T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

The name pushed Colin up straighter in his seat. Hayek’s intense gray gaze shifted over, pinning him down. Thankfully his attention swiftly returned to his other visitor, who continued to scoff, “Not to mention a congressman so green he’s never even heard of K Street. This is definitely not worth your time.”

The power in the room seemed compressed, or perhaps it was just the hacker’s fear at work. Adding electricity to dry powder, waiting for the explosion. But Hayek remained utterly unfazed, saying merely, “I’ll be the judge of that. You’ve got your orders. Start marching to my music.”

The woman bit down hard on her response, picked up her purse and briefcase, and left the room without a word or backward glance.

A man who loathed unnecessary words, Hayek merely demanded of Colin, “Any update on Havilland?”

“Nothing of any importance.” Colin held to as calm a tone as possible, this close to the flame.

“Explain how you were alerted.”

“My bogus source, the place a hunter would be bound to check, automatically inserted a virus into the searcher’s computer when she logged on.” Sometimes after Colin returned from one of these sessions, his mind would go into random-sort mode, sifting through a myriad of impressions he had not even been aware of at the moment. The way sunlight glinted off the Rodin sculpture, or the glass case of T’ang artifacts, or the painting that watched him, the nymph caught in midflight. All he was aware of at the moment was Hayek’s piercing gaze. “The virus included a command to download all file directories every time the searcher logs on. I can then institute a file transfer, which the searcher sees as simply the internet service provider upgrading her software before shutting down.”

The chairman reached forward, hefted a silver dagger with a carved crystal handle. “I need a better understanding of this woman. Describe what you know.”

This was another strange thing about Hayek, how he would sometimes feed voraciously on the smallest particles of information, and other times sweep away all comments and analyses and data, crashing down with a judgment out of the blue. His staffers called such moments Blitzkriegs, and dreaded the havoc they wrought. What amazed them all, and added to Hayek’s mystique, was how incredibly often the man was proven right.

“Jackie Havilland is Orlando-based. A grunt worker in a large private investigations firm. Failed graduate student at the local university. Her brother worked for you.”

“I vaguely recall a Havilland. What was his first name?”

“Preston. Resigned for health reasons.”

“Of course. A currency analyst, am I correct?”

“Yes.” Colin swallowed, then ventured an aside. “Frankly, I’d have to agree with your last visitor. This woman doesn’t seem very important.”

Hayek lifted his head, getting a fix on him. “Motive.”

“She does her banking on-line,” Colin stammered. “She’s apparently being paid what for her must be a ton of money.”

Hayek gave his head a fractional shake, still dissatisfied. Still hunting. “Anything else?”

Colin grabbed at the single shred that came to mind. “She’s a windsurfer. A wave jumper. Her computer is filled with images, many of them photographs of herself.”

“Former computer,” Hayek corrected, his face darkening.

“Sir?”

“Those men outside committed a serious breach of my orders. I requested a search, they turned it into a frenzied attack.” Hayek used the crystal dagger to point back to the matter at hand. “This windsurfing. What does it mean?”

“Probably nothing.” When this did not satisfy, Colin continued, “I have a buddy who does it. The good ones are fanatics, hands like planks, no fear. They live for days with winds that otherwise shut the seas down. They use their boards like wings.”

Hayek mused softly, “Fanatic.”

The programmer took the ensuing silence as his signal to leave. But Hayek drew him back around with, “A great deal is riding upon your being right about this nonthreat.”

Colin wished only to be away. “Nothing can be getting by me, unless she’s writing things longhand.”

“Why did the Hutchings woman choose her? Find the motive.” The dagger aimed toward the door. “And do so fast.”

Thursday

Wynn’s suite at the Willard looked vastly different at ten-thirty in the evening. It held the same antique furniture as that morning, the same chest-high floral display and chintz sofa set and two tiled fireplaces. Four brass chandeliers bathed the chambers in a false ruddy glow. An eighteenth-century wall cabinet hid drinks and the entertainment center. The silk wall coverings were in six shades of ivory and bone. Two oils illustrated carriages along Pennsylvania Avenue, instead of the noisy traffic whose cacophony now filtered through his windows. Everything was as perfect as twelve hundred dollars a night could make it. But this time of evening, there was no escaping the barrenness.

Wynn kicked off his shoes, dropped his jacket and tie on the bed, and padded around on carpet as lush and deep as his lawn. The downstairs bar beckoned, but in truth he didn’t want another drink. He wanted whatever could still this restless craving in his gut. No matter how glorious and history-filled the downstairs rooms might be, he knew he wouldn’t find it there. Not when he couldn’t even attach a name to his longing, other than to call it a desire to be anywhere but here.

He telephoned the Florida governor’s mansion, using the private line that connected directly into their living quarters. When his sister answered, he asked, “Are you alone?”

“It doesn’t matter. This is still not-”

“I know, I know. I just want to talk. Where’s Grant?”

“In a meeting downstairs. Power brokers up from Miami. He could be gone for hours. Just a minute.” The phone was put down. He heard the rattle of earrings being set into an ashtray. A long high-pitched zipper. A rustle. Then the phone was lifted back. “All right.”

He settled into the sofa. “I’m having trouble with my staff.”

“What did you expect?” No acid tonight. Just a lightning-fast response from a woman with all the brains and political savvy one head could hold. “You know how much a Washington staffer earns? Less than your former secretary. They live six to an apartment, as cramped at night as they are in your office during the day. These people are up there earning slave wages either because they love the power or because they’re committed to a cause.”

“So why don’t they seem to care about me?”

“You’re the one using the revolving door of elected office. Not them. They’re in this for the long haul.” She gave him a chance to come back for more, then demanded, “Now tell me what’s really on your mind.”

“I am drowning in things I don’t understand.”

“So learn. If you want. It’s your choice, Wynnie. You can do what your staffers tell you, sleep through your committee meetings, show up on the floor only for the votes, find yourself a trustworthy limo driver, become the darling of the Washington party elite. You can jump right onto the social A-list if you want, you know. It’s all there for the asking.”

“Either that or work myself to death.” Thinking of Graham Hutchings and dreading another confrontation with Esther. Wishing he had not agreed to go.

“You can’t have both.” This was Sybel at her best. Seeing with the crystal clarity of one who had never forgotten a single lesson, who knew every debt owed, every favor unpaid. A woman who had been born for the position of queen. “Your staff will teach you, if you want. If you can make them believe you really and truly care.”