T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

He waited until the driver had slid behind the wheel to say, “National Airport, then the Willard. And close the divider.”

Only when the glass panel had slid into place did he speak directly to her. “Tell me what I’m supposed to do.”

His grief was enough to draw her close. She settled one arm behind him, took his hand, sat there. Let him absorb the fact that she was with him. In the here and now. Gradually the tension seeped away, until he was able to slide down and place his head upon her shoulder. Nestle in. Like he belonged. “I’m so tired.”

She stroked the fine dark head. “I know.”

They sat thus, not speaking, through the long ride until the first National sign swept overhead. Jackie pushed at his chest, a gentle nudge, and said, “I have news.”

Reluctantly he moved away, rubbed his face, and listened as she sped through the detective’s report, the message from the Boatman, the attack. She then went back to her earlier discussion with Esther, and concluded, “Everything is still pointing at Hayek having an agenda and a timetable. That’s the only reason I can think why he’d attack us. It’s not about some amendment. Something else is at work here.”

Wynn still had not spoken when the driver asked over the intercom, “Excuse me, which airline?”

“United.”

“Then we’ve arrived.”

They pulled to the curb and halted. Wynn gripped her hand. “Stay here.”

“I can’t.”

“I need you, Jackie.” The entreaty cost him dearly. “Please.”

Gently she released her hand from his. “Later maybe.” She moved for the door, fleeing temptation. “Right now I’ve got to catch this flight to Orlando.”

He craned over, asked through the open door, “What’s so critical about right now?”

She reached back in and touched his face. Gave him a sad, sad smile. “Tomorrow is visiting day.”

Saturday

Saturday morning Jim Burke had one of the company limos take him downtown. The car smelled faintly of cleanser, stale ashes, and other people’s sweat. Burke stared out the windows at soporific downtown Orlando, the world caught in another ritual feast.

Yesterday and again that morning he had met with Hayek over the debacles in Rome and Egypt. Hayek had shown genuine pleasure over how wrong things had gone. His only sign of frustration had come not over the attacks themselves, but rather over their inability to track down the Brazilian banker. Burke tried not to give it all much thought. The potential deviations were too great. He would follow orders and expect all to be made clear soon enough. With Hayek, it was simply the way.

First Florida was one of the state’s oldest banks, and its Orlando headquarters looked the part. The squat stone behemoth took up almost an entire block, a cross between the Treasury Building and a demented mausoleum. Burke climbed yard-wide stairs and gave his name to the security man guarding mammoth brass doors.

Burke despised the board members on sight, pinstriped losers hiding their nervousness behind golf course laughter. They clutched to the premise that since he had come to their offices, he was the one being welcomed into the club.

“Jim Burke, do I have that right? Bob Carlton, President of First Florida. Can’t tell you what a pleasure it is, yessir. A real pleasure.”

Burke accepted the handshake. “Right.”

“When my secretary said you sounded American, I thought to myself, this is too good to be true.” He was all teeth and rosy cheeks and tight, worried eyes. “I mean, it’s all well and good to have the Banque Royale of Liechtenstein buy us out-did I say that right? But communication between people who know their own turf is easier. Makes for less chance of a false start here.”

Robert Carlton the Fifth was the great-great-grandson of First Florida’s founder, and as far removed from the first Carlton as modern Orlando was from the pioneer settlement of the midnineteenth century. Carlton the original glared down from an ornately framed portrait on the wall, obviously enraged over what his progeny had done with his creation.

“What say we get to business.” Bob Carlton beamed his other board members into their seats, keeping the head of the table for himself, holding out the chair to his right for Burke. “I think you’ll find this comfortable, James. Or should I call you Jim?”

“Mr. Burke will do just fine.” He took a seat in the center of the table, switching the top position from the head to his own chair. “I’m afraid I don’t have much time.”

“No problem. Harry, swing on over here by me, why don’t you. That’s great.” He slumped ponderously into his chair. “What say we get you up to speed on all our operations and-”

“That won’t be necessary.” Burke shoved away the bank’s embossed leather portfolio. He pulled an envelope from his jacket pocket, set it on the table, and sent it shooting towards the bank’s CEO. “This is for you.”

Robert Carlton the Fifth stared at the envelope as he would a snake. “Mind telling me what’s going on here?”

“Everything in there should be self-explanatory.” Burke settled back and waited.

The silver-haired gentleman did his best to glare down the table, but there was too much fear in his eyes. “We had an agreement. There would be no radical changes.”

“Just read the letter, Mr. Carlton.” When the chairman’s trembling fingers finally managed to tear open the envelope, Burke turned and said to the others, “Your new owner intends to leave the board as is and raise salaries by twenty percent. The only change we wish to make at this time is an increase in Interbank trading operations. We also want a place made available on the board for your Vice President of Capital Markets.”

Carlton looked up. “Capital Markets?”

The board secretary offered, “Thorson Fines, sir.”

“I know perfectly well what the man’s name is. Now look here, Mr. Burke. This really won’t do.”

“It is not a request.”

“We’ve kept that department only to service the needs of several of our larger customers. Our Capital Markets operation is minuscule.”

“That is about to change.”

“With what?” Carlton bore the look of a man whose world had been grabbed and shaken for the first time in a very long while. “You can’t expect us to take money that’s been entrusted to us because of our conservative lending and investment policies-”

“Which have consistently lost you money.” Burke had had enough. “Thorson Fines is now a member of your board. You will be receiving an inflow of new investment capital. This meeting is over.”

“Thorson Fines?” Burke waited in the doorway until the man hung up the phone. “Jim Burke. Appreciate your coming in on a holiday like this.”

“You’re the rep from Liechtenstein?” Thorson rose reluctantly to his feet. “I’m surprised they sent an American.”

“The merchant bank has just one customer. Its owner.” And a brass plaque on the front wall of a fine old building. Burke shut the door behind him, walked over, sat down without bothering to offer his hand. This was a man with months of hostile frustration to talk away. “For all intents and purposes, your new boss is an American.”

Thorson Fines mulled that over as he lowered himself back behind the desk. His expression showed he had decided it didn’t matter much. This, Burke knew, was a man looking for the exit. Thorson said, “So who’s the mystery man?”

“First let’s see,” Burke replied, “if you’re part of the team or not.”

“You’re here to size me up?”

“Oh, we’ve got all the information we need about you and your operation, Mr. Fines.”