T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Perhaps you are not aware that Congressman Bryant was also in attendance?”

“I’ve not been instructed to follow the movements of, sorry, who did you say?”

“Bryant. Wynn Bryant.” This from the Unabomber.

“What if I told you there was information,” Hayek added, “that ties her closely to the congressman?”

Colin forced a laugh. “I would suggest it was a new hit for conspiracy theorists and paranoids everywhere.”

“Then why is it,” Hayek demanded, his accent etching the words with soft menace. “That Havilland is currently preparing to fly to Rome?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“With Bryant,” Burke added.

Hayek said, “It seems your data is not as complete as you suggest.”

Colin stared across the desk, at an utter loss for words. At this proximity it was easy to see why in earlier ages men worshipped their kings as gods. Hayek’s power was that strong. “I don’t understand.”

“That much is perfectly clear.”

“No, I mean, when she first appeared on-screen, and afterward when it became evident Esther Hutchings had hired her, I thought she might prove a genuine peril. A card-carrying menace, given your warning about any connection to Congressman Hutchings.” He realized he was babbling, yet could not help himself. “But her findings have been paltry. I’ve uncovered nothing to indicate any sign of progress. I was certain Hutchings had brought her to Washington to criticize her lack of progress.”

“And you were wrong,” Hayek said. “Dangerously incorrect.”

“Apparently so.” Colin risked a single glance toward Burke. The man continued his unblinkingly hostile glare. “I am at an utter loss.”

“That is unacceptable. I must know whether this woman is a growing tempest or merely a passing storm. There is nothing I despise more than the unknown risk.” Hayek pointed him toward the door. “Go out there and determine precisely what is going on.”

Colin bolted to his feet. “Right. Certainly. Of course.”

“Answers.” Hayek’s bark chased him to the door. “All of them. Now.”

Monday

Jackie entered Dulles Airport as tormented as the day itself. A stiff wind had raised with the afternoon, gaining strength until the trees bowed submissive heads and shivered with the dread of knowing worse was still to come. Clouds gathered and powers wrestled along heaven’s underbelly, the outcome revealed only to those who could read the script of lightning and lashing rain. She had spent her day fighting both highs and lows, and finding meager comfort in mall therapy.

First she had purchased some clothes and makeup, things she had not brought for a weekend in the big city. Then she spent two and a half hours luxuriating over what replacement computer to buy, before selecting a real prize-a superthin Sony with a 30 gig hard drive, optional CD burner, and 15 inch TFT screen. Not that she needed so much transportable power. She did it because she could, claiming Esther’s paycheck as real and hers. Forcing herself to accept that she really was doing this. Living the life. Traveling to Rome.

Jackie had always recognized a good deal of her mother in herself. The bitter stink of undeserved woes constantly tempted her to view life with the lofty vision of one that disavows all connection. Perhaps that was why she had always fought Evelyn so hard, through the quiet stealth avoiding direct combat. She knew how easy it would be to assume life would never treat her any better, no matter how she tried, so not bother at all. It wasn’t just life she quarreled with. It was herself.

Which was why, even as she walked through Dulles airport, part of her wanted to dismiss the entire journey as a lie.

“Ms. Havilland?”

She recognized the man who approached as Carter Styles, the overweight reader of newspapers. His piggy eyes were red with fatigue. His words grated like gravel tossed by a rusty shovel. “We’ve had a very bad night. Esther can’t afford to give the press a moving target.”

“Graham’s worse?”

“No, actually the old man is better.” He handed her a plastic envelope. “Flight, hotel, instructions.” He turned to leave. “Have a good trip. Don’t let Bryant out of your sight.”

“Just a minute-”

“Lady, a minute is the one thing I don’t have. Read the clippings and you’ll understand.” He scuttled away, soon lost in the bustling throngs.

Jackie opened the packet. On top was a newspaper article cut from the front page of that morning’s Orlando Sentinel. The headline read “Former U.S. Congressman Linked To Illegal Arms Trade.” Across the top was the curt handwritten note, “Will Call. Good Trip. E.”

She threaded her way to the international check-in counter, reading as she stood in line. The article claimed to have uncovered documents linking Graham Hutchings to arms dealing with African despots-apparently the true source of what he had always claimed was his wife’s wealth. The article went on to cite bank records revealing how Hutchings had acted as secret head of companies that transshipped weapons and skimmed profits. No mention was made of his stroke, only that he had recently resigned from Congress under a cloud.

“It is terrible, no?”

Jackie whirled about to confront a somber Nabil Saad. Today the Egyptian was attired in Ungaro mourner’s garb, a midnight blue double-breasted suit with an indented pinstripe of identical thread. He cast a faint scent of Oriental spice, yet his features held the same haggard tension as Carter Styles’.

Jackie shook the paper at him. “Resigned under a cloud?”

“Esther warned you about this.” The check-in line moved forward a notch. Nobody paid them any mind. Just two more hypertense Washington bureaucrats carrying their work into the friendly skies. Nabil shifted his carryall in order to reach for Jackie’s case. “Allow me.”

“I’m not interested in charm right now. I want answers.”

“We have none.” Lightning crackled and seared the Egyptian’s features. Wind slammed rain upon the windows. “I am off to Egypt. Perhaps there we shall find answers. But not now. I have nothing now.” He leaned closer, eyes so intent they lit recesses darkened by the tempest. “Here is a proper question for your journey. Why would the hedge funds manufacture such filth to bury a man already gone?”

Before she could respond, Nabil turned and departed. Which meant she asked the empty air, “How do you know it’s a fund?”

Wind pummeled the bus as they left the main terminal for the departure concourse. People clung to the railings and peered anxiously out storm-buffeted windows. Thunder echoed louder than the departing planes.

The last person to enter before the doors closed was Wynn Bryant. The man looked like he had not slept for days. When he took the seat across from her, she waited until their eyes met, then asked, “You believe this weather?”

He was the only person on board who did not seem the least bit concerned. “We have almost two hours before takeoff. It should blow itself out by then.”

Jackie moved to the seat beside him. “You know storms?”

“I live on the water. Weather-watching has become a part of my days.”

She studied this man, the cleft chin, the deep-set eyes, the strong features. One step and ten years off movie-star looks. Which meant absolutely nothing except he had tools to hide his meanness down deep. If he wanted. If he had any to hide. “You have a boat?”

“Just a fourteen-foot Jon. Little freshwater swamp boat, nothing fancy.”

“I sort of figured you for the chrome-plated yacht crowd.”

“Can’t take a yacht up a low-water canal after bass.”

“The only thing I know about fishermen are the jackrabbit starts to tournaments. They’re murder for windsurfers. We warn each other on a local website of every regional fishing competition. You get these wannabe tourney jerks buying flat-bottomed bass boats with twin two-hundred horsepower outboards. They dig trenches six feet deep and throw out killer bow waves. That is, if they don’t hit a ripple and flip.”