The Inner Sanctum (13 page)

"Uh, yeah. His name was Mohler. What a workaholic. It was three in the morning and he was going back to the office."

David didn't hear the last few words. As far as he knew, Mohler had never met Jack Finnerty. Mohler had accompanied David on a due-diligence trip when Sagamore was originally considering the GEA investment two and a half years ago, but Finnerty hadn't attended any of the meetings that day. Mohler was certainly concerned about the GEA investment now, and might have contacted Finnerty on his own to ask questions about the company's financial stability. And it would be typical of a corporate executive, even the president, to respond to that call. After all, Sagamore had a $1 billion investment in GEA--a 30 percent ownership stake. But why would Mohler meet Finnerty at the farm? GEA headquarters was much closer to Baltimore. And why would they meet at three in the morning?

"Where in Baltimore are you going, sir?"

Finnerty had given the driver such an odd look, as if he had wanted to pull the man aside to say something, then thought better of it. He must have recognized the guy and worried that this might happen.

"Sir!"

"What?"

"Where exactly are you going?"

David hesitated, trying to remember. "The Stouffer Hotel, downtown Baltimore."

"Thanks."

Things were not always as they appeared. David tipped the glass nearly upside down, finished the scotch in one gulp, and poured another drink.

Elizabeth Gilman rose from her seat at the head table and moved gracefully toward the podium to the din of a standing ovation from the thousand guests crammed into the Stouffer Hotel's main ballroom. The Governor's Round Table--a group of the state's most prominent corporate executives, political leaders, and philanthropists--had just selected her as Maryland's woman of the year.

The governor met Elizabeth at the podium, shook her hand gently, whispered something in her ear, then held up his hands as a signal for quiet. Slowly the ovation died away as people sat down again.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I would just like to say a few words before I give you your woman of the year." Bulbs flashed as cameramen documented the event for tomorrow morning's Baltimore Sun papers. "Elizabeth." His deep voice reverberated throughout the huge room as he turned to face her. "You are a shining example for us all. You operate one of the largest and most successful investment funds in the country, and yet you constantly amaze us with the time and energy you devote to your charitable endeavors.

"Specifically, we must thank you again for the new wing at the Children's Hospital. But, ladies and gentlemen"--he turned back to face the crowd--"it isn't just the fact that she has made the funds available. She has also made her valuable time available to those children. Children who don't have families to help them through their ordeals. I have seen the tears of a little five-year- old girl as she lay alone on a sterile bed wondering what cancer was, why it had struck her and why she would have to endure another operation. I have seen those tears evaporate as this wonderful lady standing next to me sat on the bed for hours and gave that little girl hope. I can only say that her actions are an inspiration for us all. There is much to do, and we can make a difference. Ladies and gentlemen, Elizabeth Gilman."

The assembled throng rose again and thundered their approval. Elizabeth moved to the microphone as the governor retreated a few steps to cede her the entire spotlight. She gazed out over the auditorium, a picture of grace and humility. She motioned for the crowd to be seated, but her action only served to intensify their ovation.

David stood and clapped with the rest, but he was not looking up toward the podium, he was gazing over at the next table, watching Art Mohler applaud. Why had Mohler been at Jack Finnerty's farm? Why at three o'clock this morning? Why hadn't Mohler told him he was going to see Finnerty? Why hadn't Finnerty said something? The questions kept running through his mind.

He turned and focused on Elizabeth, who was still basking in the glow of the ovation. Somehow he was going to find the answers.

** Chapter 13

Todd Colton was only twenty-nine but had already purchased his tombstone and inscribed the epitaph--Here lies a man who attacked life--because, as he put it, the odds were damn good he wouldn't be around very long and he wanted it to read as it should, not as someone else thought it should. He was allergic to suits, short on commitment, and completely uninsurable.

On most weekends he raced motorcycles, parachuted from airplanes, and was an avid scuba diver. During the week he supported his hobbies with fees earned as a private investigator, generating a steady caseload from referrals by friends on Maryland's state police force. He had no pretensions, was generous to a fault and wore his heart on his sleeve.

Once in a while Todd gave himself a break from risking life and limb on weekends to pursue an even more dangerous pastime--the blackjack tables in Atlantic City.

The black bow-tied dealer stared at Todd. Dealers wanted people to play quickly, because the odds were always in the casino's favor. Therefore, the more hands played the better the chances for the house to come out way ahead. Todd sipped the bourbon and water while he studied his cards. He knew the dealer was irritated but he ignored the man's fingers tapping angrily on the green felt of the table. The bet was five hundred dollars and he was going to take as much time as necessary.

The dealer showed an ace on top of his down card. Todd had fifteen showing. The odds were excellent he wasn't going to beat the dealer with fifteen. But the odds were even better he'd go over twenty-one and bust if he took another card. Suddenly the bells of the slot machines in the background sounded like fingernails on a chalkboard.

"You want a hit, pal?" the dealer prodded.

Todd grimaced. "Yeah."

The dealer smiled and the other five players shook their heads. Bad idea.

Todd's eyes narrowed as the dealer slid the card quickly from the dispenser and flipped it over. His heart jumped a beat. Six of clubs. Twenty-one. He tilted his head and grinned triumphantly at the dealer. "I'm back," he announced loudly, then glanced up at the ceiling. "No stopping me now." The men who ran the casino were up there walking around on the floor above, staring down through one way glass to make certain no one was working on the inside with a dealer. "My luck just turned."

But Todd's luck hadn't turned. The six of clubs was just a momentary respite from a long losing streak. The next hand he bet a thousand dollars--everything he had--and went bust as the dealer flipped over a king of hearts on top of Todd's eight of hearts and five of spades. It was the dealer's turn to smile triumphantly.

