T. Bunn - Drummer in the Dark

Hayek’s posture was no different. He stood at the window behind his desk, observing a tableau that on any other day would have been magnificent. The stone courtyard glistened with rain. The central lake shimmered with liquid fractures. The sky was deepest gray, except for one slit to the west where the sun lanced through. The surrounding clouds were liquid fire, and all the drops caught by the light became fairies dancing to thunder’s tune. Hayek said nothing, merely swung one hand in a fractional motion, waving Burke inside.

“I have something for you.” A strange choice of words. Like gift-wrapping a dagger. He motioned to the two people in the outer lobby. “Come on in.”

Hayek stiffened as the San Francisco trader stepped inside. Ankers’ habitual smirk had a pasted-on quality, as though borrowed from some better time. The head of security slipped in behind the trader and moved to a shadowed corner. For such a big man, Dale Crawford had an assassin’s comprehension of stealth.

Nodding toward Anker, Hayek said, “I gave strict instructions for the entire team to be kept isolated.”

“I asked him to join us. It was the only way.” Burke waited, but the chilling force Hayek could bring to bear when contradicted did not arise. Burke said to the trader, “Tell him.”

“We’ve been working for days to get inside Colin Ready’s system. But his firewalls were too solid. We couldn’t do a break-and-enter from outside.”

“What is this insanity? You bring this man in to tell me one of the men responsible for computer security is doing his job?”

Burke hesitated. Not because of his own news, but rather because of Hayek’s response. The bark was there, but not the fire. His trader’s senses sorted through the change, both in the man and in the air. And came up with the only possible option. “You already know?”

“What is there to know, that Colin Ready works as a spy? We’ve been through this before. Did you think the Brazilians and the Russians and the Japanese would simply grant us their billions and walk away?”

But there was more. Burke watched as Hayek reached into his engraved gold case for a cigar and realized the chairman sought something for his trembling fingers to hold. For the first time since entering Hayek’s world, Burke was afraid. He said to Anker, “Tell him.”

Anker swallowed hard enough for Burke to hear. “Colin Ready left early today.”

“Right after the incident with that young trader,” Burke supplied.

“We circumvented his passwords and entered using his own system,” Anker continued. “It took hours, but we finally did it. We found a message from Jackie Havilland. She claims to have one of our traders’ access codes.”

“I’ve already shut down the system,” Burke said. “We don’t know how long they’ve been in, or even if they managed to enter at all. But nobody and nothing can do it now. Tonight we’ll reconfigure the entire system. Everyone will have new passwords waiting for them in the morning.”

Hayek reached for his heavy desk lighter and made a ritual of firing up his cigar, inspecting the smoldering tip, blowing the smoke on and on for what to Burke seemed like hours. He then looked directly at Anker for the first time. “Not a word of this to anyone.”

“N-no sir. I wouldn’t dream-”

“Get out.” He held Burke in place with a stab of the cigar. When Anker was gone, he continued, “You have the article prepared?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Plant it after the morning papers have gone to press, but in time for the news shows. They’ll leap at the chance of breaking a story this big ahead of the newspapers.” He glanced toward the corner where the security man still stood. “You have the woman’s address?”

“Already checked it out,” Crawford answered. “Just waiting for your green light.”

“Do it.”

Burke said, “I want to go with Crawford. I want to watch Colin and this Havilland woman pay.” When Hayek did not respond, Burke licked his lips and took another tiny taste of the air. He found no comfort, no assurance. Only the dust of crypts. “You were right all along. The woman was poison.”

Tuesday

When they were in the car, Burke said, “Give me a gun.”

Crawford glanced over and gave his patented little smile, but said nothing. He was a strange sort of man, moving in whispers to match his voice. Unfazed by anything. Watching the world with the tight leer of one who had seen and done it all.

“What, you think I can’t handle it?” Burke felt more than heat grip his gut. Anything that caused Hayek fear made serious tremors to his universe and had to be viciously stomped out. “I want-”

“It doesn’t matter what you want.” Crawford pulled the nondescript Chevy into a busy service station and killed the motor. “Guns are for making statements. Guns leave messages.”

“That’s what we want.”

“I was there same as you. I didn’t hear the man say a thing about statements. Don’t go getting slick on me, now. You hear what I’m saying?”

“These people are a genuine menace.”

“Aren’t they all.” Crawford slid from the car. He started to walk away, then leaned back down and added, “Try to remember this is just a job. Nothing more. That’s the way to stay safe.”

Burke watched Crawford enter the service station and recalled the last time he had seen him in action. Burke had gone along against Hayek’s wishes that day, not certain himself why he had wanted to be present. In fact, Burke had not been clear on why Hayek had wanted the job done at all. But when the order was passed on to Crawford, Burke had included the lie that Hayek wanted him there as a witness. Crawford had offered another of his tight-lipped smiles but said nothing at all. Leaving Burke with the sense that he knew more about what was going through Burke’s head than Burke did himself.

That particular day had been the third annual march on the IMF and World Bank general congresses in Washington, D.C. As predicted, the protest had proved far more successful than the earlier marches. They had picked up the woman as she left her apartment that frosty spring morning, then used the cover of the city’s chaos to drive downtown and enter the deserted underground garage of a hotel where Crawford had taken a room. From their rooftop perch they had watched the city become a six-mile-long street party. The police were on strict orders to maintain some semblance of control while not provoking any of the violence that had created such worldwide publicity in Seattle.

The marchers had taken the turning where Lafayette Park met Sixteenth Street. Then the leaders had turned to harangue the protesters and amp up the volume. Burke had stood at a slight distance, feeding off the actions, watching and learning. For the first time he had noticed how Crawford’s eyes were a washed-out brown, like the man was sparse even with color. His smile was the worst thing about him.

Crawford was smiling then, as he held the woman there at the roof’s edge. From where Burke stood, he could hear the crowd down below but could not see them. The lip of the roof protruded just far enough to block his view of the street. Lisa Wrede had shown remarkable poise for a woman on the brink of dissolution. She had refused to look directly at either of them, staring instead up at the sky with an intensity that for some reason left Burke shivering.

The rally cheered the spokesman with the bullhorn. From this height, the clamor sawed the crisp air, adding an extra force to the day’s events. The drums and noisemakers and whistles all crashed and melded together, as though some feral beast crouched in the narrow stone cavern and roared for its next meal.