. People talked, phones rang a final time, a staffer answered with his name. The noise granted him substance and a place where he belonged. At least for another few days.
He had no real sense of falling asleep. He knew where he was the entire time, lying there on the lumpy leather sofa, the slick armrest hard against the back of his head. He could even feel the rise and fall of his chest. But a patina gradually spread over him, staining him the same arid yellow as the ambassador’s window back in Cairo.
The scene unfolded, not against his closed eyelids but rather across all his other senses. Gradually he listened and heard the wind pick up, until it was howling through his office as loud as it had upon their return journey through the Western Desert. The windstorm blistered his unprotected skin with lashings of sand. An ocher-and-orange storm bellowed just overhead.
The wind heightened further, until its lament shrieked and sobbed and cried words he could almost understand. A desert dirge filled his nostrils and covered his body with desiccated tears. The weight upon his chest increased until it grew hard to draw breath. He struggled, but he was pinned down now, trapped and unable to move or even weep. As he lay and wished for the strength to find a place safe from the storm he would always carry with him, he felt a liquid red burning upon his hands. The caustic blaze spread up his arms, across his chest, his face, his eyes, his heart.
“Wynn?”
He gasped, or thought he did, and found himself sitting up even before he had fully opened his eyes. Gradually the sands departed, and the howling wind diminished. Carter stood in the open doorway, watching him anxiously. “Are you sure you’re up to going by the Hutchings’?”
In response, he rose and slipped on his jacket, stuffed his tie in his pocket, and brushed at his sleeves. Slapping away not dust but rather the impression that lingered from his dream. When it did not depart, he motioned for Carter to lead them out. Resigned to the fact that he would remain ever scalded by his sister’s blood.
The taxi ride seemed as endless as the surrounding night. Carter spoke several times, but the words became lost in winds that still whispered and threatened. Every time Wynn blinked his eyes, he could feel the desert grit grinding away, streaking his vision and choking off his air.
When Esther opened the door for them, Wynn slipped by both her smile and her welcome and entered the crowded living room. There were at least a dozen people scattered about, many of whom Wynn recognized from the committee hearings. Graham’s wheelchair was in its usual spot, the sofa alongside still dimpled from where Esther had risen. Wynn walked over and sat down.
Up close, Graham looked truly ravaged. But the eyes were brilliant, the strongest light in Wynn’s entire day. Esther sat down at Wynn’s other side and slid over the box of tissues. “You need to use these every once in a while and clean his face. Swallowing is such a struggle.”
On the opposite sofa, Kay sat surrounded by officials and staffers. When Wynn looked over, she asked, “You all right?”
“Sure.”
“I heard one of your interviews on the way over. CBS used it as their lead story, that and how the financial markets are going ballistic. The banks’ spokesman did everything but blame you for the bubonic plague. You sounded very solid by comparison. Very sane.”
A young woman in one of the dining room chairs said, “If I read this correctly, Senator, I’d say we should hit them head-on. Explain that the currency traders acting for hedge funds and private equity funds are the ones imperiling the financial health of our nation. Not us.”
Kay exchanged smiles with Carter, two people who had been at the game for a very long time. She said, “Tell her for me.”
“Your ideas are fine,” Carter said. “But they won’t wash.”
“It’s all too far away,” Kay agreed. “None of this really concerns the average person. That’s why the banking lobby’s managed to wreak as much legislative havoc as they have.”
“Our only hope,” Carter said, “lies in finding something that will put a local face on this thing. Something that defines a threat people can point to and say, this could cost me big time.”
“Other than a severe recession,” Kay added. “Or a meltdown of our banking system. Let’s try to avoid both of those.”
Wynn turned his attention back to the figure in the wheelchair. Graham reached out the one hand still mobile, a trembling leaf fighting his own storms. Wynn gripped it very gently, and allowed his hand to be drawn back over to rest upon the wheelchair arm. He could feel every bone beneath Graham’s skin. But there beside this man who could do little more than sit and wait for death to strike the final blow, Wynn found peace. The winds stopped their whispered wrath. He could swallow down the sorrow born of all his futile days, and breathe free.
The phone rang. Esther rose to answer. The talk swirled. Beyond the window the night glowed with tiny lights that came and braved the darkness for a time, then departed. Wynn stayed where he was, listening to all the lessons the old man left unspoken.
“Wynn?”
Esther gazed down at him, both hands clutching the phone to her chest. “Something terrible has happened.”