T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

“Your call to Brazil is now ready, sir.”

“Put him through.”

The phone clicked, the line hissed, and the São Paolo banker cried, “Pavel, where on earth have you been, I’ve been looking everywhere-”

“Your so-called security have done it again.” Not raising his voice. “They leave today.”

“Pavel, Pavel, I thought we had reached an understanding on this matter.”

“We did. They were tested. They failed. They leave. What part of this do you not understand?”

The Brazilian’s tone hardened perceptibly. “You sent them into an impossible situation.”

“You were the one who told me their previous tasks were too insignificant, and that I should use their vast range of connections. Frighten them off, I said. Not create international incidents.”

“Do not make me retract our funds, Pavel.”

“We are nine days from doubling your investment. Your ham-fisted oafs threaten everything. Not just your money but everyone else’s is at stake here. They have to go.”

A big sigh. “I am sorry, Pavel. You will do this without us.”

“So be it.” Pleased with the cool bluff, the calm lie. “I have enough to carry on. It would have been easier with you, but if not, it can’t be helped.”

Even the wind held its breath at the enormity of his gamble. Hayek raised one finger and wiped a trail of sweat from his temple.

Then the gray flicked one ear, its first sign of life since the conversation had begun. Instantly the spell was broken. The banker announced, “I will speak with my associates.”

“Do whatever you wish,” Pavel said coolly, wanting to shout, to exult to the brilliant sky. “But your men are no longer welcome.”

The banker replied by cutting their connection. Hayek cradled the phone to his hammering chest and forced himself to breathe easy. Then he nudged his gray back down the slope. Burke would have an open field now to identify and eliminate the trading floor spy. Then the pieces of his strategy would fit seamlessly together.

Afterward they would not see the scheming and the worry. Only the success. That was how it was in his world. Years of detail, seconds of action. But he would win. And his name would live forever.

Sunday

Listening to Easter bells chiming in the sunny distance only added to Jackie’s bitterly boring day. She sat in a 7-Eleven parking lot, her Camaro shaded by a very smelly dumpster. Across the street stood the gated entrance to an enclave of expensive town houses. It was the sort of place she and Preston had joked about one day moving into, with the floodlit tennis courts and the Olympic-size pool and the beautiful people offering one another comfortable little hellos.

The previous night Jackie had used her coded access from the detective agency to pull a data search on Eric Driscoll. She was relieved to discover through his credit rating that Eric still listed himself as employed by the Hayek Group. His address was two blocks beyond the gatehouse, a prime condo that backed onto the golf course. Eric carried a big mortgage and another hefty credit line for his Porsche Cabriolet. Not to mention a swath of overdrafts. It was the financial picture of just another trader living on the edge. The search had taken her all of thirty minutes.

Afterward she had checked the Trastevere site before signing off. There was a message waiting for her, one requesting direct access. She had agreed, then watched the unsteady gondolier appear and vanish before the communication drifted into focus, Heard about the attack. You all right?

Fine. No, not fine. But functioning.

Have you learned anything about Tsunami?

Not yet.

Then you’re asking the wrong questions.

What can you tell me?

If I knew anything, do you think I’d be bothering you? Be careful. Hurry.

Jackie pushed herself from the car, walked away from the shade and the odors, and did a few stretching exercises. Her wounds were feeling much better, despite a restless night filled with bitter memories. In the distance the bells rang and rang. Not like Rome, but appealing just the same. She watched the cars driving by, families with somewhere to go, places where they belonged, and people they could trust to be there when their world was threatened. She knew it was just a fable of her own making, but that did not mean it shouldn’t be true.

The ringing cellphone was a welcome interruption. As was hearing Wynn’s voice on the other end. “Where are you?”

“My office. Reading through Graham’s files. Wishing I knew more. What about you?”

“Parked beside a garbage dumpster, wishing I had someplace better to go.”

“You do. Here.”

The invitation warmed her. “I’d like to come up. Really. But I can’t. I’ve got to track down this lead.”

“Jackie-”

“Don’t press me, Wynn. Please. Not now. After yesterday, I might give in.”

“What happened yesterday?”

“I want to tell you,” she said, then had to stop. She was that surprised. The desire as strong and easy as yesterday’s unexplained tears.

“But?”

“But I want to do it when we’re together. Does that make sense?”

“More than that. It gives me something to look forward to.”

The warmth spread, melting barriers she had carried so long she wasn’t even aware of them any more. Not until they began to open. “I never thanked you for Rome.”

“I wasn’t the one who sent you.”

“In a way, you were. But I meant the flight and the hotel and the dinner. And the company.”

Wynn seemed to take forever to draw in the next breath. “I woke up this morning feeling like if I didn’t find a place and a time to be weak, to set down all the things I’m carrying, I was going to shatter into dust. Does that sound crazy?”

“No.” In the distance, the bells continued their gentle ringing. “It sounds like you’re pulling words from my own mind.”

Wynn went to the evening service. According to the brochure he picked up on his way inside, St. John’s Church dated from the era of rebuilding that followed the War of 1812, as did the White House and the Capitol. Despite its impressive size, it was a homey place of comforting closeness, the balcony a curved operatic design of brass-railed waves. The central dome was unadorned, the ancient pews flanked by waist-high gates. As the capacity crowd launched into the first song, Kay Trilling slipped into the pew alongside him. She gave Wynn a tight little smile, neither welcoming nor hostile. The bandage on her forehead gleamed white against her skin. “You okay?”

He looked back down to the hymnal in his hands and shook his head. No. Kay reached over and supported the hymnal with him, skin touching skin, and began to sing in a deep mellow alto. Saying nothing more directly, but the message there just the same.

Before the Eucharist, when the pastor invited them to offer one another the sign of peace, Kay was there waiting for him. She gripped his shoulders and said, “Sybel is not here, Wynn. And if you’ve come looking for her, you’re just trading one wrong path for another.”

“All these years she dragged me along, kicking and screaming,” he said bitterly. “I don’t know who to ask for answers now. Or even what to ask.”

“You want to understand?” Kay remained so tightly focused the surrounding tumult might as well not have been there. “Start with this. It’s something my grandmother told me when I was six years old. ’There ain’t no inheritance plan in heaven. God don’t accept no joint savings program.’ My grandmomma was an uneducated woman who took in laundry to pay my daddy’s way through school. But she was smart in the ways of the Lord.”