"Too bad." An older man in a gray T-shirt and jeans, gambling away his monthly Social Security check, smacked his lips in disgust. "That dealer's just too hot."

"I'll be back." Todd grinned and slapped the old man on the back. "Save my place for me, will you, Charlie?"

"Sure." Charlie laughed. You had to admire the young man. He could smile in the face of anything. Charlie had seen this same scenario unfold a few weekends before. Todd gambled big, lost it fast, but smiled right through the disaster.

Todd moved away from the table and walked down a long, noisy corridor separating the blackjack and craps tables. He had to find Harry.

Harry the Horse sat in a small office on the fourth floor of the casino perusing racing forms. He was a huge man with a bald head and a tough Philadelphia accent. Todd tapped on the door.

"Hello, Mr. Colton,"Harry said casually as he looked up from the papers. "Burn through that last five thousand yet?"

"As a matter of fact . . ." Todd hesitated. This was embarrassing. "I did."

"You just don't learn, do you?"

"I'm one hand away, Harry."

Harry had been a loan shark for years. He knew better. "Everybody always is."

"Can I have another five thousand?" Todd asked impatiently. He wanted to get back to the tables.

"Mr. Colton, you already owe us twenty-five thousand. We've advanced you fifteen against your car and ten unsecured. Do you really think borrowing another five is a good idea?"

"Come on, Harry. No sermons."

"You're gonna have to start paying us back soon."

"Okay."

"I'm not kidding."

"Sure." Harry had been saying that for months.

Harry pulled open a desk drawer, withdrew a stack of fresh one hundred dollar bills and counted out fifty, then counted them again. He arranged them into a neat pile and held them out for Todd. As Todd's hand came forward, Harry suddenly pulled his back. "I'm going to take five hundred as an interest payment on what you already owe us." Harry pulled five hundred-dollar bills from the stack in his hand and placed them down on his racing forms. "Only forty-five hundred dollars left but the loan is for five thousand. You sure you want it now?"

Todd took the money from Harry and grinned. "Absolutely. Hell, I'll probably be back up here in an hour to pay off my entire debt. I can feel lady luck on my arm already." Todd turned and trotted toward the elevators with his new cache stuffed into his shirt pocket.

Harry picked up the racing forms. That wasn't lady luck young Mr. Colton had felt take his arm. That was the devil.

Air Force Captain Paul Nichols watched the two F-22s take off side by side through the window of his office. The bright Nevada sun glistened off their sleek fuselages as they rose quickly from the desert. It was a beautiful sight. He watched until they were nothing but black specks against the azure sky, then stood up and moved out of the office and down the corridor toward the lavatory.

"Captain Nichols?"

The captain stopped halfway through the lavatory doorway. "Yes?" He glanced at the sergeant, then noticed the two MPs behind the man.

"Sir, I've been ordered to take you into custody immediately."

The captain began to protest, but quickly realized it would be pointless to do so.

After spending hours in a small windowless holding cell, the captain was blindfolded and clandestinely moved to the cargo bay of a C-130. Hands secured behind his back, he heard the familiar whine of propellers as they began to turn, then had to steady himself with his feet as the plane lurched forward and taxied away from the hangar.

"Can you hear me?" someone screamed in his ear over the din of the engines as the plane throttled up and began lumbering down the runway.

He nodded immediately, wanting to seem as cooperative as possible. He had heard rumors of the small detachments that protected black-budget secrecy, but never thought it possible that they actually existed. Now he wasn't so certain.

"You provided Senator Malcolm Walker with information regarding the A-100 black program, didn't you?" The same voice screamed at him again.

This time Captain Nichols didn't answer immediately. His head remained tilted forward at a thirty-five- degree angle--the natural posture for a blindfolded person.

The voice screamed the question once more.

Nichols nodded slowly. It was pointless to deny the charge. They probably had videotapes of him going through the files. Christ, how could he have been so stupid?

"On your feet, Captain!"

When he didn't react immediately, several pairs of hands pulled him to a standing position, then hustled him across the floor of the cargo bay. He turned his head in both directions quickly. "Hey, what the hell are you doing?" he yelled, but there was no response from his captors.

Suddenly he realized what was going to happen. He kicked and twisted his body frantically against their hold, but to no avail. They simply picked him up and carried him to the door.

"Think twice next time about being so free with information, you bastard!"

Air whipped about Nichols's face as the plane continued to climb. "Please don't do this!" he begged, screaming so loudly he tore a vocal cord.

For a few minutes they held him there, teetering on the brink of death, allowing the plane to reach the desired altitude. Then they pushed him out the door at ten thousand feet.

He tumbled over and over, struggling to free himself from the twine securing his wrists as he dropped sickeningly through the night sky. Commander Pierce remained close to Captain Nichols all the way down, watching his pitiful struggles remorselessly. Military men who would break the code they had sworn to uphold and who would jeopardize national security had to be dealt with severely. There was no alternative but swift, harsh retribution in matters such as these.

Captain Nichols realized he had precious little time left. He had jumped many times and had a sixth sense as to his altitude. He was probably five thousand feet up at most, probably closer to four or three. He was screaming through the air at terminal velocity, completely blind. One moment he would be alive, the next dead. But he wouldn't have any warning. He would never know what hit him. Maybe it was better that way. Suddenly he felt himself beginning to convulse. The end must be near.

Commander Pierce checked the altimeter one more time, then pointed the remote control at the falling body several hundred yards away, outlined by the flashing lights on the ultralight parachute they had forced over the captain's head during the struggle in the cargo hold. He pushed the button, then pulled the rip cord of his own chute.